By Cornelius Eady
I’m here to tell you an old story. ThisAppears to be my work. I live in the world,Walk the streets of...
Explore Poems: Confessional
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- By John MurilloFor me, the movie starts with a black man Leaping into an orbit of badges, tiny moons Catching the sheen...
- By Walela NehandaCrip (noun): slang for a disabled person/the whole of the disabled community/ a school of thought Example...
- By Kevin PruferThe brutality of those two men who broke into her apartment and murdered her boyfriend, then, as she...
- By Edward HirschTwelve years old and lovesick, bumbling and terrified for the first time in my life, but strangely hopeful...
- By Anne SextonThe end of the affair is always death. She’s my workshop. Slippery eye, out of the tribe of myself my...
- By Anne SextonEveryone in me is a bird. I am beating all my wings. They wanted to cut you out but they will not. They...
- By Anne SextonI was thinking of a son. The womb is not a clock nor a bell tolling, but in the eleventh month of its...
- By Anne SextonWe sail out of season into an oyster-gray wind, over a terrible hardness. Where Dickens crossed with...
- By Anne SextonHere, in the room of my life the objects keep changing. Ashtrays to cry into, the suffering brother ...
- By Anne SextonSince you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the...
- By Anne SextonConcerning your letter in which you ask me to call a priest and in which you ask me to wear The Cross...
- By Anne SextonThe town does not exist except where one black-haired tree slips up like a drowned woman into the hot...
- By Anne SextonWait Mister. Which way is home? They turned the light out and the dark is moving in the corner. There...
- By Anne SextonI am surprised to see that the ocean is still going on. Now I am going back and I have ripped my hand...
- By Anne SextonIt was only important to smile and hold still, to lie down beside him and to rest awhile, to be folded...
- By Anne SextonI have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done...
- By Anne SextonGone, I say and walk from church, refusing the stiff procession to the grave, letting the dead ride ...
- By Anne SextonFather, this year’s jinx rides us apart where you followed our mother to her cold slumber; a second ...
- By Robert LowellForty years ago we were here where we are now, the same erotic May-wind blew the trees from there to...