‘LOVE LETTER’ -A POEM BY SYLVIA PLATH !

sylvia-plath

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“LOVE LETTER”

Not easy to state the change you
made.
If I’m alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered
by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn’t just tow me an inch,
no-
Nor leave me to set my small bald
eye
Skyward again, without hope, of
course,
Of apprehending blueness, or
stars.
That wasn’t it. I slept, say: a
snake
Masked among black rocks as a
black rock
In the white hiatus of winter-
Like my neighbors, taking no
pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to
melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned
to tears,
Angels weeping over dull
natures,
But didn’t convince me. Those
tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of
ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer
air
And the locked drops rising in
dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round
about.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and
unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems
of plants.
I wasn’t fooled. I knew you at
once.
Tree and stone glittered, without
shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as
glass.
I started to bud like a March
twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I
ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my
soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It’s a gift.

Sylvia Plath.

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‘PASSPORT’ -A POEM BY MAHMOUD DARWISH !

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“Passport”

They did not recognize me in the
shadows
That suck away my color in this
Passport
And to them my wound was an
exhibit
For a tourist Who loves to collect
photographs
They did not recognize me,
Ah… Don’t leave
The palm of my hand without the
sun
Because the trees recognize me
Don’t leave me pale like the
moon!
All the birds that followed my
palm
To the door of the distant airport
All the wheatfields
All the prisons
All the white tombstones
All the barbed Boundaries
All the waving handkerchiefs
All the eyes
were with me,
But they dropped them from my
passport
Stripped of my name and
identity?
On soil I nourished with my own
hands?
Today Job cried out
Filling the sky:
Don’t make and example of me
again!
Oh, gentlemen, Prophets,
Don’t ask the trees for their
names
Don’t ask the valleys who their
mother is
From my forehead bursts the
sward of light
And from my hand springs the
water of the river
All the hearts of the people are
my identity
So take away my passport!

Mahmoud Darwish.
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY,CHARLES BUKOWSKI !

CHARLES BUKOWSKI: ‘. .For all
things will kill you, both slowly
and fastly, but it’s much better to
be killed by a lover.’
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CHARLES BUKOWSKI,The Poet-
Laureate of American
Lowlife,Would Have Been 94
Today!
A Prolific Author,Bukowski Wrote
Poems,Stories and Novels
Numbering Around 40 Books!He
Celebrated What Had Been At The
Margins of American
Society,especially,In American
Urban Landscape And Therefore
Gave Voice To Those Who Had
Hitherto Been Little Written About
In American Literature!
In Simple Diction And Free
Verse,Bukowski Attained Almost
A Cult Following During His
Lifetime,But More So After His
Death!His Rawness In Language
Made His Works Kind Of Smash-
on-Your-Face Outpours!Mostly
Autobiographical,His Works Were
His Experiences That He Had Had
Firsthand While Living A Life of
The Underdogs of American City
Life,Bukowski Highlighted A
Cumulative Tale of The
Downtroddens of American
Culture!
HereAre Five Quotes In
Celebration of Bukowski’s 94th
Birthday !
FIVE BUKOWSKI QUOTES : –
(1.) “Real loneliness is not
necessarily limited to when you
are alone.”
(2.) “You have to die a few times
before you can really
live.”
(3.) “Some people never go crazy.
What truly horrible lives they
must lead.”
(4.) “what matters most is how
well you walk through the fire.”
(5.) “If you’re losing your soul
and you know it, then you’ve still
got a soul left to lose.”
HAPPY 94th BIRTHDAY TO
CHARLES BUKOWSKI !
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‘TO A DEAD LOVER’ -A POEM BY LOUISE BOGAN !

LOUISE BOGAN tumblr_l6zya6gs0s1qzrkvzo1_400
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“To A Dead Lover”

The dark is thrown
Back from the brightness, like
hair
Cast over a shoulder.
I am alone,
Four years older;
Like the chairs and the walls
Which I once watched brighten
With you beside me. I was to
waken
Never like this, whatever came or
was taken.
The stalk grows, the year beats
on the wind.
Apples come, and the month for
their fall.
The bark spreads, the roots
tighten.
Though today be the last
Or tomorrow all,
You will not mind.
That I may not remember
Does not matter.
I shall not be with you again.
What we knew, even now
Must scatter
And be ruined, and blow
Like dust in the rain.
You have been dead a long
season
And have less than desire
Who were lover with lover;
And I have life—that old reason
To wait for what comes,
To leave what is over.

Louise Bogan.