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Iraira Cedillo Mar 2014
101–120 of 11462 Poems
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What I Eat is a Prayer
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY
Then in the August of my twenty-seventh year,
naked except for my seaclogs,
I greeted an audience of piers. . . .
Bureau of
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY
This is the body of,
waiting to turn on.
. . .
The Siren
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY
The puppy must be learned of all this material.
No map of the hospital. First, the war effort.
Then, the war itself. The water makes and remakes . . .
Hotel
BY PHILIP NIKOLAYEV
Time to recount the sparrows of the air.
Seated alone on an elected stair,
I stare as they appear and disappear. . . .
Tendency toward Vagrancy
BY PHILIP NIKOLAYEV
I’ve long had what Soviet psychiatrists
called “a tendency toward vagrancy.”
At four I would run away from home . . .
Survey
BY DONALD REVELL
I am so lonely for the twentieth century,
for the deeply felt, obscene graffiti
of armed men and the beautiful bridges . . .
My Factless Autobiography
BY ALLI WARREN
I arise around survival of the event
as worse than the event
The whole place surrounds the smell . . .
Apple Blossoms
BY SUSAN KELLY-DEWITT
One evening in winter
when nothing has been enough,
when the days are too short, . . .
Brasil
BY FARNOOSH FATHI
Left a hole on fire agony or was it the sun
on the banks and near duets?
Eagles with the white wine of the sun . . .
Honey/Manila Portfolio
BY FARNOOSH FATHI
This is not a book. Otherwise, by now
We would love each other.
You would not put me first, . . .
Two Hear Cicadas
BY FARNOOSH FATHI
BEEF: We are here between trees,
with the tempo of a rosary being strung
in a queue of escalating beads— . . .
Memory
BY FARNOOSH FATHI
Over the night a bull
Whispers into a coal
. . .
To the Censorious Ones
BY ANNE WALDMAN
I'm coming up out of the tomb, Men of War
Just when you thought you had me down, in place, hidden
I'm coming up now
Can you feel the ground rumble under your feet?
It's breaking apart, it's turning over, it's pushing up
It's thrusting into your point of view, your private property
O . . .
Beastgardens
BY LUCY IVES
first garden

Beastgarden. . . .
Early Poem
BY LUCY IVES
The first sentence is a sentence about writing. The second sentence tells you it's alright to lose interest. You might be one of those people who sits back in his or her chair without interest, and this would have been the third sentence you would have read. The fourth sentence, what does . . .
Black Swan
BY STEPHANIE YOUNG
After the second conference, I would be cast in the role of a young dancer with a prestigious New York City ballet company. I would be cast in the role of the mother, a former dancer now amateur artist, whose career ended at 28 when she became pregnant. I would be cast in the role of the . . .
Essay
BY STEPHANIE YOUNG
I guess it's too late to live on the farm

I guess it's too late to enter the darkened room in which a single light . . .
A Practice Known as Churning
BY ALLI WARREN
I went to the city some days
to learn my master's pleasure
& laid fort at the farthest place . . .
The Help I Need Is Not Available Here
BY ALLI WARREN
I need help with long term hope
I need help with the dawn
of war and achieving . . .
All My Activities Are Feeding Activities
BY ALLI WARREN
Dear Commissioner
here are my directive accounts
of genitals and cash . . .
«4567»
There are too many martyrs in Gaza which continue to increase every day for over a year.
Souls who previously had life continue to be wiped out until they end up becoming statistics.
Refaat , Hind Rajab , Dr Adnan , Mahasen , Medo Halimy , Ismail Al Ghoul , Shaban , Uncle Khaled , Chef Mahmoud , Awni El Dous , Ayman , Heba Zagout , Fathi Ghaben , Hassan Hamad , Dr Thabat and tens of thousands of other martyrs.
If they were all written down in poems it would take years to write poems about them all.
But they should be written down in poems one by one.
At least with poems they can always be remembered.
So if you feel motivated to write poems about them , just write immediately.


January 2025

By Alvian Eleven
Fathi abd Apr 12
---

Don’t Steal My Life

Hardly a day goes by
Without me living in your memory.
My heart still beats for your love—
Within my ribs,
I built you a home.

You are the near yet distant,
The harbinger of fate.
You dwelled in my soul through promises,
And I clung to your passion.

Don’t steal my life with empty vows,
Nor justify your acts with witnesses.
Life is a fleeting train
Passing through its stations—
And with each stop,
Time becomes a fading illusion.

Awaken from your slumber in the dark—
Dawn has broken, and the rooster has cried.
Where are you in the morning light?

Don’t delay time,
Don’t burden me with trials.
Fulfill what you pledged—
I see you have faltered.

I will not allow
My life to be stolen in waiting.
That would be my slow demise.

Yes, I love you—
But I fear you’ll slip away,
Cold and distant in this frost.

I fear to spend my days
In such indifference,
As my pain deepens.

Like a lone fruit
Dangling from a tree—
Untouched,
Trapped in silent siege.

By: Fathi Al-Sayyadi


---
Fathi abd Apr 8
---

I’ll be there, my heart on time,
Carrying longing, in perfect rhyme.

My pulse races as you draw near,
Your vision brings my moment here.

So rest assured, be calm, be free,
For delay, my love, could never be.

Your love resides in my soul’s deep tide,
It beats, it aches, it will not hide.

You’re lovely as a bloom in May,
A springtime butterfly in play.

How could I live if you're not near?
You are my hope, my dream, my dear.

We'll meet, just as the promise said,
So sip your coffee, rest your head.

And I shall come without delay,
To that same place, on that same day.

By: Fathi Al-Sayyadi
Fathi abd Apr 8
---

The Chirping of Birds
By: Fathi Al-Sayyadi

From my balcony,
whose window opens to the tree,
I awoke early
to the chirping of birds—
like a gentle alarm,
guiding me:
the sun has risen,
and the hour of work draws near.

Enough of sleep and dreams,
awake—pursue the hope!
For the sunbeam pierced the window,
and rang the bell of labor.


---
Fathi abd Apr 8
---

I Fear Your Arrival May Delay

I've waited long in your absence,
My yearning never found rest.
Not once did I complain to the world,
Nor let them see the sorrow I suppressed.

I fear your arrival may delay—
My body has begun to waste away.
Signs speak of a soul unwell,
And I fear no remedy will quell.

O you, whose absence deepens my desire,
My patience has no more fire.
Each day in your absence feels like mourning,
I live on memories, hope adorning.

Laid in bed, my heart for you aches,
From you, I learned what love truly makes.
Your face, like the moon, once bright,
Rose each dawn with a smile of light.

I beg of you, a humble plea:
Hasten your return to me.
Ease this pain, bring peace again,
Your nearness worth more than any gain.

My heart beats and sighs your name,
Won’t you, for my sake, feel the same?
Forget you? I never could.
Your love runs deep within my blood.

To speak the truth—I doubt in your distance,
My patience lost all resistance.
This heart, a furnace lit with flame,
Fears harm may find you in my name.

So let not your return be late—
Without you, this land is desolate.
But you, my rain, can make it bloom,
And bring dead soil from silent gloom.

Written by: Fathi Al-Sayyadi
Fathi abd Apr 8
A Pen’s Respite
By: Fathi Al-Sayyadi

My feelings and senses have grown weary,
As I sail through sorrow and dreams,
Delivering messages that echo
The emotions of humankind.
I dive into the depths of their oceans,
Searching through the affairs of their hearts,
Revealing what lies hidden,
So every troubled conscience may find peace.

I'm worn from my cries,
Though my attentiveness was always graceful.
Now, gray has touched my hair,
And still, my hopes remain unfulfilled—
Though I kept a watchful eye on all.

I believe I've delivered the message,
Explained it with clarity and clouds,
Advised both lover and stranger.
My purpose has always been clear,
And to all, it appeared
Comforting and sincere.

Now, I retreat for rest—
My pen, too, takes its respite.

— The End —