Today in Writing History May 22, 1967: Writer and activist Langston Hughes died. Hughes was a leader of the Harlem Renaissance and one of the early pioneers of Jazz Poetry. During the Civil Rights Movement, from 1942-1962, he wrote a weekly column for the black-owned Chicago Defender. His poetry and fiction depicted the lives and struggles of working-class African Americans. Much of his writing dealt with racism and black pride. Like many black artists and intellectuals of his era, he was attracted to communism as an alternative to the racism and segregation of America. He travelled to the Soviet Union and many of his poems were published in the CPUSA newspaper. He also participated in the movement to free the Scottsboro Boys and supported the Republican cause in Spain. He opposed the U.S. entering World War II and he signed a statement in support of Stalin’s purges.
My brother shares my full genome.
He takes a trip and comes back home
Still young, though I am old and gray.
“Well, that makes sense,” I start to say,
“Due to the constant speed of light
Your clock moved slower in my sight.”
“How strange,” he says, “for I saw you,
And from my viewpoint, yours did too.”
If you are around-ish Jacksonville, FL and up for a free night of poetry, wine, and small cubes of cheese.. come see me read! I'll be one of several sharing their stuff. As a bonus I have a very limited number (single digits!) of mastodon mini-buttons courtesy of @Alice Just mention this post! I'm not opposed to bribery you see. #writing#poetry#jacksonville#florida#bribery
"Artistic power endures in a way that political power, financial power, and social power cannot. Great poems outlast even Supreme Court Justices." #politics#literature#poetry
O fleeting mortals, blind to ancient lore,
Unaware of treasures lying at your feet,
I, a humble wood elf, observe with sorrow,
Your ignorance of waybread's sacred treat.
For as you pass, oblivious to its might,
With gaze fixed upon more vibrant blooms,
The humble waybread whispers ancient secrets,
Nurtured by Earth's magic, through hidden tombs.
In late spring's warmth, when sun's caress is felt,
A gentle breeze whispers through the blooming glade,
Yet amidst this dance of light and fragrant scents,
Waybread stands tall, in nature's sturdy braid.
Its unassuming leaves, simple and plain,
Hold power untold, healing woes and strife,
Yet you, oh humans, fail to recognize,
The hidden blessings in each blade of life.
In the cool late spring breeze, it stands resilient,
Its verdant presence, an anchor in the air,
While petals sway, delicate and ephemeral,
Waybread's strength endures, beyond compare.
Invisibly, it weaves a shield of strength,
Guarding hearts and minds, warding off despair,
Yet you seek solace in the scented petals,
Neglecting waybread's virtue, unaware.
Amidst the flurry of fragrant flowers,
Its fragrance fades to the realms unknown,
Yet its resilience stands the test of time,
An ancient wisdom, quietly sown.
Oh, if only you could see with elfen eyes,
The waybread's charm, its essence pure and true,
You'd grasp the secret whispers of the Earth,
And let its magic mend and nourish you.
In late spring's warmth, it gathers nature's might,
A sturdy companion, in each winding path,
Unyielding to the passing of the seasons,
Waybread thrives, untouched by fleeting wrath.
But alas, my plea falls upon deaf ears,
For beauty's allure blinds your mortal sight,
While waybread's ancient spirit lingers near,
Unnoticed, hidden in the fading light.
So, as I watch you pass, consumed by scent,
I mourn the loss, the wisdom left untapped,
And in my wood elf heart, I whisper,
May waybread's ancient magic be unwrapped.
In cool late spring's breeze, it dances gracefully,
A testament to endurance, bound by no chains,
Like nightly magic that envelops the world,
Waybread's enchantment, forever remains.
O fleeting mortals, heed my woodland plea,
Embrace the waybread's gifts, both wise and grand,
And in its quiet presence, find solace,
For nature's magic lies within your hand.
Since I have a weird tendency to not share my work, and my friends have been nagging me to promote and tell people that I have written many things so here I am telling you to I did write a poem once upon a time.
I don't consider myself a poet, yet I wrote one years ago. I never really understood poetry; I never knew when a poem becomes a poem.
The curious shadow stands in my room.
It gets what it wants, nothing left to assume.
When it cries, your soul flies,
Away from this gorgeous, frightening crimes.
The curious shadow's now closer to me.
It stares at me, and consumes my fear.
I'm chained to bed, I can't even move,
But the curious shadow is still in my room.
I carry a
Curse in
My bones,
Crudely
Dressed in
Flesh like an
Epithet.
Blood begs
For a letting.
Memory begs
For forgetting.
The silence
In stone
A welcome
In solitude's embrace, I gasp for air,
Loneliness, my constant, lingering affair.
A solitary figure, wandering in despair,
Echoes of silence, a burden I bear.
Amidst the crowds, I stand unseen,
A phantom in a world so keen.
Each passing day, a relentless routine,
Gasp by gasp, my soul's longing keen.
The stars above, they twinkle and weep,
Yet in their beauty, my sorrows seep,
Gasping for solace, in dreams I leap.
In meiner Tasche dänische Kronen
Nur 1000 derer, mehr würd sich nicht lohnen
Kann ich mich nur akut hier wähnen –
Doch um mich rum, alles chronische Dänen.
& the breezes feather feet
Crimping oer the waters sweet
Trembling fans the sun tand cheek
& gives the comfort one woud seek
Stretching there in soft repose
Far from peace & freedoms foes
Spots so still so wild so rude
Dear to meet thee solitude
Here is the story of Anne Boleyn.
She let Henry the 8th stick it in.
When a girl came out,
Henry started to pout.
To shift the blame he ordered her dead
'If you can't give me boy then off with your head's
I plucked my soul out of its secret place, And held it to the mirror of my eye, To see it like a star against the sky, A twitching body quivering in space, A spark of passion shining on my face. And I explored it to determine why This awful key to my infinity Conspires to rob me of sweet joy and grace. And if the sign may not be fully read, If I can comprehend but not control, I need not gloom my days with futile dread, Because I see a part and not the whole. Contemplating the strange, I'm comforted By this narcotic thought: I know my soul."
“Wake Up”
by Adam Zagajewski
trans. by Clare Cavanagh
Wake up, my soul.
I don’t know where you are,
where you’re hiding,
but wake up, please,
we’re still together,
the road is still before us,
a bright strip of dawn
will be our star.