Daily Archives: July 5, 2018

poem by Bengt O Björklund

I am not a silent poet

down by the pick pocket market again
delivering free contact and smiles
reloading day’s opportunity
amongst the lost and the slow dyeing

redemption is not an option here
where salty winds carry dead women
on their broken shoulders
there’s a tilt towards the distant sea

rich men rumble with binoculars
fastened to their wallets
there’s no magic carpet for the poor
there’s no such thing

ripped and wired to the end
clocked and seeded
I do remember the beginning
before the I bubble burst

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Show Me (the Art of War), by Jen Littlesthobo

I am not a silent poet

Show me when you paint,
How it’s cheaper to use blood than oil.
Show me how you paint a street with a gun,
Then draw the chalk outline later.
Show me the colours of the rainbow,
In oil-tainted drinking water.
Show me how pipelines can predict the longevity of a community,
More accurately than the heartlines you excavated to make space for them.
Show me how you turn villages into pyres,
Bedrooms into coffins
And mother’s hearts into shrines.
Show me the family trees you’ve felled
To make way for new borders.
Show me how you stack a million displaced people,
Without bringing down the house of cards.
Show me the fountains pumping sea water,
You’ve drained from the lungs of refugee children.
Show me how you strip a culture of everything
And then then take it’s pride.
Show me the craftsmanship it takes,
To then banish that culture to…

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Trump Baby, by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

For Debasis Mukhopadhyay

Baby,
to scale sky, I will happily give you my breaths
take them baby and rise over English hedgerows where migrants nest safely
think of them as walls separating the otherworld to false heavens, cast the angels out.

Baby,
to scale palace, church, mosque, synagogue and the black honeycomb of Grenfell
think of these things as valuable as Lord Sugar tweets a joke you would love about Senegal.
Take all of these riches. our stars, the stripes of an airliner heading to Mexico, dusks blood anthem.

Baby,
There is a Nicaraguan man invading someone’s space in Camden Fried Chicken but its all good,
He was offered a seat by a Canadian woman and they really hit it off I think they’ll make love,
She will grab the back of his head and they will kiss like interracial humans and she will be with child.

Baby,
Let the…

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Intersectionality And The Black Poet, by Clara B. Jones

I am not a silent poet

“I think I’ll borrow from Walt Whitman here and say, ‘I contain multitudes.’ I write out of who I am, and who I am is a cis-hetero woman, a Caribbean native, an immigrant, a woman of color, a member of the African, Latino, and South Asian diasporas, a New Yorker, a lover of British crime dramas and ‘Doctor Who’, an Italian-speaker, etc., etc. The poems come out of all of me: I’m not black more than I’m a woman. I’m not a woman more than I’m an immigrant. I understand why people ask these types of questions, but I find them impossible to answer as it always makes me feel like I’m reducing myself somehow, slotting myself into a box. And if I select a particular identity, how do I prove it? Am I then supposed to write a certain way or have certain poetic heroes or write about…

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