My skin the skin of oil lamps, musty carpets, a splintered wooden table with fire engine paint on it, set me in the corner thinking about the proverbial good old days.
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Evening’s wetness has the tang of unobtrusive winter; emotions are upright ostrich-like, the wet earth, loose soil will shackle me to songs. Sprouting shadows. Love will gesture towards faraway promontories. The post Promontories | Ananya S. Guha appeared first on Best Poetry. Go to Source Author: Best Poetry Online
I do not know what to regret anymore, that I cannot reach you through our memories, that an insane song cannot touch your soul, or that you reversed yourself on the other side of Life. I watched how spring drained from us and not even a curved second could see anymore the Miracle from us….
I’m going to send this poem to everyone I know just to see who will give it love and let it take root just to see where my words can sprout how green they can be how well watered in this world. The post This Poem | Angelica Fuse appeared first on Best Poetry. Go…
from The American Scholar / January 22, 2022 When The Manchurian Candidate, based on the novel by Richard Condon, was released in 1962, Pauline Kael called it “the most sophisticated political satire ever to come out of Hollywood.” Six decades on, the judgment holds, and I’ll go further. With its mind-bending plot, its celebrated brainwashing sequence,…
I planted a tree in your holy garden. Made my way through old auditoriums of memories playing on dirty screens. This place is not what I thought it was. I was not who I thought I was. I watered the sand bank until it collapsed down to the rest of the earth. Soon a stream…
