POETS OF TOMORROW

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Comment by keith williams on December 24, 2008 at 3:11pm

BEAUTIFUL POETRY SAFIYA

Comment by Safiya Rehema on December 24, 2008 at 3:02pm

So often I hear people from the west or the so called first world belittle the rest of the world, their cultures or customs. When I here that i am almost positive they have never ventured out of this bubble of national superiority.

What a pity.

Comment by Safiya Rehema on December 24, 2008 at 2:58pm

<<i>b>SOUTH OF HERE

The Southern hemisphere is my heart's home.
Its sparse landscapes
Its hot and passionate
Its bold and unforgiving,
It's often uncultivated
Its people browned by the sun's constant rays
and pungent with the earth's fragrances.

My heart dwells in its ocean coves, on humid mountain peaks
over vast desserts.

I do not weep for the Northern hemisphere.

Its cultivated landscapes
Its cold and reserved
Its leach like soul sucking
its cultured nothingness
Its people pale by constantly raining thoughts
and pungent with rotting hearts.

I weep for the South. It is my heart's home

Comment by Silvia Brandon Perez on December 15, 2008 at 8:31pm

I wrote it after seeing a documentary about, and reading stories on the use of child labor in India... these are babies that are basically slaves... and they get burnt and abused by their employers. I know this happens all over the world, but this one in particular was the silk industry. Can you imagine?

And thank you!

Comment by keith williams on December 15, 2008 at 8:13pm

very nice poem

Comment by Silvia Brandon Perez on December 15, 2008 at 8:03pm

Small poem, possibly trite

In this sad planet we inhabit
children are but cannon fodder:
no one addresses them, caresses them,
tells them the stories meant for children
or takes them to parks
or teaches them the games
of infancy. In India they are
the unseen ones, small petals
of flowers without smell, wild flowers
in their make-believe bones, small
nightmares that infect the silk
of blouses, of the elegant costumes
that we use, men and women,
the thread cries with each bruise
in small brown fingers, or with the lash
or beating of the misery merchants,
the ones exchanging sadness
for three rupees, small hands
in prayer to a universe
that tumbles them, one step
from cradle to common grave,
the children, our children all.