In our increasingly disposable culture, poetry waves the flag of permanence. It musters memory towards the onslaughts of ephemera.if tomorrow’s black poetry will likely not Demonstrate what exactly is but BE it then pens will probably be electric with emotion igniting and the paper shall turn out to be the poet along with the poets shall be earth
Black is the color of my tiny brother’s mind, the gray streaks in my mother’s hair. Black is the colour of my yellow cousin’s smile, the scards upon my neighbor’s wrinkled deal with…C. Michael Curtis, a senior editor at The Atlantic Regular, reported he considers Epoch "one of the leading literary Publications during the country regarding
Black is the color of my little brother’s head, the grey streaks in my mother’s hair. Black is the color of my yellow cousin’s smile, the scards on my neighbor’s wrinkled encounter……we go to satisfy the realization of makers knowing who we've been …knowing how to live, and what daily life is… …we have to spin via our seventh adven