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Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands...
Naomi Shahib Nye, a Palestinian American poet, and I, a Jewish American rabbi, come from completely different cultures. But we’re both children of parents and parents of children,...
"Come with me. I'll teach you the flowers and the stars."
[…] The post Ruth, Naomi, Mara, Maror, Meir and Elisha ben Abuyah appeared first on Jewish Journal.
What does it mean that I am here, arranging words about kisses and tenderness and the ache of wanting someone who is not in the room, while the world outside refuses to stop burn...
For Omani multilingual poet Lubna al Balushi, poetry is not confined by geography or language. Writing in Arabic, English, German and Balochi, the poet is increasingly finding inte...
My throat is warm, but I have no interest in singing. Pomegranates gleam but are too difficult to peel. And I have never liked henna. The post Poem: Tanha Shudam appeared first o...
A personal reflection on arriving in a new country and discovering its diversity, opportunities, and challenges. <p>The post My way to see: A poem to America first appeared o...
Now, we have found ourselves falling into a silence only familiar with those accustomed to their new homes in graves. Only if the sun rises at a particular angle does the bed, ev...
Abhi (i) Why? Why didn’t you whisper goodbye into the hollow of my leaving, before sending me off like wind through an open door? Why? Why didn’t you leave me a sign— a flicker,...
“Don’t fret about / the champagne-glass / neck. / Drink champagne.”
“Mankind doesn’t seem to care / But this bullet is crying. / Because of all the killing / it has to take part in.”
At the barber shop, the barber asks where I come from. I say “Kenya.” He nods politely and drapes a shawl around my shoulders. I want him to ask another question. Which part of K...
Statistics about depression, mental health, and screen time cause concern for young people along with older people’s judgment that “today’s generation doesn’t read or doesn’t care....
I am of heavy feet, dragging across vast lands. I am of restless people, who do not sleep, even in stillness, even in peace. The post Poem: Diasporic Dreaming appeared first...
I carried the moon until the salt burned, my eyes....
yemenat يمنات زاهر الأسعد – فلسطين تتأمل الآن كفيك حيث يباغت النور عتمة المسام لا لترقب أثر السقوط بل لتبصر كيف ملأتَ الفراغ بصمتك وكيف استحال الجلد الذي جرحته الريح مقاماً يقطر ند...
Heaven Being All Ice Now, Sing Me, Sister, Your Little Song of Fire I.The green bùbá of my country feltsilly in that spectral white of heaven. But it wasall Border Control would al...
they don’t make poems for girls like methe ones who laugh too loud and cry quietlythe ones who love like it’ll save the worldbut pretend they don’t care when it hurtsi’m not the ty...
The poet joins Kevin Young to read and discuss “The Schoolroom on the Second Floor of the Knitting Mill,” by Judy Page Heitzman, and her own poem “Mami at Her Vanity.”
To write a poem, Then Craft a sentence, Then Utter a word, Oh, and to Cook a full meal, Then Butter toast, Then Hold a spoon, And also to Run, Then Walk, Then Crawl, But for the jo...
“What will I give you now / for your thoughts.”
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