In the blink of an eye
wingless birds overpower the skies,
beautiful combinations of colors
arise in the thousands of kites
that soar the low heaven.

On this day winter is over and summer has begun.
The sun continues its drift toward the highest throne.
All of India’s men, women, and children stand upon their roofs,
Muslim beside Christian, Hindu beside Sikh,
connecting their minds to the red and white
dragonflies darting in sharp angles above.

Countless numbers of heads look up all day,
praising the sun
for releasing its warmth upon their faces.

Every string is painted with tiny glass shards
so that the paths might cross in playful battle,
cutting the strings and releasing the kites to the wind.
Street children run like wild beasts
to catch the fallen kites and sell them for one rupee.

The innocent pleasure of this festival
spells its name across the faces of rickshaw drivers,
factory workers, and doctors,
each laughs and smiles open-mindedly,
knowing there is no work today or tomorrow.

As the day comes to an end, pollution begins to rise
in clouds of blooming flowers, a dull finishing of red.
The sun slowly drowns into the ocean
in sheets of blue flame.

– Shahid Minapara

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

sé que nuestras vidas tienen
mucho en común,
dolor, agonía, tristeza,
esperanza y sueños

eres esa esencia de la vida,
que brinda palabras de aliento
a quién las ha perdido

este poema has inspirado
convirtiendose en mi placer al
dedicarte una poesía dónde te diga
lo mucho que te aprecio
My Friend

I know our lives have
much in common,
agony, pain, sadness,
hope and dreams

you’re the essence of life,
offering words of encouragement
to those who have lost them

you have inspired this poem
and now I’m pleased to
dedicate a poem where I can say
how much I appreciate you

– Sandra Pulido

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

I’ll meet you there
In between Nonsense
And speaking wit the utmost confidence
Like a general to his men
Blend better poems put them together
…and spit out again
Cause that’s what we do
Catch my poems two for one
It just depends…
On whose open mic I beg a pardon
I’m feeling marvelous my friend
…And on the strength of this word I hover over miles of terrain
Pass out flyers in the rain
Work thru lunch just to hear the hush the crowd makes when a gust of wind breaks
The microphone takes
What I can only say
…in so many words

– Antonio Caceres

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

Ya’ll know what I hate?
I hate when people look me in my face
And say, I know what you’re going through
When really
They don’t know what it’s like
To watch your mom take her works in the bathroom
And shoot up the dinner

Shh. Yo, ya’ll hear that?
Yo, that’s my mom’s mind slowly going crazy
As the dope races through her veins
Cracking open beer cans
Hearing shit that ain’t even there

Oh yeah, Pops? He was barely around
Hitting licks to support his habit
It seemed like
23-hour lockdown was his destiny

The pen became his home
No phone calls home just
Short letters of reassurance that he’d be back soon

Ya’ll know what I really hated?
I hated having to hear the lighters flick
Smelling the crack burning, the pipes
Seeing pieces of brillo pad laying on the floor, next to the broken wire hangers

I hated having to watch my sisters grind up on the block
Just to put food in our mouths
I hated having to wear the same panties for week or
None at all
Having to heat water on a stove to take a hot bath
Or wash our dirty clothes in the bathtub

Tell me.
How much would it hurt you to have to watch your mom hand you over to a stranger
So you wouldn’t have to sleep in the rain that night?
It’s like having your childhood ripped from your rib cage
Like swallowing pneumonia and your throat closes up

The funny thing is that those were the best times of our lives
Sleeping in vacant cars and
Still waking up the next day with a smile on our face
You see the material things never mattered to us
We just wanted to live until the next day

And you know what?
The judges can keep their scores
‘Cause the numbers can’t reflect what I’ve been though
Not even this piece can define me

What you don’t know is
Even with the pain of going to sleep some nights on an empty stomach
Mommy always made sure the dining room overflowed with Christmas gifts on Christmas morning

Even with pipe to lips
Beer to hand
Ear to wall
She always found time to be my mother
And teach me anything worth having was worth working for

So you see?
I don’t need pity
‘Cause this is my therapy
And ya’ll are my therapists
I just need you all to help me finish this piece ‘cause
The rest is still unwritten

– Antoinette Osborne

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

O Bulgaria Bulgaria
I have seen your women
Carrying livestock on their backs,
I have stuffed cotton into my ears
To silence the lamb’s last cry! 

O Bulgaria Bulgaria
O bitter rain clouds that fall on our roofless homes and wash
The dishes for us
          Are your gypsies still alive?
Your black-haired, pink-cheeked, never-understood gypsies?
Did little Demir and his drowned body
Ever come back to look for me?
For a warm jacket and boots
To wear in the freezing water?
O I miss him
Tell him that I miss him 

O Bulgaria
A lion jumping over the iron woods
Is coming in my night dreams
Asking me to stop being a child
Pressing my wrists tightly
Making me run barefooted
In the painting of a foreign artist 

O Bulgaria Bulgaria
A hundred-year-flower sprouted up
At the spot where my crown bled!
The River Danube is carrying
Leaves from the willow that
Many of my ancestors are buried under 

O thief of apricots
O hungry soldier
Who opened the door for you? 

Two hands can cause
1,000 years of war
But also sew a flag 

O piggy bank full of clothing pins
Instead of money 

O picture frame empty as the wine barrel
My uncle slept in all night long 

O Bulgaria Bulgaria
I was born into a world
Some may never understand
A world       not European	not Turkish
Not African
 	Where your mistakes
Are slapped on the hand 

But you cannot see who did it
A world where your rewards
Are measured in small golden
Certificates, each one saying I love you 

O Bulgaria Bulgaria		O my Bulgaria
Wipe off your face
Because I’m coming back!

– Indiana Pehlivanova

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.