Her black glove is flying across downtown.
“A crow!” they shouted. “A crow is attacking Eiffel Tour!”
...cry of a rooster/the goat is smiling...
She knows/He knows.
“Purple and white, of course!”
A wedding for a happy end.
A picture for a wedding.
The glove has no wing.
Just a small hole through
thick and thin.
Kept especially for the sixth finger.
my hands are freezing
unlike the river flowing through me
pebbles and lava
fire and hell
sliding from one heart chamber
to the next
a snake
melting all that I am
in its way
my hands are freezing
you hold them
too tight perhaps
and
I can’t stop thinking
that there’s nothing
colder
than my hands
right now
but your gaze
The National Poetry Competition has been one of Britain's top single poem competitions since 1978. It is judged by a new set of judges each year, and all poems are made anonymous before they are judged. The National Poetry Competition is organised by the Poetry Society, one of Britain's most dynamic arts organisations, representing poetry both nationally and internationally.
je dessine lentement mon amour
au temps des bateaux de pêche de l’île
vers des royaumes aveugles
telle la tendresse perdue de ton corps
respirant encore sous ma peau
la colère des dieux entre les murs du Parnasse
la sécheresse des mots
Comentarii aleatorii