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Há 1 dia · “To become a poet is to step into the void, to jump into the dark.” Born in Zagreb on July 4, 1941, Tomaž Šalamun grew up in Koper, a seaside town near Trieste, Italy that became part of Yugoslavia after World War I.
Há 16 horas · The Dark Night of the Soul. written by: Michael Balner. The dark night of the soul sets heavily in me, as she binds my hands with her silken veil, “Do not go gentle into that good night,”. I hear an echo of a long forgotten tale. I wander through the city, the streets. are full of people, and yet, I am all alone.
Há 3 dias · The Pasture, which Frost used to introduce his Collected Poems in 1930, invites the reader into a pastoral world through the urgent and directed second-person address “You come too.” The final poem, Good Hours , is about a person who wanders off from a community and then reluctantly returns to it, a situation that points up Frost's own marginalized status as a poet in a utilitarian world.
Há 3 dias · The Inferno describes the journey of a fictionalised version of Dante himself through Hell, guided by the ancient Roman poet Virgil.
Há 16 horas · (A door closes, locks.) But also, the converse: I cannot live as you would have me be. (A car sails off into the distance, taillights aglow.) I have stood on that porch, and I have driven that car. Some estrangements are mutual, you see. Some estrangements read as kismet, which Merriam-Webster calls “a predetermined and unavoidable fate.”
Há 1 dia · like a bird of prey, the profile of night. & what if hope crashes through the door what if. I won’t give in to the dark. Birds are singing the sky into place. The earth rolls beneath our feet. when they said those birds were metaphors. There are birds here, so many birds here, what I was trying to say. There are so many fragile things.
Há 16 horas · Let There Be More Coal coal doesn’t bust itself —Jake Skeets i. Like a bee making rooms in a dark hive, one man seals another length of tunnel with canvas-flaps and boards, pushes back afterdamp, choking gas, brattices his way into the exploded mine— at the mouth, arc lamps, fan pushing in sweet air, makeshift shack, coffee, old mother tearing at her hair.
