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Tamara Macareno

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Poem: E gg Aleš Šteger                                                                                              Image: https://www.flickr.com/photos/notahipster/4223622570 When you kill it at the edge of the pan, you don’t notice That the egg grows an eye in death. It is so small, it doesn’t satisfy Even the most modest morning appetite. But it already watches, already stares at your world. What are its horizons, whose glassy-eyed perspectives? Does it see time, which moves carelessly through space? Eyeballs, eyeballs, cracked shells, chaos or order? Big questions for such a little eye at such an early hour. And you – do you really want an answer? When you sit down, eye to eye, behind a table, You blind it soon enough with a crust of bread. https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/egg Biographical info: Born May 31, 1973 A Slovene   poet ,  writer ,  editor  and  literary critic Won Veronika Award  in  1998  for Kašmir Won Rožanc Award  in  2007  f
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DAMIEN SMITH

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I wish to leave the world By its natural door; In my tomb of green leaves They are to carry me to die. Do not put me in the dark To die like a traitor; I am good, and like a good thing I will die with my face to the sun  Jose Marti This poem is about a man wanting to die peacefully in nature of simple natural causes with his face turned to the sun. He does not want to rot away in a dark coffin like a ¨traitor¨. The author is Jose Marti, he was born on January 28 1853. He was a Cuban poet and considered a National hero. The phrase "I wish to leave the world by its natural door" speaks to me a lot, there are a number of things you could say about it. I think its means he wants to die but of natural causes like in his sleep or something like that. Also when he says my tomb of green leaves I think he means nature so he wants to die in the wilderness. If I were to read this poem out loud I would use a calm tone of voice because hes talking about dieing peacefully.
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Makyia Edwards

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Untitled - Rupi Kaur when they buried me alive i dug my way out of the ground with palm and fist i howled so loud the earth rose in fear and the dirt began to levitate my whole life has been an uprising one burial after another In this poem, the author is talking about overcoming tribulations and levitating out of the ground. In the picture the man is levitating and coming out of the ground and he looks to be free of issues. Biographical information -She started drawing at the age of five when her mother handed her a paintbrush and said -- draw your heart out. -Her and her family immigrated to Toronto, Canada when she was a child. -She rose to fame from her popularity on Instagram and Tumblr.  -Growing up she wanted to become a visual artist. -She allows her Sikh religion to very much influence her work. In this untitled poem the author is talking about being buried with problems and having to fight through them whilst being alone, but with a turn of ev
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Khaliq-Brown

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Nothings Changed By Ismail Joubert Website with poem Small round hard stones click under my heels, seeding grasses thrust bearded seeds into trouser cuffs, cans, trodden on, crunch in tall, purple-flowering, amiable weeds. District six. No board says it is: but my feet know, and my hands, and the skin about my bones, and the soft labouring of my lungs, and the hot, white, inwards turning anger of my eyes. Brash with glass, name flaring like a flag, it squats in the grass and weeds, incipient Port Jackson trees: new, up-market, haute cuisine, guard at the gatepost, whites only inn. No sign says it is: But we know where we belong.  About  Ismail Joubert:  Info from poemhunter.com Ismail Joubert was born in Egypt in 1920 and move to South Africa when he was young. He is a world war 2 veteran and he was an activist for Umkhonto we Sizwe in the South African struggle. Ismail died on 12/23/2002 after being hit by a car. The writer was kicked o
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Jordan Baines

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A single fir-tree, lonely, on a northern mountain height, sleeps in a white blanket, draped in snow and ice. His dreams are of a palm-tree, who, far in eastern lands, weeps, all alone and silent, among the burning sands.   Heinrich Heine  https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/palm-tree Biography Heinrich Heine is a German author born December 13th, 1797 in Düsseldorf. He is the son of a middle class Jewish family. With financial support from his uncle, Hienrich attended the University of Bonn in 1819. A.W. von Schlegel, professor of literature encouraged his literary bent. He later moved on to the University of Berlin and attended lectures of G. W. F. Hegel. With literary sponsors it helped him publish Gedichte (Poems) in 1822. Analyzing The poem is about the contrast of winter and summer. It shows how being in one place can make you  want to be in another. This poem is about how the author is trapped in one place wishing he was in another place. His tone is soft but it sh
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Zileyah Onafowora

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Zileyah Onafowora   February 06, 2019             Sometimes Silence Is The Loudest Kind Of Noise. Sometimes silence is the loudest kind of noise Like sometimes it was best when Girls were girls and boys were boys. Like back when freeze tag was a mating dance. Like back when “Do Over” meant you got another chance. Like back when anxiety was worrying if Wonder Woman would make it out alive. Like back when freedom was sliding backwards on a slide. Like back when success was jumping off a swing and Landing on your feet, then Doing it all over again. Like new shoes made you run faster. Like getting Ms. Gross again for math was a disaster. Like failure was a word we hadn’t even learned to spell yet. Like promises were sealed and kept with pinky bets. Like a challenge was a double dare. Like ugly was a cock-eyed stare. And you liked it… Like when you flipped your eyelids inside out To impress that boy across the room, ‘Cause that’s all it took. And there was no s
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Kristen McCartney

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Death And His Brothers Sleep by Heinrich Heine There’s a mirror likeness between those two shining, youthfully-fledged figures, though one seems paler than the other and more austere, I might even say more perfect, more distinguished, than he, who would take me confidingly in his arms – how soft then and loving his smile, how blessed his glance! Then, it might well have been that his wreath of white poppies gently touched my forehead, at times, and drove the pain from my mind with its strange scent. But that is transient. I can only, now, be well,  when the other one, so serious and pale, the older brother, lowers his dark torch. – Sleep is so good, Death is better, yet surely never to have been born is best.  https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-and-his-brother-sleep-morphine/ Biographical information: This photo connects to the poem Death and His Brother Sleep by Heinrich Heine by the cemetery symbolizing death, and the beauty within the s
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