When she was young,
She loved books and thought about life.
She loved movies and classics
Which inspired her mind.
She liked to be alone and watched the quiet sky.
But she knew she struggled inside
Because she could not find a companion who echoed her mind.
Because they loved dresses, gossips and outcries
A different girl has to pay the price.
27/4/2019
I’d smoke cigars all day and into the night
while I wrote and wrote without
any hope or slightest assurance
that anything I’d written actually mattered
or rose to a standard of literary merit.
I’d languish in the smoke that did me in
and call it the cloud of my unknowing,
so sweet in its taste, such as it was,
of Cuban soil. That would be paradise
in heaven that’s so overrated as endless
bliss it kills to imagine as a place for living
forever, no less, with nothing to do
or lips to kiss. I’d curse, therefore,
with the best of them—the legion
of Saved—as I sharpened my pencils
and smoked my Punches in the simple room
that I’d be given with a desk for writing
and bed for remembering the things
I’d forgotten. And reading too, I almost
forgot. I’d read and read since I’d be done
with sleeping, but dreaming, no, still dreaming
a lot. I’d live to live again with moments
of dying to see how “lucky” I was. I’d use
my body as an eidolon with invisible wings
that fluttered in the void as if it were air
and hummed in the dark in which I could see.
詩人由日照到深夜抽著淡淡的香煙，前面是一份又一份的稿件，詩人在滿佈煙冒的房間裏寫作，在思考他不懂得的，沒有特別的事情要辦，這樣活下去就像身處天堂一樣。他寫作著，在牀上記起已忘記的，在閱讀著，沉睡著，幻想著，還在幻想很多。他覺得自己很幸運，在黑暗中仍能唱歌仍能看見。這樣就是創作人的天堂呢。
She’ll urge you to confide. Resist.
Be careful, courteous, and cool.
Never trust a journalist.
‘We’re off the record,’ she’ll insist.
If you believe her, you’re a fool.
She’ll urge you to confide. Resist.
Should you tell her who you’ve kissed,
You’ll see it all in print, and you’ll
Never trust a journalist
Again. The words are hers to twist,
And yours the risk of ridicule.
She’ll urge you to confide. Resist.
‘But X is nice,’ the publicist
Will tell you. ‘We were friends at school.’
Never trust a journalist
Hostile, friendly, sober, pissed,
Male or female – that’s the rule.
When tempted to confide, resist.
Never trust a journalist.
This poem makes use of repetition to stress its point — Never trust a journalist. If you confide, your words are twisted and you become the ridicule to the public. That is the dark side of journalism.
Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true —
I love April, I love you.
Use this poem today to cheer myself up a little bit. April is a charming girl with character which is like casting a spell on the poet who compares her to the month April. April is capricious, ever changing like the weather, and is always true and honest. The poet loves her nonetheless. Being an April girl, I understand the capricious nature which very often offends people who can’t accept this kind of ever changing character. So April girl can be charming as well as offensive. Beware!
People say, ‘What are you doing these days? What are you working on?’
I think for a moment or two.
The question interests me. What am I doing these
days?
How odd that I haven’t a clue.
Right now, of course, I’m working on this poem,
With just a few more lines to go.
But tomorrow someone will ask me, ‘What are you up
to these days? What are you working on?’
And I still won’t know.
This poem kind of speaks my mind of the present situation. I am not doing much lately. I don’t know what I am going to do.
If you are a child of a refugee, you do not
sleep easily when they are crossing the sea
on small rafts and you know they can’t swim.
My father couldn’t swim either. He swam through
sorrow, though, and made it to the other side
on a ship, pitching his old clothes overboard
at landing, then tried to be happy, make a new life.
But something inside him was always paddling home,
clinging to anything that floated —a story, a food, or face.
They are the bravest people on earth right now,
don’t dare look down on them. Each mind a universe
swirling as many details as yours, as much love
for a humble place. Now the shirt is torn,
the sea too wide for comfort, and nowhere
to receive a letter for a very long time.
And if we can reach out a hand, we better.
The poem is written in response to the refugee migrant crisis where refugees from the Middle East and Africa like Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Kenya etc., mostly Muslim countries, risk their lives crossing over the Mediterranean sea to Europe.
The poet thinks of her father, the older generation, being an immigrant from Palestine to the United States, who also braves his life to find a humble place in the new land. Likewise, now, the refugees have their reasons in going all the way in search of a better life. Also, the poet suggests that his father remembers being a refugee is weary and difficult, and is forgotten by his homeland. So the poet urges to help the refugees if we can.
English language & literature 