ŷ������

“I held this girl in my arms
She wrapped her tiny fingers around mine.
It was then that I realized.
She was the fusion.
The glue.
The cement that bound all my pieces together.
The piece that seals my puzzle.
The piece that completes my life.
The element that makes me who I am.
Who I was.
Who I'll one day be.
You, baby girl.
You're my final piece.”
― Colleen Hoover, This Girl

“There are moments in every relationship that define when two people start to fall in love.
A first glance
A first smile
A first kiss
A first fall��
(I remove the Darth Vader house shoes from my satchel and look down at them.)
You were wearing these during one of those moments.
One of the moments I first started to fall in love with you.
The way you gave me butterflies that morning
Had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else,
and everything to do with you.
I was falling in love with you that morning
because of you.
(I take the next item out of the satchel. When I pull it out and look up, she brings her hands to her mouth in shock.)
This ugly little gnome
With his smug little grin��
He's the reason I had an excuse to invite you into my house.
Into my life.
You took a lot of aggression out on him over those next few months.
I would watch from my window as you would kick him over every time you walked by him.
Poor little guy.
You were so tenacious.
That feisty, aggressive, strong-willed side of you��.
The side of you that refused to take crap from this concrete gnome?
The side of you that refused to take crap from me?
I fell in love with that side of you
because of you.
(I set the gnome down on the stage and grab the CD)
This is your favorite CD
‘Layken’s shit.��
Although now I know you intended for shit to be possessive, rather than descriptive.
The banjo started playing through the speakers of your car
and I immediately recognized my favorite band.
Then when I realized it was your favorite band, too?
The fact that these same lyrics inspired both of us?
I fell in love with that about you.
That had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else.
I fell in love with that about you
because of you.
(I take a slip of paper out of the satchel and hold it up. When I look at her, I see Eddie slide her a napkin. I can’t tell from up here, but that can only mean she’s crying.)
This is a receipt I kept.
Only because the item I purchased that night was on the verge of ridiculous.
Chocolate milk on the rocks? Who orders that?
You were different, and you didn’t care.
You were being you.
A piece of me fell in love with you at that moment,
because of you.
This? (I hold up another sheet of paper.)
This I didn’t really like so much.
It’s the poem you wrote about me.
The one you titled 'mean?'
I don’t think I ever told you��
but you made a zero.
And then I kept it
to remind myself of all the things I never want to be to you.
(I pull her shirt from my bag. When I hold it into the light, I sigh into the microphone.)
This is that ugly shirt you wear.
It doesn’t really have anything to do with why I fell in love with you.
I just saw it at your house and thought I’d steal it.”
― Colleen Hoover, Point of Retreat

“(I pull the second to last item out of my bag. Her purple hair clip. She told me once how much it meant to her, and why she always keeps it.)
This purple hair clip?
It really is magic…just like your dad told you it was.
It’s magic because, no matter how many times it lets you down…you keep having hope in it.
You keep trusting it.
No matter how many times it fails you,
You never fail it.
Just like you never fail me.
I love that about you,
because of you.
(I set it back down and pull out a strip of paper and unfold it.)
Your mother.
(I sigh)
Your mother was an amazing woman, Lake.
I'm blessed that I got to know her,
And that she was a part of my life, too.
I came to love her as my own mom…just as she came to love Caulder and I as her own.
I didn’t love her because of you, Lake.
I loved her because of her.
So, thank you for sharing her with us.
She had more advice about
Life and love and happiness and heartache than anyone I've ever known.
But the best advice she ever gave me?
The best advice she ever gave us?
(I read the quote in my hands)
"Sometimes two people have to fall apart, to realize how much they need to fall back together."
(She’s definitely crying now. I place the slip back inside the satchel and take a step closer to the edge of the stage as I hold her gaze.)
The last item I have wouldn’t fit, because you’re actually sitting in it.
That booth.
You’re sitting in the exact same spot you sat in when you watched your first performance on this stage.
The way you watched this stage with passion in your eyes…I'll never forget that moment.
It's the moment I knew it was too late.
I was too far gone by then.
I was in love with you.
I was in love with you because of you.
(I back up and sit down on the stool behind me, still holding her stare.)
I could go on all night, Lake.
I could go on and on and on about all the reasons I'm in love with you.
And you know what? Some of them are the things that life has thrown our way.
I do love you because you're the only other person I know that understands my situation.
I do love you because both of us know what it's like to lose your mom and your dad.
I do love you because you're raising your little brother, just like I am.
I love you because of what you went through with your mother.
I love you because of what we went through with your mother.
I love the way you love Kel.
I love the way you love Caulder.
And I love the way I love Kel.
So I'm not about to apologize for loving all these things about you, no matter the reasons or the circumstances behind them.
And no, I don’t need days, or weeks, or months to think about why I love you.
It’s an easy answer for me.
I love you because of you.
Because of
every
single
thing
about you.”
― Colleen Hoover, Point of Retreat

“If I were on fire
who could I count on
to water me down?

If I were a pile of ashes
who could I count on
to gather me in a pretty urn?

If I were nothing but dust
would anyone chase the wind
trying to piece me back together?”
― Elizabeth Acevedo, The Poet X

“Write poorly.
Suck
Write awful
Terribly
Frightfully
Don't care
Turn off the inner editor
Let yourself write
Let it flow
Let yourself fail
Do something crazy
Write fifty thousand words in the month of
November.
I did it.
It was fun , it was insane , it was one thousand six
hundred and sixty-seven words a day.
It was possible.
But you have to turn off your inner critic.
Off completely.
Just write.
Quickly.
In bursts.
With joy.
If you can't write, run away for a few.
Come back.
Write again.
Writing is like anything else.
You won't get good at it immediately.
It's a craft, you have to keep getting better.
You don't get to Juilliard unless you practice.
If you want to get to Carnegie Hall, practice, practice, practice.
...Or give them a lot of money.
Like anything else, it takes ten thousand hours to master.
Just like Malcolm Gladwell says.
So write.
Fail.
Get your thoughts down.
Let it rest.
Let it marinate.
Then edit.
But don't edit as you type,
that just slows the brain down.
Find a daily practice,
for me it's blogging every day.
And it's fun.
The more you write, the easier it gets. The more it is a flow, the less a worry. It's not for school, it's not for a grade, it's just to get your thoughts out there.
You know they want to come out.
So keep at it. Make it a practice. And write poorly, write awfully, write with abandon and it may end up being
really
really
good. ”
― Colleen Hoover, Point of Retreat

“I want to feel like honey and trombones. I want to feel like honey and trombones”
― Anis Mojgani

“the world is being built up by greedy people wanting higher towers and then there’s a war or a hurricane or a tsunami or a virus or a financial collapse
happening
to put things in balance.
this has happened all through history and the humankind survives and moves on.
this is not an exception: this is a rule.
and you are not granted to stay here, that is not your right. you were handed a gift of walking here for a little while, breathing the air, feeling things, but did you say thank you? ever? or just took for granted, carried life like a burden and now you’re being angry because suddenly things outside of your control are threatening your peace?
why do you let your peace depend on things outside of your control in the first place?”
― Charlotte Eriksson

“For me the poem and the poetry open mic isn’t about competition and it never will be. Honestly? It's wrong. The open mic is about 1 poet, one fellow human being up on a stage or behind a podium sharing their work regardless of what form or style they bring to it. In other words? The guy with the low slam score is more than likely a far better poet-writer than the guy who actually won. But who are you? I ? Or really anyone else to judge them? The Poetry Slam has become an overgrown, over used monopoly on American literature and poetry and is now over utilized by the academic & public school establishments. And over the years has sadly become the "McDonalds Of Poetry". We can only hope that the same old stale atmosphere of it all eventually becomes or evolves into something new that translates to and from the written page and that gives new poets with different styles & authentic voices a chance to share their work too.”
― R.M. Engelhardt

“Welcome to America, a Wall Street Corporation
Where the stockholders are rich and own this nation
Where cubicle preparation masquerades as education
And people of color are guilty by association.”
― Justin Wetch, Bending The Universe

“Do not think about failure. Remember that even stars fall sometimes, and when they do people wish on them.”
― Maddie Godfrey

“give me my mother’s bone structure / & her gap tooth slaughter / give me her spine—Redbone got a spine for the world.”
― Mahogany L. Browne, Chrome Valley: Poems

“منتظراً، مثلكِ، وعداً من خلف البحرِ
ومنهمراً مثل الأمطارِ على بيروتَ،
وأقنعُ نفسي ألا ضير بقفزٍ من سطح الغيم إلى بئر الحب..
وأكتبُ: في موت القطراتِ حياةْ
كالموجِ أميلُ يساراً جهةَ القلبِ، أفكرُ أين سأصبح بعد كتابين من الآن،
أصوّرُ نفسي حتى لا أتصوّرُ نفسي من غير يديك وأحلمُ بالآتْ...
ضوءُ نهارٍ آخرَ فوق الشاطئ ماتْ
تنكسرُ على قدم المقهى أحلامُ البحرِ وأمواجُ العاشرِ من آذار... كما تنكسر على شفتي الكلماتْ
في آخرِ سطرٍ في دفتر هذي الليلةِ أكتبُ:
كفّاكِ سفينةُ نوحٍ...
صدركِ: ذهبُ الله الأبيضُ..
قلبكِ: كبريتٌ يشتعلُ جمالاً وطموحْ
شفتاكِ: عناقيدٌ تحلمُ أن تُعتصرَ نبيذاَ أبدياً...
وتُعتّق في خابيةِ الروحْ
هل قلتُ يداكِ سفينةُ نوحٍ..
نسيتُ التوضيح:
حياتي نوحْ...”
― Mahdi Mansour

“BELA NOĆ!

Ako nedeljom uveče umesto reprize Srećnih ljudi
stružem po plafonu opljačkane ludnice

ako za večeru progutam senku sijalice
ili namažem na hleb ono što je ostalo
između nožnih prstiju
čekajući gromove na Sinđelićevom trgu
da skinu me do pojasa
da promaše i udare u petočlanu porodicu bez plafona
//////////////////
tako je uvek i bilo
na omiljenoj slomljenoj klupi
probudim se u ponoć
dvoumim se sat vremena
pokupim te u pola dva ujutru
usput nekoliko praznih ambalaža
i betonskih jastuka sa Filmskih susreta

ruku pod ruku stisnem te
istresem te kao poslednji gutljaj
ispred zatvorene trafike

i 7 dana u sobi bez vazduha, jeftina isparenja
bez komšiluka, bez drugog dnevnika, kurve iz hodnika
bez dinara, praznika, kontrole, konduktera
7 dana bez signala i propuštenih poziva
samo fijuk ventilatora
morska so u bojleru
i upaljena ringla u mraku
//////////////
7 dana
dok nas ne probudi sirena za prestanak opasnosti
repriza Boljeg života
i krkljanje Srećnih ljudi
///////////////////////

okolo proleću bestseleri
sigurnosni pojasevi, ležeći policajci
okolo vetar gura kamion za pranje ulice
liže poklopce nagradne igre
koju šaht neće da proguta
i samo se grafiti guraju u liftu
dok poplava diže katance iz podruma
na osmi sprat, slušajući
kako udaraju nezatvoreni prozori

kako padaju mesečne kartice
cegeri, štipaljke i kineske lutke
pod muzikom crnih ptica
proleću sniženja iz mesare
SNS članske karte
nasmejani posteri, prekrštene ruke
kuponi narodne kuhinje
pod muzikom crnih ptica
na omiljenoj slomljenoj klupi
gledam kako seva iza brda

bela noć čupa granje RTS-a
prašina i lišće u hodnicima ugašenog televizora
(počinje prava vremenska prognoza)
////////////////

oohh, kako volim ponoć u sobi bez vazduha
apokaliptične uspavanke

oohhhhh dolaze, kao krv crveni
brutalni anđeli, paganski anđeli
jeftino pivo, žestina, jeftina isparenja
nebeskih kontejnera...
u sobi bez vazduha draga”
― Goran Živković, Psihoslajdovi

“KAKO JE ISUS POSTAO AUTOSTOPER

za dve, tri decenije, ili par godina ranije
biće nebitno �� da li je crveno na semaforu
crveno na kalendaru ili prestupna godina
za dve tri decenije, ili par sati nakon toga
biće nebitno �� da li je Isus u crkvi, ili u menjačnici

Grad će ustati kao šuma
koja probija plafone tržnog centra
Grad će se prohodati kao korenje
koje razdvaja zebre i trotoare
koje diže asfalt, penje se na semafore
spušta se niz ivičnjake
i grize izolaciju atomskih skloništa

Grad će mirisati kao second hand u zoološkom vrtu
Grad će udahnuti kremirano porodilište

i ostaće samo mast na dnu glasačke kutije
i kosti sa biračkih spiskova da pošalju razglednice
za preostale predsednike i njihove ozračene unuke
dok kupuju svemirske deonice i radioaktivne sanduke
jednog ponedeljka, ili utorka ujutru
Grad će poslati preostalu novorođenčad
da raste i ljulja se ispod naftnih platformi na mesecu

ostaće samo žiro-računi na dnu mora, i potomci berze
da kupuju bazene, tobogane i armaturu
za javne kuće na Merkuru

i preživeće samo barut i poternice
najgladnije bespilotne letilice
hiljade spomenika obezglavljenih idola
milijarde lajkova i bubašvaba
u zajedničkoj grobnici
bar-kodova i sigurnosnih kamera
preživeće samo divlje cveće
koje raste na deponiji androida
jednog četvrtka posle ručka

na portirnici gradske opštine, parking mestu za invalide
ispod oglasa za slobodna radna mesta
na terasi skupštine, hodnicima gradske kuće
u kupatilu gradonačelnika

���貹����ć��mo mirno i udojeno �� kao demografska bomba

iza blindiranog stakla menjačnice, u pisoarima noćnih klubova
na pokretnim trakama fabrike kablova
na pragu milicije, kancelarijama komunalnog preduzeća
u slivnicima javnog toaleta, u redovima supermarketa
na poslužavnicima ekspres-restorana
u kolicima saniteta, na crvenom tepihu Univerziteta

na recepciji toponice, renoviranim šalterima
pošte i distribucije
pekarskim pećima i policama, u bolničkim krevetima
iza vatrogasnih kamiona i garaža
otvorenih kredita i trezora
iza vrata automata za kafu
���貹����ć��
najlepši insekti
nezaposleni glodari
zaljubljene škorpije
krvoločne ovce
pitomi vukovi
i armije ptica grabljivica
mirno i udojeno

a ti draga

ti ćeš biti poslednji obrok dugačke crne kose
u ljubičastom somotu
šetaćeš svoju kilometarsku haljinu u talasima
zemljom koja guta bilborde
kroz zelenilo koje grize asfalt i narasta semafore

šetaćeš kroz šiblje i rastinje
koje obara svetleće reklame farmacije
i žvaće prazne bensedine
u prevrnutom kombiju hitne pomoći
sakrićeš ključeve
svojih velikih kapija Mašinske industrije
urasle u koru drveća

ključeve, koje će dobiti oni
koji stoje na litici hotela ’Ambasador��

mirni, kao lavovi od kamena
hrabri, kao veliko i ranjeno srce
Isusove poternice...”
― Goran Živković, Psihoslajdovi

“A poet if anything must be a poet and far more than just a writer of words. The poet is the storyteller, the shaman, the jester and the rogue. The poet lives in the world of language and imagination, love, death & obsession and yet still sees the universe in the smallest of everyday things that we merely take for granted.”
― R.M. Engelhardt, The Resurrection Waltz

“سيستغرق الجرح وقتاً ليكتشف الليل حزن القمرْ��
هنا الأرض أضيق من رغبتي بالبكاء،
وهذي السماء،على الرغم من كل بهجتها في المساء��
ورغم اتساع المدى واخضرار الشجرْ��
عروقيَ خيطان طائرةً في بلادي،
وقلبي حجرْ��
دعيني أصدّق عينيك يا حلوتي،
كلّ من كان خان،
دعيني أصدق أنّ يديك اهتدائي الأخير إلى لغتي الواعدةْ��
دعيني أفسر جوع العصافير وهي تحوم على سورة المائدةْ!
دعيني أفكر بي، وبنا، وبمن قال إن الهويات نصلٌ بأحلامنا الهامدةْ��
لماذا تظل البلاد التي عذبتنا طويلاً ندوباً بأرواحنا الباردةْ؟
وهل نحن نرحل ما دام تبقى البيوت ثقوباً بأجسادنا الشاردةْ!
لقد قطّعتنا البلاد إلى حطب من رحيلٍ،
وقد أحرقتنا اشتياقاً،
لماذا تحنّ الغصون إلى الريح والشجرة الجاحدة؟
ولماذا
على غرقٍ أبيض حين أكتب
أسكب كل القصائد
في دمعة واحدةْ؟”
― Mahdi Mansour

“الأدراج: قصائد المدن نحو معانيها العالية��

على أيّ درب أواعدُ عينيكِ...
والأمنيات ثكالى
وكلّ الدروبِ بلا آخرِ...
تعبنا نفتّش عن حلمٍ واحدٍ للبقاء..
فلمْ تلتفت نجمةٌ في الحنين إلى غربةِ العابرِ
نُسينا وحيدين حتى تقاسَمنا الوجدُ والطارئون
فما همَّ من باع عهد الضياع ومن يشتري
وصافحني سيف هذا الرحيل..
وقد كنت غمداً أصيلاً
فلم أخسر العنفوانَ ولم تخسري”
― Mahdi Mansour

“ما من مكان سكنته إلا وسكنني..
�� أشعر أني مدينة ...”
― Mahdi Mansour

“في حضنها كن ندى.. كن غيمةً... مطرا��
واغمض يديك على نيرانها لترى
لن تفهم الحب، حاول إن وقعت به
أن تفهم الفأس لا أن تفهم الشجرا...
ولا تفكّر كثيراً، دع غداً لغدٍ
كن عاشقاً، أجمل الأغصان ما انكسرا

خف من بقائكما لا من رحيلكما
لن تحبس الريح مهما تحبس الوترا
لا ورد يملك عطراً، وهو يسكنه
والليل مهما سرى لن يملك القمرا
دعها تحبك... دعها أن تحب... غداً
يبقى من العمر... حبّ كان... وانتثرا...”
― Mahdi Mansour

“كلّ سهمٍ في أضلعي وفؤادي
جاء ممّن أحبّهم يا بلادي..”
― Mahdi Mansour

“Men, who are more likely to punish you for an abortion
than they are for sexual assault
But if they see the procedure
To be the murderer of a baby inside of a woman
Then tell me.
When a girl gets raped, is the child inside her not dying too?

-Barbie, poem by”
― Demetri Manabat

“The ongoing problem with most American poetry & poets today is their lack of belief in themselves & that they don't expand upon their ideals or experiment enough with their craft. That's why we are all stuck in the same old literary grind & groove still pushing out old ideas, listening to ridiculous banter of egotistical critics & still worshipping the old schools & movements of long past yesterdays from decades ago. Dead icons, dead ideas, dead slams and an established academic system that's biased and too busy promoting all the cliche events that they believe are all about community but mainly promoting their own of which are not open to all poets without degrees but mostly only to students & the inner sanctum. Poetry is for everyone and it needs a new vision of our times. The 21st century. The majority of poets who are producing new & original works are being ignored. Poetry should be independent and free of bias and uncategorized.

Workshops or classes are not the solution.”
― R.M. Engelhardt, R A W: POEMS R.M. ENGELHARDT