Search Results • Categories:
By Vincent Toro
A lung lit like diesel
is not fable or fodder.
Is not sewage siphoned from stern
and starboard. Cuffs, not slapdash plums
plunge from your garden
By Leslie Anne Mcilroy
(1) to form by heating and hammering; beat into shape, as in the child’s back
burning, shoulders of flame, ribs of shame till she is no longer what she
was, but what you want her to be; 2) to form or make, especially by
concentrated effort, as in pride, see the girl, my girl, take credit, look what I
By Kazumi Chin
The very last mammoth was just like the others,
except more lonely. The very last tortilla chip
makes me feel guilty.The very last line
of the poem changes everything about
By Fatimah Asghar
The names of my family members swirl
like dust in my lungs. I try to write about birds
& only pull from my pen animal skin.
My bones alive & a lament of dignified grief
By Ellen McGrath Smith
I wanted bad to advance to Washington, D. C.
I wanted to be anyone but me.
The nun who had trained me for the spelling bee
needed a ride, and I was so worried all the way across town
By Cornelius Eady
Cornelius Eady performs the poem "My Body Elizabeth" at the 2010 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Martín Espada
Martín Espada performs the poem "Alabanza" at the 2010 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Kim Roberts
Kim Roberts performs the poem "The International Fruit of Welcome" at the 2012 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Naomi Shihab Nye
Naomi Shahib Nye performs the poems "My Father, on dialysis" and "Shoulders" at the 2012 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Marilyn Nelson
Marilyn Nelson performs the poem "Millie Christine" at the 2012 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.