My intro

by Aria Fiore


Like I've said before
I am not Caucasian,
layin' in the tannin' bed
like some dried up old raisin.
I don't cake my face
with a mask of lined raccoon eyes
and glitter from my forehead
to my toenails
lyin' about my dress size.
I am 36'', 25'', 40''.
Wearin' Gucci shoes,
all hoity-toity,
Shit ain't my style.
I am tatted up
and lovin' how it gets
my professors all riled up.
I can quote Shakespeare
and tell you how carbon and oxygen bond;
Covalently,
to form carbon monoxide.
Yeah, that's me.
Glasses and an eyebrow ring.
You can find me drivin' around
rappin' about that ol' penetration thing.
But who cares about the me, myself, and I?
We were born just to die.
Short lives. Leaves not enough time.
Keeps us wondering about
the when, the where and the why.
Yeah, I got so many questions.
What I wanna know
is where did all the poets go?
All the artists, dreamers, and free thinkers?
I find them sometimes.
Dust covered.
Tarred and feathered.
Persecuted for their words and not actions.
But I guess as a writer
you are taken at your word
as soon as you stand up
and ask to be heard.


Aria Fiore is a poet from Marietta, Georgia.

A Thing of Beauty

by John Keats

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

This Be The Verse

by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Full Circle

by Carmen Lamarium

I feel so full tonight.
Almost like I ate too much.
But my stomach is empty,
and my heart is full.
It’s only you in me.

And I can’t explain
why it’s taken so long
to get nowhere.

What have you done
Oh, Midnight Sun?
I’ll dive into the stars
of these old darkened skies
that you opened above me.
in front of my eyes
like a black umbrella.

I’ll don another black dress.
Almost like yesterday's.
But this is a new day,
and another funeral
that you drag me to.

And I can’t explain
Why it’s taken so long.
What have you done
Oh, Midnight Sun?
I’ll dive into the stars
of these old darkened skies
that you opened before me
in front of my eyes,
like a black umbrella.

I can’t explain
why I’m still here
under this black umbrella.

I’ve gone nowhere
In all this time.
In all these years.
I’m still right here.
Just right here.

Carmen Lamarium is a poet and artist from Atlanta, Georgia.

Untitled

by Graeme Goldstein

He travelled alone the road to yonder,
Battered and bruised from all his struggles;
Learning and waking while he wandered.
He discovered his make amid his troubles,
A soul in search of solid ground:
The little boy lost became a man found.

A Poem for the Cruel Majority

by Jerome Rothenberg


The cruel majority emerges!

Hail to the cruel majority!

They will punish the poor for being poor.
They will punish the dead for having died.

Nothing can make the dark turn into light
for the cruel majority.
Nothing can make them feel hunger or terror.

If the cruel majority would only cup their ears
the sea would wash over them.
The sea would help them forget their wayward children.
It would weave a lullaby for young & old.

(See the cruel majority with hands cupped to their ears,
one foot is in the water, one foot is on the clouds.)

One man of them is large enough to hold a cloud
between his thumb & middle finger,
to squeeze a drop of sweat from it before he sleeps.

He is a little god but not a poet.
(See how his body heaves.)

The cruel majority love crowds & picnics.
The cruel majority fill up their parks with little flags.
The cruel majority celebrate their birthday.

Hail to the cruel majority again!

The cruel majority weep for their unborn children,
they weep for the children that they will never bear.
The cruel majority are overwhelmed by sorrow.

(Then why are the cruel majority always laughing?
Is it because night has covered up the city's walls?
Because the poor lie hidden in the darkness?
The maimed no longer come to show their wounds?)

Today the cruel majority vote to enlarge the darkness.

They vote for shadows to take the place of ponds
Whatever they vote for they can bring to pass.
The mountains skip like lambs for the cruel majority.

Hail to the cruel majority!
Hail! hail! to the cruel majority!

The mountains skip like lambs, the hills like rams.
The cruel majority tear up the earth for the cruel majority.
Then the cruel majority line up to be buried.

Those who love death will love the cruel majority.

Those who know themselves will know the fear
the cruel majority feel when they look in the mirror.

The cruel majority order the poor to stay poor.
They order the sun to shine only on weekdays.

The god of the cruel majority is hanging from a tree.
Their god's voice is the tree screaming as it bends.
The tree's voice is as quick as lightning as it streaks across the sky.

(If the cruel majority go to sleep inside their shadows,
they will wake to find their beds filled up with glass.)

Hail to the god of the cruel majority!
Hail to the eyes in the head of their screaming god!

Hail to his face in the mirror!

Hail to their faces as they float around him!

Hail to their blood & to his!

Hail to the blood of the poor they need to feed them!
Hail to their world & their god!

Hail & farewell!
Hail & farewell!
Hail & farewell!

From poetryfoundation.org



"A Poem for the Cruel Majority" By Jerome Rothenberg, from A PARADISE OF POETS, copyright © 1991, 1993, 1995, 1998, 1999 by Jerome Rothenberg. Used by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

Auguries of Innocence

by William Blake


To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons

Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare

A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl

Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve

Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd

Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf

Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,

Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee

Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;

Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.


The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,

Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,

Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;

Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.


He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.

He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.


When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.

He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.


The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,

Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.


We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;

But does a human form display

To those who dwell in realms of day.

It is your turn now

It is your turn now,
you waited, you were patient.
The time has come,
for us to polish you.
We will transform your inner pearl
into a house of fire.
You're a gold mine.
Did you know that,
hidden in the dirt of the earth?
It is your turn now,
to be placed in fire.
Let us cremate your impurities.


From: 'Hush Don't Say Anything to God: Passionate Poems of Rumi'
Translated by Sharam Shiva

Enlightenment is Cancelled Because of the Rain

by Pasckie Pascua


Enlightenment is cancelled
because of the rain
Weather Channel says
it will be 15 inches of incessant
toxic downpour.
It is not possible to meet up
or sit around a circle
like we always do especially
when the sun is up—
but this time, ground is muddy
and might be infested by yellow bugs
that somehow escaped from a factory
in Indonesia.

Healing time is postponed
until further notice—
it is not possible to meditate
and let go off the mundane worries
of life and living
because we can’t summon the wind
to excise spiritual energy
from wildflowers and dandelions.
Acid rain is coming down
anthrax snow will cover roads.

Happiness is moved to a later date, as well
it is not likely that we can converge
on top of the hill
in freedom and joy and peace.
Besides, the catering service just called
food is contaminated, food isn’t safe
fish refuses to be cooked without its head
beef needs to be frozen with helium
for six months to be safe
for public consumption.

Happiness is reset
to a date to be announced later
we cannot meet up
and discuss while starving.
No fresh, organic produce today
farms have been moved
to Bangladesh and Laos.
Love is rescheduled, too
because of gasoline shortage
for the time being, do not have sex
it is not possible to drive to K-Mart
and score a stack of condoms—
K-Marts are all gone
vanished, kaput, disappeared!
They are all flown to China
for now, no toilet papers, KY lubricants,
wipes, soap, or even paper towels.

Most of all, my comrades
and fellow liberators of humanity—
the revolution is cancelled
because of power failure
our sincerest apologies to one and all
everybody go home, put on your PJs,
drink milk, brush your teeth,
triple-lock your doors
and recheck your alarm.
Vagrant stars might terrorize you tonight
moonshadows are capable
of giving you allergies—
it is not safe when there is power failure.

This also means that rallies
are cancelled for next year—
we will have to find out
each and everyone’s schedules again.
There is no electricity, gasoline is short
and expensive, emails are messed up
by spammers from Pluto—
it is not possible to meet up
and discuss strategies
we don’t meet up on short notice
we need to value hours spent,
dollars paid—there are a lot of bills
cable TV and distilled water
and recycling fees.

I repeat, lest you didn’t check
your cell or emails
the revolution is terminated
because of power failure,
high cost of gasoline
and nonstop rain.
Enlightenment is cancelled,
but there will be other days.

Meantime, let’s stack up on more flute music
and Indian vibes on iPod
check out awesome Buddhist teachings
online, DIY yoga is up at YouTube.
No need to stress ourselves out
there are so many things
to be happy about
our neighborhood health grocery
is selling organic beer
and you can also teach your dog
psychoanalysis, cats can also
perform foot massage.

Cheer up, and be happy
things will be alright—
Peace!


Pasckie Pascua's poetry can be found here.

After the Winter

by Claude McKay


Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire the shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee.
And we will build a cottage there
Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
And ferns that never fade.

From PoetryFoundation.Org