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English poetry

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I don’t want a medal I don’t want a ribbon I just want to buy an old grand piano For $20 And paint it bright yellow. I’d drag it into my living room Our living room And live there forever With you (By Empris' Durden)

Contributed by Empriś Durden

Every collection of my poems is inspired by a single powerful image The warm glow of a beloved An ethereal hill looking out over the Hamarikyu Gardens in Tokyo, Japan A grand piano painted bright yellow

Contributed by Empriś Durden

I wonder what the poets cut out of famous poems

Contributed by Empriś Durden

I don’t celebrate July 4 (by Empris' Durden) If I was alive on July 4, 1776 I would not be free, I would not be independent I would not be American. Another day Another celebratory rape by my master Maybe an extra bit of food from the table Maybe a song from the slave minstrel Maybe nicer treatment from The drunken, newly independent owners of our bodies Another tear on my father’s cheek Another lash on my brother’s back They don’t own our dreams

Contributed by Empriś Durden

Fireworks pop and fade against the night sky I always stare at those chemical remnants against the black Those falling spindly lines that don’t even hint At the electrical brilliance that preceded them (by Empris' Durden)

Contributed by Empriś Durden

No history books for coloreds By Empris' Durden I don’t like dates I see history more as a linear, bloodied mess of events Rather than neat cartoon pinpoints On a timeline Of my colorful book of US history The colorful, smiling book That has no room for coloreds With its page of venerated Painted portraits Of dignified, respected racists I mean presidents No justice for dark people No history for the darkies In between the endless lines They make me memorize The endless lines Of lies

Contributed by Empriś Durden

I don’t celebrate July 4 By Empris' Durden They call me African American More polite than Black But I never learned about the African And I’m never treated like a full American

Contributed by Empriś Durden

At the End. By Empris' Durden At the End, No words matter. Pompous or valiant, Desperate or sneering, Wails or silent tears, It lies. At the End, No matter what flag, No matter what god, No matter what goal, It still lies. At the End, The breath escapes, To be inhaled by a child, Or absorbed by a leaf. And the corpse lies alone, At the End.

Contributed by Empriś Durden

Charred Bodies By Empris' Durden Charred bodies litter streets, ‘cause their vote didn’t count. “It’s too far away.” Yellowed signs stand out on the black pavement, Wrists bob “What’s one vote?” The red Nigerian sun does not relent, And they march on. “Pick from who? “The rich and the wealthy?” “The liar and the adulterer? “The white man and the light man? The President is announced, They punch their brothers, And themselves. As if their ballots counted. Charred bodies litter streets, ‘cause they never even tried. Works Cited Gambrell, Jon. “Charred Bodies Line Road to Nigeria Town After Riots Sweep Region After Presidential Vote.” 19 April 2011. Web. 12 May 2011. www.newser.com- after-riots-sweep-region-after-presidential-vote.html.

Contributed by Empriś Durden

Life is Good. by Empris' Durden I was feeling really down, 'til a wise, white-haired, Mario of a doctor told me, "Seize the day, life is good." I was feeling really friendless, 'til a tall, smiling girl, with everything to lose shared her sandwich secrets and company with me.

Contributed by Empriś Durden