Poem of the Day
Yellow Striped Pajamas
By Shamsher Bahadur Singh
walking silently on his paws, he emerges from the semidarkness and disappears into it.
walking silently on his paws, he emerges from the semidarkness and disappears into it.
But suppose, Irina, you find yourself asking:
What is the word for window?
And a voice, your own or someone else's, replies
If I tell a story of America it will be with the needle
splitting Demuth's needle-pocked skin-how his blood blooms
in insulin as he hunches his shoulder to shield the syringe
The café walls are covered with pictures of flying parrots;
I take a table, rest my arms; the table gently tips,
A dozen strangers sit and sit and talk, all they do is lovely,
A tallow worked into a knot
of rawhide, with a ball of waxy light
tied to a stick, the boy
Birds don't sing, they explain. Only human beings sing.
If half the poets in the world stopped writing, there would still be the same amount of poetry.
If ninety-nine percent of the poets in the world stopped writing poetry, there would still be the same amount of poetry.
If you're thinking of going to Syracuse,
be modest and do not expect
the bronze warriors of Reggio
The Venetian Republic regarded the art of mirror-making as a state secret, to be conserved by any sanction necessary, including the most extreme.
•
Scuola Veneziana, copia di un alfresco perduto, secolo
The sky flashes past us while we sleep,
deep in our beds, drowning,
Nasturtium surplus.
Water curls and lilies,
lily water. Vermilion and orange
My God, they were all so beautiful,
each parchment trumpeting its cursive praise
of Allah, whose residence m Istanbul