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#black poets
weltonboys · 4 months
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danez smith
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“The Black Love Imprint” 🤎
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In the realm of love, a radiant hue,
Black hearts entwined, a bond so true.
A symphony of souls, harmonies rise,
Embracing the strength that love implies.
Within the nucleus, a sacred space,
The black family unit finds its grace.
Roots deeply planted, branches spread wide,
Nurturing love, where faith does reside.
Through trials endured, they stand as one,
Facing the storms until they are done.
Resilient spirits, unyielding and strong,
In unity they triumph, against all wrong.
Generations intertwined, wisdom shared,
Ancestors' stories, deeply cared.
Passing down the flame, a torch so bright,
Igniting the path with love's pure light.
Black love, a beacon in the night,
Guiding hearts, dispelling plight.
Through laughter and tears, they find their way,
Together they thrive, come what may.
In each tender touch, a healing balm,
Affirming the worth, a soothing psalm.
Celebrating beauty, melanin's embrace,
Love's tapestry woven with elegance and grace.
For in the medleys of life we find,
Black love's essence, power defined.
A testament to love's enduring art,
The black family unit, is a masterpiece from the heart.
— The Black Feminine Society (CEO)
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The Black Love Imprint: Creating Legacies, Traditions, and Healthy Standards for Our Present & Future Generations To Come!
For Post Like This & More Follow Us on IG : click here 🫶🏽
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ink-staineddreams · 2 months
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no connection
i am not your Black stereotype yes, i am loud and yes, i take up space i am pissed at the world and i’ll scream it in your face
i read books for leisure i listen to music just like your white neighbor just like your white teacher
don’t put me in a box don’t confine me to your rules i am no longer your slave no longer your tool
i will blossom and grow and let everyone know i will emerge from the shadows and strike a deafening blow
i am not your Black stereotype i need no correction don’t call this line again there is no connection
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typewriter-worries · 8 months
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This is what our dying looks like. You believe in the sun. I believe I can't love you.
Another Elegy ["This is what our dying looks like"], Jericho Brown
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blk-velma · 9 months
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geminiluvv · 4 months
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Langston Hughes' poem, "My People"
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uwmspeccoll · 1 month
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Copper Sun
Last week we brought you Harlem Renaissance poet Countee Cullen's (1903-1946) first major poem The Ballad of the Brown Girl. Today we present Cullen's second collected book of poetry, Copper Sun, published in New York by Harper & Brothers in 1927, with illustrations by the same artist who illustrated Ballad, the unrelated Art Deco artist Charles Cullen (1887-?). Copper Sun is a collection of over fifty poems that explore race, religion, and sexuality in Jazz Age America, and particularly the possibility of unity between white and black people, as exemplified in the two Cullens, one black, the other white.
View more work by Countee Cullen.
View other books illustrated by Charles Cullen.
View other Black History Month posts.
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calcollage · 5 months
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what I mean when I say I'm sharpening my oyster knife
I mean I'm here to eat up all the ocean you thought was yours. I mean I brought my own quarter of a lemon, tart and full of seeds. I mean I'm a tart. I'm a bad seed. I'm a red-handled thing and if you move your eyes from me I'll cut the tender place where your fingers meet. I mean I never met a dish of horseradish I didn't like. I mean you're a twisted and ugly root and I'm the pungent, stinging firmness inside. I mean I look so good in this hat with a feather and I'm a feather and I'm the heaviest featherweight you know. I mean you can't spell anything I talk about with that sorry alphabet you have left over from yesterday. I mean when I see something dull and uneven, barnacled and ruined, I know how to get to its iridescent everything. I mean I eat them alive. what I mean is I'll eat you alive, slipping the blade in sideways, cutting nothing because the space was always there.
"No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife." –Zora Neale Hurston
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ghost-37 · 5 months
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agirlnamedbone · 1 year
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--Xan Phillips, pub. in BOMB Magazine
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blackpoetry · 1 year
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Untitled #2 (for MTV Black History Month 2001)
Can't do that dance anymore It doesn't fit my size, never did I'm too big to do that dance Always was too pretty Won't shuck and jive Not gonna coon Not I Too many ancestors' tear stains on my face Too many claps and hallelujahs under my belt Not for anybody's enjoyment Not for anybody's money Green or long Pound or euro Not for you Not I I don't have time to do that dance There aren't libraries in my baby's school Playgrounds filled with glass Teachers who are waiting for me to show up And I will . on time
You won't catch me doing that dance Not in this honey dwelling I live here My mother and God designed this for me Just enough cinnamon (blow a kiss) Just enough nutmeg (blow a kiss) Stirred me in a pot Listened for the timing bell Ring and I am ready Bite me when I'm cool
Bite me again when I'm not Bite me all you want because I've got more and some more and some more And I will not do that dance Not for you Not for you Too much to do that dance And I am way too pretty
Written by Jill Scott Courtesy of; https://www.afropoets.net/jillscott.html
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pineconecowgirl · 1 year
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i need more mutuals ..
i’m black queer woman (attraction not limited by gender/sex in any way), i love film, all things regarding the history of the marginalized and their radical politics, literature, poetry, fiber arts, MF DOOM, JPEGMAFIA, megan thee stallion, flo milli, carly rae jepsen, and cracking up . i rlly love cracking up . my blog is a fun place pls join me let’s be friends <3
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braveblackbutterfly · 1 month
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Here's the poem if you haven't had a chance to read it:
I'm not sure when I'll make the video/audio. But hopefully one day soon, especially if people are interested.
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ink-staineddreams · 2 months
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zombies
can we call this life if we’re not really living?
you’ve seen us. mindless and relentless; less and less human with each passing moment.
like a broken record that jumps to the same part of a song, or gatsby’s green light showing him daisy’s home,
we long for the adventure they’ve promised us. we long for a new life, but are haunted by our past mistakes.
we are haunted by the world we can’t escape; dismal and dismayed weighed down by the mundane.
we press our fingers to our wrists to make sure we’re still alive; it turns out we are, it is just our joy that has died.
nothing’s new and our worst fears have come true: we have become zombies, not yet dead but not quite alive.
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typewriter-worries · 2 years
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The Prestige, Hanif Abdurraqib
[ Text ID: the poem begins not where the knife enters / but where the blade twists. ] 
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blk-velma · 9 months
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Deep down, every poet just wants to feel loved.
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