Category: بین الاقوامی ادب International Literature

Badu: This cyclone of good fortune.  You handling?  Kendrick:  Happy  blessing myself.  graduated,  struggle come big far a blur . Problem is my bubble.   Tell me “You’re crazy  by yourself,” “Kendrick” I’m in my own world. let everything consume me. The other end, has a conception of who what comes from me, from within no matter passing or playing ball. Was a hole building up for this pen,   I wanted to be the best so I’m taking it.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.     It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;     It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;     And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;     And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.   And for all this, nature is never spent;     There lives…

Once & could-be-future girl, believe we’re not like you. Sure, the pickup was tucked in dusk, shed all carefree w/ its sunburn shimmer. Still nothing new to say about the creek, how reeds get moony, or when we saw pelicans hold hands & gossip. But y’all must wanna get this close to soft, so here goes: spool heels, silver sleeves w/ pink accents, kind to stifle the trailer static, same color Dot says Granny passed in. Past since good & we did keep her pearls for you, kissed the hems…

Ashglory behind your shaken-knotted hands at the threeway. Pontic erstwhile: here, a drop, on the drowned rudder blade, deep in the petrified oath, it roars up. (On the vertical breathrope, in those days, higher than above, between two painknots, while the glossy Tatarmoon climbed up to us, I dug myself into you and into you.) Ash- glory behind you threeway hands. The cast-in-front-of-you, from the East, terrible. No one bears witness for the witness. 

O tan-faced prairie-boy, Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift, Praises and presents came and nourishing food, till at last among the recruits, You came, taciturn, with nothing to give – we but look’d on each other, When lo! more than all the gifts of the world you gave me.

The wind ain’t never been nothing but breath. Every hurricane season—rhapsody—Black bodies emerge from water and wake  in the trees. Somewhere, stone cracks, and we hear: Stacy, a surname left like a charred femur after a ritual. In search of the Wards among a field of graves, I see the shadows of bones and bodies. I watch as the caretaker hacks at the plants trying to steal a grave, pull it below the high water table—they wanted the bones. Here, the dead swim among the living. They gather in the water welling beneath…