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Posts Tagged: poetry


from Kenneth Koch’s Wishes, Lies, and Dreams: Teaching Children to Write Poetry


from Kenneth Koch’s Wishes, Lies, and Dreams: Teaching Children to Write Poetry

Source: bostonpoetryslam

"You are not afraid.
You are a cathedral waiting to be filled with hymns;
you are an infinite playground;
you are sky-bound and sprinting,
so cover your heart in goose-bump armor.
It will only beat stronger,
beat louder."

- Miles Walser, “Perfectly Human” (via bostonpoetryslam)
Source: bostonpoetryslam

"Then this dame / Comes up behind me see / and says / you and me could really exist / Wow, I says / Only the next day / she has bad teeth / and really hates / poetry"

- “See, it was like this when…” (Lawrence Ferlinghetti)
Source: linux86


My body is a
god factory

where I produce
what is never given to me

I carve out
the man I need

for worship


- Excerpt from “Gods” by Zoe Etkin, as published in PANK magazine. (via bostonpoetryslam)

(via bostonpoetryslam)



2. In Case You’re Ugly

It may turn out that you are burdened, like your mother, with a long equine face and an abundance of body hair. You may require corrective lenses that over time will leave a salmon-colored dent on each side of your nose. You may smile too widely and in general be a person whose facial expressions betray a certain emotional lability.

If so, buck up. People—especially boys if they have a sense of humor and are at least partially inclined toward girls, sexually speaking—won’t mind as much as you think. With your looks, you likely won’t disappoint in bed or worry about losing them (your looks, I mean) or, worse, implement desperate measures—heavy makeup comes to mind—to prevent same. Your “good features” will receive abundant praise and you’ll feel free to dress in an “interesting way.” Compared to beautiful girls, you’ll get less shit, I should imagine, and more personal space.

But what if you find, some distance into the project of growing up, that you are spiritually unattractive? That you have in yourself a surplus of bitterness and envy? Lack of understanding, lack of generosity, lack of hope for change? A heart that’s dense and inward, small and tight, wedged inside your ribcage the way a blackhead packs a pore?

I don’t know. Here’s what they told me:

Love is never having to say you’re sorry.

Love is letting go.

Love is a verb, not a noun.

Love is a verb? Fine. Try what I tried, then. Conjugate.


- Excerpt from Kirstin Scott’s poem, “Advice for the Female Fetus,” as published in PANK magazine. (via bostonpoetryslam)

(via bostonpoetryslam)



The Wesleyan College Slam Team

“Twenty Something”

Awarded Best Writing by a Team CUPSI 2012

“Twenty Something” is one of those rare pieces that makes you laugh and really think. As a result, it is an absolute pleasure to watch. The Wesleyan program has really set it’s sights on producing work that is a step above and the result is clear.

(via bostonpoetryslam)

Source: buttonpoetry


A screenshot from Alfredo Jaar’s web site.


A screenshot from Alfredo Jaar’s web site.

Source: fishingboatproceeds

"I spend my days making paper airplanes by myself
my heart tracing ghosts
on the inside of my skull
everything I own reminds me of something else
I need a new skin
this ones still uncomfortable"

- Anis Mojgani (via aliveinthisbed)

(via fuckyeahpoetryslam)

"Poet professor in autumn years
seeks helpmate companion protector friend
young lover w/empty compassionate soul
exuberant spirit, straightforward handsome
athletic physique & boundless mind, courageous
warrior who may also like women&girls, no problem,
to share bed meditation apartment Lower East Side,
help inspire mankind conquer world anger & guilt,
empowered by Whitman Blake Rimbaud Ma Rainey & Vivaldi,
familiar respecting Art’s primordial majesty, priapic carefree
playful harmless slave or master, mortally tender passing swift time,
photographer, musician, painter, poet, yuppie or scholar
Find me here in New York alone with the Alone
going to lady psychiatrist who says Make time in your life
for someone you can call darling, honey, who holds you dear
can get excited & lay his head on your heart in peace."

- Allen Ginsberg, Personals Ad (via toadustyshelf)

(via toadustyshelf-deactivated201207)

"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit."

- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot (via smug-bitch)

(via smug-bitch)


"there is thinking about you.
then, there is touching myself
while i imagine that you
hold my eyes shut and slap me
until i see the aurora borealis bloom inside my head.
i will try very hard to hold this image steady in my mind
as i tongue the point of a turnip.
i want you to touch me there, there, there, there and there.
i want you to read this an imagine where “there” is.
there is thinking about you,
and then there is choking myself with turnips
partially naked as i gaze into your status update.
i want you to hear “partially”
and imagine a necktie and a rose petal
doing their best to cover us.
i want you to touch me there, there, there, there and there.
i want you to say, “there, there,”
as you snatch my turnips away from me
and brush my lips with the cherry
of a cigarette.
yes, i went there.
yes, this is that there.
there is what happens to me
when you leave the room for five minutes.
there is a hunger like a trench in the belly of the sun.
then there is me wanting the day off
and a teddy bear with your smell clinging to its fur."

- David Perez, I Want You To Touch Me There, There, There, There and There (via rockwriteon)

(via bostonpoetryslam)


“Sexual freedom isn’t acceptable for women due to the misogyny massaged into men’s brains. A queen loses her crown when she loses her virginity. And a queen becomes a bitch when she likes it.” 
Kai Davis 

Oh my God, she’s so good.

Source: c4trina

A History Of Silence: What Year Was Heaven Desegregated? // Jeffrey McDaniel


Watching the news about Diallo, my eight year-old cousin, Jake,

asks why don’t they build black people

with bulletproof skin? I tell Jake there’s another planet, where

humans change colors like mood rings.

You wake up Scottish, and fall asleep Chinese; enter a theatre

Persian, and exit Puerto Rican. And Earth

is a junkyard planet, where they send all the broken humans

who are stuck in one color. That pseudo-

angels in the world before this offer deals to black fetuses, to give up

their seats on the shuttle to earth, say: wait

for the next one, conditions will improve. Then Jake asks do they

have ghettos in the afterlife? Seven years ago

I sat in a car, an antenna filled with crack cocaine smoldering

between my lips, the smoke spreading

in my lungs, like the legs of Joseph Stalin’s mom in the delivery

room. An undercover piglet hoofed up

to the window. My buddy busted an illegal u-turn, screeched

the wrong way down a one-way street.

I chucked the antenna, shoved the crack rock up my asshole.

The cops swooped in from all sides,

yanked me out. I clutched my ass cheeks like a third fist gripping

a winning lotto ticket. The cop yelled,

White boys only come in this neighborhood for two reasons: to steal

cars and buy drugs. You already got wheels.

I ran into the burning building of my mind. I couldn’t see shit.

It was filled with crack smoke. I dug

through the ashes of my conscience, till I found my educated, white

male dialect, which I stuck in my voice box

and pushed play. Officer, I’m going to be honest with you: Blah,

blah, blah. See, the sad truth is my skin

said everything he needed to know. My skin whispered into his pink

ear, I’m white. You can’t pin shit on this

pale fabric. This pasty cloth is pin resistant. Now slap my wrist,

so I can go home, take this rock out

of my ass, and smoke it. If Diallo was white, the bullets would’ve

bounced off his chest like spitballs. But

his execution does prove that a black man with a wallet is as dangerous

to the cops as a black man with an Uzi.

Maybe he whipped that wallet out like a grenade, hollered, I buy,

therefore I am an American. Or maybe

he just said, hey man, my tax money paid for two of the bullets

in that gun. Last year on vacation in DC,

little Jake wondered how come there’s a Vietnam wall, Abe Lincoln’s

house, a Holocaust building, but nothing

about slavery?  No thousand-foot sculpture of a whip. No

giant dollar bill dipped in blood.

Is it ‘cause there’s no Hitler to blame it on, no donkey to stick it on?

Are they afraid the blacks will want a settlement?

I mean, if Japanese-Americans locked up in internment camps

for five years cashed out at thirty g’s, what’s

the price tag on a three-hundred-year session with a dominatrix

who’s not pretending? And the white people

say we gave ‘em February. Black History Month. But it’s so much

easier to have a month than an actual

conversation. Jake, life is one big song, and we are the chorus.

Riding the subway is a chorus. Driving

the freeway is a chorus. But you gotta stay ready, ‘cause you never

know when the other instruments will

drop out, and ta-dah—it’s your moment in the lit spot, the barometer

of your humanity, and you’ll hear the footsteps

of a hush, rushing through the theater, as you aim for the high notes

with the bow and arrow in your throat.

(via bostonpoetryslam)

Source: carrierudzinski

"Even now, when the assignment
is to live without a destination,
I end up with you"

- Flockprinter | Buddy Wakefield
(via garciapoetry)

(via fuckyeahpoetryslam)


"Because the phoenix is myth,
but the sword swallower is real

and coughing up ash
proves more fire than rising from it."

- Excerpt from Jacob Victorine’s poem, “Because the Bullet,” as published in Muzzle magazine. (via bostonpoetryslam)

(via bostonpoetryslam)