BLACK RIDERS BY STEPHEN CRANE


Black riders came from the sea.
There was clang and clang of spear and shield,
And clash and clash of hoof and heel,
Wild shouts and the wave of hair
In the rush upon the wind:
Thus the ride of sin.

KNIGHT RIDER BY STEPHEN CRANE


Fast rode the knight
With spurs, hot and reeking,
Ever waving an eager sword,
"To save my lady!"
Fast rode the knIght,
And leaped from saddle to war.
Men of steel flickered and gleamed
Like riot of silver lights,
And the gold of the knight's good banner
Still waved on a castle wall.
. . . . .
A horse,
Blowing, staggering, bloody thing,
Forgotten at foot of castle wall.
A horse
Dead at foot of castle wall.


There was crimson clash of war.


Lands turned black and bare;
Women wept;
Babes ran, wondering.
There came one who understood not these things.
He said, "Why is this?"
Whereupon a million strove to answer him.
There was such intricate clamour of tongues,
That still the reason was not.


Born Nov. 1,1871 in Newark, New Jersey, Stephen Crane was the 14th son and youngest child of a Methodist minister. His father J..T. Crane authored a number of books including Popular Amusements (1869) and Arts of Intoxication (1870) which generally addressed moral and ecclestical issues of the day. Stephen's mother, Mary Helen Peck Crane was an active participant in the temprance movement of the 1870s and 80s.

I like these poems because they both are relevant to something like war. They both have gore and is describing something used in war. Stephen Crane is a strong writer and expresses the greek.





Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

To my verses written so early,
As I did not know, that I am a poet,
Broken, as sparks from a fountain,
As sparks from rockets,

Rushed as small draw,
In a sanctuary, where a dream and an incense,
To my verses on a youth and death,
- нечитанным to verses!-

Scattered in a dust on shops
(Where nobody took them and does not take!),
To my verses, as to precious faults,
The turn will come.


You walk, and look like me...



You walk, and look like me,
Your eyes directed down.
I also used to lower mine!
Hey you, passer by, stop!

Read-when you've gathered
A bouquet of buttercups and poppies,
That I was called Marina
And how old I was.

Don't think that this is a grave,
That I will appear,scary...
I myself loved too much
To laugh, when I shouldn't have!

And the blood would come to my face
And my hair was curly...
You passer by, I also was!
You passer by, stop!

Break yourself off a wild stem
And after it a berry,-
No wild strawberry is larger or sweeter
Than one from a graveyard.

Only don't stand gloomily,
Dropping your head on your chest,
Think about me easily,
As easily then forget!

How the sun's ray shines upon you!
You're all covered in golden dust...
-Don't let it disturb you,
My voice from underground


Tryst

In a world where all
Are hunched and lathered
I know only one
Equal to me in strength.

In a world where we
Seek so much,
I know only one
Equal to me in might.

In a world where everything
Is mold and vines,
I know: only
You are equal in essence

To me.



Marina Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow.Tsvetaeva started to write verse in her early childhood. She made her debut as a poet at the age of 18 with the collection Evening Album, a tribute to her childhood. In 1912 Tsvetaeva married Sergei Efron, they had two daughters and one son.
After 1917 Revolution Tsvetaeva was trapped in Moscow for five years. During the famine one of her own daughters died of starvation. In exile Tsvetaeva felt more and more isolated. Friendless and almost destitute she returned to the Soviet Union in 1938, where her son and husband already lived. Next year her husband was executed and her daughter was sent to a labor camp. Tsvetaeva was officially ostracized and unable to publish. After the USSR was invaded by German Army in 1941, Tsvetaeva was evacuated to the small provincial town of Elabuga with her son. In despair, she hanged herself ten days later on August 31, 1941.

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva is a russian poet. I like her because some of her poems relate to her life and she had a struggling life. Therefore it makes her poetic view interesting to me.





Kojo Baffoe


Thin line


if i had you tattoed on my chest

could i sharpen
the blade of my anger
on your face
adding tears drapped in red

could i stick
pins in you
like a voodoo doll
as my screams
vibrate off your navel

could i carve
my name into your skin
bonding us
for eternity

could i engrave
my likeness on your pupils
ensuring that your eyes
are devoted
solely to me

could i lick
your eyelids shut
sealing them
with my anger’s breath

could i scrape
you off my skin
when i feel
like being alone

could i ….

the unborn

the beautiful ones are not yet born
foregoing birth for their place in the stars

the beautiful ones are not yet born
foregoing birth for their place at god’s left hand

the beautiful ones reside in the space
between heaven and mars
replacing time with time
to create more time

they are today’s tomorrow
constructing galaxies with a single thought
designing blank spaces with angel dust
sculpting meteors into statuesque symbols of life
planning lifetimes built on incomplete memories
dancing to the rhythm of mankind’s heartbeat
and the sounds of millions of earthly children
stomping their feet

the beautiful one
are the distant thoughts
and cold shivers

they are lovers’ smiles
fingers gently intertwined
voices interwoven in song
toes curled in ecstacy

they are the nourishment
that feeds the minds of greatness
the fire that fuels the passion of heroes

they are courage
determination
dedication
creativity
possibility

they are all that has passed
and all that is yet to come

and they are we
the beautiful ones in waiting
the beautiful ones of yesterday and tomorrow
the beautiful ones yet to be be


possessed


in the shadow of death
i taste innocence
change skins
and shed past sins

in the shadow of death
i live in the place
that everyone
wants to call home
and all i want to do
is go home
where boundaries stretch
into a time warp

in the shadow of death
i stare at the sun
pondering the meaning
of love and life
and get blinded
by the uncompromising glare

in the shadow of death
i, the dreamer
dream on
while the moon sings
silent lullabies
and martyrs are lulled
gently to sleep











Born in Germany to a Ghanaian father and German mother, he spent his formative years playing in the streets of Maseru, Lesotho, and eventually completed his A Levels / International Baccalaureate at Machabeng High School.

Plagued with typical adolescent drama, he found solace in the blank page, starting off with the usual ramblings and somehow stumbled into poetry, thereby saving on therapy fees.

After high school in 1990, he went off to Germany for a year, to find his Germanic roots, as a Rotary Exchange Student, which he followed up with three years at the University of Natal – Durban, Bachelor of Commerce majoring in Economics, Marketing and Business Administration. At this stage, poetry continued to be a release from day-to-day trivialities, protectively shared with only close friends and family.

Kojo then returned home to Lesotho where he worked in the family business, including economic and management consulting, information technology, hair product retailing and publishing. In 1998, he started to build relationships, business and personal, in Johannesburg, and with the emergence of a minute poetry movement in 2000, Kojo started performing at the traditional, smoke-filled, arty venues in Johannesburg.


Kojo is a African poet i chose