By Corey Van Landingham
was, according to Virgil, always a fickle, unstable thing. Woman. Wyf. Merger of wife and man. To indicate: not-girl. Not...
Explore Poems: Disappointment
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- By Li-Young LeeSad is the man who is asked for a story and can’t come up with one. His five-year-old son waits in his...
- By K. IverYou’ve never seen a lilac in Mississippi. Backstage you wear lotion laced with its chemical imitation...
- By J. V. CunninghamPlato, despair! We prove by norms How numbers bear Empiric forms, How random wrong Will average right...
- By Jos Charlesits a secrete the grls speeching mye hole / inn 2 the lindens / wee go out & playe footballe / verie...
- It’s a shame this poem’s already been erased when I go to read it. Like humid air that tugs at my arm...
- By James CagneyI come from the kidnapped, the assaulted— my country’tis of reparations as in-store credit backordered...
- By Tomás Q. MorínIn this life, there are starsand there are stunt doubles.Before I became one of those fathersobsessed...
- By Adrian MatejkaSpike Lee is so small I didn’t even see him at first, surrounded by Black Expo goers like a gumdrop ...
- By J. V. CunninghamThere is no stillness in this wood. The quiet of this clearing Is the denial of my hearing The sounds...
- By J. V. CunninghamYou are the problem I propose, My dear, the text my musings glose: I call you for convenience love. ...
- By James K. BaxterThe wish to climb a ladder to the loft Of God dies hard in us. The angels Jacob saw Were not himself...
- By Margaret WalkerFor my people For my people In an interview for Callaloo literary journal, Walker remarked: “I remember hearing...
- By Lorine NiedeckerNothing worth noting except an Andromeda with quadrangular shoots— the boots of the people wet inside...
- By Gwendolyn BrooksJohn Cabot, out of Wilma, once a Wycliffe, all whitebluerose below his golden hair, wrapped richly in...
- By T. S. EliotHere I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain. I was neither at the...
- By Lorna Dee CervantesWe were so poor. The air was a quiver of thoughts we drew from to poise, unsaid in the ineffable world...
- By Maxine KuminWell, she didn't kill herself that afternoon. It was a mild day in October, we sat outside over sandwiches...
- By Patricia SmithWhen a bullet enters the brain, the head explodes. I can think of no softer warning for the mothers ...
- By Patricia Smith62. You would have been 62. I would have given you a Roosevelt Road kinda time, an all-night jam in ...