Short dating poems
Some poetry is intricately shaped, is allusive and difficult and associative and full of serious depth. This is contemporary, relatively plain-speaking and about surfaces. Magma’s 2017/18 poetry competitions are now open for your prize-winning long and short poems.
We are very excited to announce that award-winning poet Mona Arshi is the judge for the Judge’s Prize for poems of 11 to 50 lines and she will…
Back home, Keats' maternal grandmother turned over control of the family's finances, which was considerable at the time, to a London merchant named Richard Abbey.
His mother, Frances, seemed to have launched a series of missteps and mistakes after her husband’s death; she quickly remarried and just as quickly lost a good portion of the family's wealth.
After her second marriage fell apart, Frances left the family, leaving her children in the care of her mother.
There’s nothing wrong with being innocent or high minded But I’m glad you’re not.5. And eyes big love-crumbs,and possibly i like the thrillof under me you so quite new7. ”As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.8. When you’re in a long-term relationship and you’re stressed and have maybe forgotten how exquisite your partner is.“Hand Games” by Marge Piercy Mostly the television is onand the washer is running and the kettleshrieks it’s boiling while the telephonerings.
When you are in the first blush of love and you want to shout it from the rooftops.“Steps" by Frank O’Haraoh god it’s wonderfulto get out of bedand drink too much coffeeand smoke too many cigarettesand love you so much6. When you find yourself thinking, “You know, there really aren’t enough poems about blow jobs.”“The Platonic Blow” W. Auden I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow, And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue. When you’re a queer gal who is tired of people asking you how “lesbian sex” works."Haiku" by Anna Pulley (Shameless plug! Mostly we are worrying aboutthe fuel bill and how to pay the taxesand whether the diet is workingwhen the moment of vulnerabilitylights on the nose like a blue mothand flitters away through clouds of mosquitoesand the humid night. I hate them as I hate sex,the man’s mouthsealing my mouth, the man’sparalyzing body—and the cry that always escapes,the low, humiliatingpremise of union—In my mind tonight I hear the question and pursuing answerfused in one soundthat mounts and mounts and thenis split into the old selves,the tired antagonisms.