Search Categories - Any -25 Lines or FewerCanadaPre 21st Century21st Century Grade levels - Any -Grades 7-9 / Sec. 1-3Grades 10-12 / Sec. 4 & 5 / CEGEP 1 Sort by RandomNewestMost popularA -> ZZ -> A Apply Therese Estacion The ABG (Able-Bodied Gaze) Thomas Hardy Channel Firing That night your great guns, unawares, Shook all our coffins as we lay, And broke the chancel window-squares, Joshua Whitehead Full Metal Oji-Cree this is the transsensorium there are indo-robo-women fighting cowboys on the frontier & winning finally the premodern is a foundation for the postmodern wintermute, tessier-ashpool, armitage Tyler Pennock I have so many now. I have so many now. There’s one where we were giants, playing with our size by falling over houses and trees, laughing. There’s another where I was racing the old ones in a game, and we stopped Fariha Róisín the many descriptions of being brown White people tell you to apologize for yourself through gestures, through small talk, through the ways in which they ask, “Where are you from?” and Craig Santos Perez One fish, Two fish, Plastics, Dead fish recycling Dr. Seuss Some fish are sold for sashimi, some are sold to canneries, and some are caught by hungry slaves to feed what wealthy tourists crave! Ezra Pound A Virginal No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately. I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness, For my surrounding air hath a new lightness; Walt Whitman A Noiseless Patient Spider A noiseless patient spider, I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, Shazia Hafiz Ramji Poem of Failed Amends (Amor fati) I’ve put the oats in a jar, with yogourt and seeds, left it in the fridge overnight. The fruit on top will thaw, dripping sweetness into the rest. I want to remember I’ve done this Olive Senior Rejected Text for a Tourist Brochure “I saw my land in the morning and O but she was fair” - M.G. Smith, “Jamaica” (1938) I Come see my land Come see my land Alice Notley Jack Would Speak Through the Imperfect Medium of Alice So I’m an alcoholic Catholic mother-lover yet there is no sweetish nectar no fuzzed-peach thing no song sing but in the word Archibald Lampman Heat From plains that reel to southward, dim, The road runs by me white and bare; Up the steep hill it seems to swim Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm sturgeon i twist and gasp open and close my mouth searching for air whenever a sturgeon is caught in the rainy river i know the feel of strange hands touching my body the struggle Charlotte Smith Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes! How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn! For me wilt thou renew the withered rose, John Donne The Good-Morrow I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Sara Peters You’d Have to Pay Me Could You Pay Me Enough You’d have to pay us Could you pay us enough To live for a stretch Weyman Chan But I’m No One for M. Maylor Dear Anne Carson: My friend read me the poem where your mom said that the dead walk backwards. You thought this myth arose from poor translation. Susan Howe From Titian Air Vent A work of art is a world of signs, at least to the poet’s nursery bookshelf sheltered behind the artist’s ear. I recall each little motto howling its ins and outs to those of us who might as well be on the moon Robert Frost After Apple Picking My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill Monica Sok Self-Portrait in Siem Reap The French chef says, Try the foie gras, it’s very good. So I treat myself to the liver of a force-fed goose. Give it to me on a crostini with black currant! Samuel Taylor Coleridge Kubla Khan Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Sonnet L'Abbé Poor Speaker I understand you. I get what you’re trying to say. What you’re trying to say is you want me to get it. I get it. You want me to understand. You want me to know Russell Atkins Coffee mornings have bulk and that saves them from immediate death— Kai Cheng Thom diaspora babies diaspora babies, we are born of pregnant pauses/spilled from unwanted wombs/squalling invisible-ink poems/written in the margins of a map of a place called No Homeland Simone White Windrim To Windrim or sycamore rustle cicada or bark and to Wayne Walt Whitman Come Up From the Fields Father Come up from the fields father, here’s a letter from our Pete, And come to the front door mother, here’s a letter from thy dear son. Lo, ’tis autumn Natalie Scenters-Zapico Buen Esqueleto Life is short & I tell this to mis hijas. Life is short & I show them how to talk to police without opening the door, how to leave the social security number blank Stevie Smith Not Waving But Drowning Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought Billy-Ray Belcourt If Our Bodies Could Rust, We Would Be Falling Apart the law mandates that a hate crime only be classified as such if there is ample evidence to show that one’s actions were motivated by prejudice toward an individual’s nationality, ethnicity, sexuality, gender, etc. John Milton When I consider how my light is spent When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide Margaret Atwood They are hostile nations 1 In view of the fading animals the proliferation of sewers and fears Elizabeth Philips Jacknife/2 Each day, I am apprenticed to the boy I want to be. He rifles the ball and I catch it or I fumble. His red head ducks and weaves, Tamar Rubin Perennial For thirty-one years, my mother tried not to miss her. Every week, a little water or the trickle of a few ice cubes dropped in black earth. Years back, in the muck of Toronto, April, Tara Borin Nuisance Only the thickness of log and triple-paned glass between my children and the open maw of a bear. I slip warm chocolate chip cookies from the pan William Butler Yeats An Irish Airman Foresees His Death I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Wioletta Greg All About My Grandmother Wheat daughter, prisoner of sneaky pigweed, mother to the five corners of the world and your three hectares, beak-nosed carpenter’s wife and the potter’s lover, Natalie Diaz My Brother at 3 A.M. He sat cross-legged, weeping on the steps when Mom unlocked and opened the front door. O God, he said. O God. Selina Boan breakup a girl between two dialects still a screen and still a searching, learns the season of breakup another word for spring can come before or after depending on where you grew up online, back and forth Hari Alluri area boys brash talk on sidewalk brethren to irreverence short teeth long stories ~ aspirations high rolling tape decks tweeters six by nine speakers deep Mina Assadi The Dictator’s Message The Dictator’s Message O poets return, we have swept your homeland clean of thorns and splinters O writers return, to make a record of your works Language English