Best poem for relaxation in 2021

Best poem for relaxation in 2021

 

groceries on the moon

Meera Dasgupta

“The emptiness of space is a blank slate, offering us the opportunity to start over, on an endless canvas that can support our continuous cycle of learnings and failings.”
―Aneesh Abraham, Super Dense Crush Load: The Story of Man Redux


$2.00 – oxygen
$3.99 – H2O
$0.99 – space rocks
$15.00 – daylight

and so they bound towards the sun. my
to-do becomes an orbital body amongst
cosmic spaceships. the list lets loose like
an old flag on mars.

II.

we like to believe in alternate realities.
that behind every black hole is another boy joyriding
a shopping cart through aisle fifteen. a mother
pulling her son away from the shelves of produce.
how she bargains breath for their safe passage
through a jettison of asteroids. from the ground,
we wish upon them like shooting stars.

there is a strength in numbers. i want to climb orion’s
belt to see if there is a kingdom on the other side.
if there is a god managing the checkout line from behind a
curtain of satellites where thousands of heroes whisper
the show must go on.

i wonder if there is an icarus pulling a sort of gravity from the
moon as he falls. a single father against an empire.
born of a half-life and shipwrecks. he leaps off of the edge
of the universe into an ocean. here the heavens call to
him. find me. find us. find you. find you.

III.

i do not remember a great white before. i do not
remember mother banging the door straight off the
hinges for the neighbor’s potpourri or when she put
her hands on her hips and swore to turn on the damn
lights. i do not remember the beginning. i do not
remember floating or saturn saying i do.

somewhere, man bought the moon
and got a supermarket on a pockmarked
plain. a tower of vegetables for a sale price
of 1.99. and an automated speaker system
screeching melodies into a vacuum.

here, silence becomes a microphone
in the dark. the fridges gleam like the
cold comets of space blinking back at each
other in the moments between celestial
explosions.

they become an eye at the center of the
universe. here, we can bargain with the
sky.

Meera Dasgupta is the 2020 United States youth poet laureate. Born in Queens, she is a senior at Stuyvesant High School, 2020 United Nations Global Goals ambassador, Climate Speaks winner, and more.


Poem of Blood*

Mahogany L. Browne

The first to go are your breasts
Hanging like sandbags
Sad & remembering who they used to be

The way a wind chime whistle
can sound like a refrain: stay home, daughter

No one wants to talk
About a woman’s body during a disaster
Like she’s the disaster
Walking & moving slow toward the sun

They rather talk about the things they can’t want
to change until it’s voting season, or tax season or killing season

Extra Extra!
Another black girl is forgotten ’til dust
The poets only remember her boyfriend’s name
Or her brother’s shoe size
they only remember the black girl body
after she is gone

The pastor reads from Genesis
we nod
pay tithes
pass the plate
& erase her initials from
the scoreboard

Even the black feminist forgets she was once a girl child
She closes her eyes & calls her son Prophet

Tells Prophet to never trust women
Then twists his dreads w/homemade beeswax
Her fingers cracked like stomped earth
Her scalp tingling w/bad news
& the news say
a disaster is coming
call it Irma, Katrina, Rona

America got
a penchant for baby’s breath & blood milk
But the blocks still hot in Brooklyn
& the nannies still push strollers full of babies they ain’t birth
Cause the Governor warns stay home
But the landlord echoes rent due

Go head America
wreak havoc on the plantation
& charge the sharecropper to remove the sewage

Stay safe
Stay home?

Or

watch the next internet sensation
rely on old hip-hop t-shirts
& yoga pants while
Lizzo teaches her how to be human

Yo
even the trees look at black bodies like
Welcome back

& the baby in the stroller ain’t heard this lullaby
since they dreamt Similac
brown organic raw sugar go for double the price
@ whole foods

get in line
6 feet, fam
don’t sleep, fam

Paychecks from the government
courtesy of the taxes already paid three times the amount
since the last two runs around this weak ass moon

Gil Scott Heron was right
Here we all smack slapped
against the light of a smudged badge #
glint my eyes
Flint in my sky

Everybody wants my census report
but don’t nobody want to give me healthcare

The water got blood in it
the trees got a memory
my city ain’t on fire
but the fog is heavy
each building swaddled in grey shit
that make us sick
cover your mouth
cover your nose
stay inside
stay home
or be run over
& up on by the white woman who walks her dogs
so close you can hear what she’s thinking

6 feet who?
the neighbors don’t see me
but the broken man on the corner do

My breasts, old with age
they sag like my spirit

He timberland boot & black mask bark
he play brave
stomp his feet
& take up more sidewalk
than there is concrete

He howls at the sky
like it ain’t 12pm
like we ain’t in a crisis
his eyes dart from my chest to my cheeks
but I’m an old broad now
& I got plenty of anger to lend

The days have bled from two weeks
’til forever
& I got blood on my mind
I dare him one time
kiss my teeth loud
then dare him w/the clearing my throat
it sounds like a funeral
it distracts him from the sound of key rings
turning into knuckle rings

But he knows the different between frail & feral

He replaces his mask
corks his speech
& lets me pass
an unhinged door on tilt
O can you hear the wind sing?

so close to death, so close to life,
little water, little daughter,
come home

*This is inspired by Sonia Sanchez’ untitled haiku: “Come windless invader. I am a carnival of. Stars a poem of blood.”

Mahogany L. Browne is a writer, organizer, educator, and the executive director of Bowery Poetry Club and poetry coordinator at St. Francis College. She is the author of several books, including the new novel Chlorine Sky (Crown Books for Young Readers), published in January. (Copyright 2021 by Mahogany L. Browne.)


Eternity

Alex Dimitrov

The light before noon and what it does to the mind.

How you leaned against doors at parties, cried in bodegas,
read bathroom graffiti and did not ask for help.

Some nights Second Avenue seemed to go on forever.
Some nights above a bar there was a plane that felt right.

When you stood in parking lots, under the moon
you went silent.

You thought about chance. History.
How cruel it is to be anyone.

“You know,” a friend told you,
“we can talk about the past

but it’s another country
without one way to get there.”

Maybe that’s easy.
You’ve seen what fog does to bridges.

Maybe you forgot you could do anything before death.

Alex Dimitrov is the author of three books of poems, including Love & Other Poems (Copper Canyon Press), which will be published in February. He lives in New York.


Poem for a New Year

Patty Crane

Glinting shards of dropped branch-ice
litter the white ground under the maples,

each glassy fragment containing
its unique memory of tree,
that, as the day warms, thins and spreads

into a gleaming tangle of light,
a crazed mirror held up to the future.

Hope isn’t anyone’s to give.
It has to be found.
And I come out here to find it,

to take each moment as it comes.
A kind of borrowing.

A lone mourning dove arrives
in the smoky-blue sky of its feathers,
and lands, slender as a cupped hand,

among the seeds scattered on the stone walkway,
its faint tracks in the snow-dust—briefly mine.

Patty Crane is the author of Bell I Wake To (Zone 3 Press, 2019), something flown (Concrete Wolf, 2018), and Bright Scythe (Sarabande Books, 2015), her translation of poems by Swedish Nobel laureate Tomas Tranströmer.

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