Almost forgot! But it’s not too late… Happy National Poetry Month! Celebrate by getting involved. In honor of National Poetry month, I want to hear from you! Submit one of your own poems to NinaAlvarez.net and if I post it, you’ll reach thousands of readers. You retain all rights, of course. This is just for [...]
Archive for April, 2010
April is National Poetry Month
Posted in national poetry month, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer on 04/23/2010 | 3 Comments »
Poem of the Day: Me, I Talked
Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 04/19/2010 | Leave a Comment »
Me, I Talked I. The doors are closing; they fitted one into the other. A shadow tells a lie: in this grimace I foresee the movement which makes bodies turn white and which incessantly makes itself behind me, what I believe to be me, what ought to be me… In front of that, and that [...]
Poem of the Day: What Were We Saying
Posted in Nina Alvarez, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 04/18/2010 | Leave a Comment »
What were we saying when the plane hit It was air that whoosh We had to trade in things insert words We had to hear what we didn’t want to hear I have trouble these days Its dawning on me How little all this means The current catches up and All those pretty stones gone [...]
Poem of the Day: Come, said my Soul
Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Whitman, words, Write, Writer, writing on 04/09/2010 | 2 Comments »
Come, said my Soul Such verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one,) That should I after death invisibly return, Or, long, long hence, in other spheres, There to some group of mates the chants resuming, (Tallying Earth’s soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,) Ever with pleas’d smiles I may keep on, Ever [...]
Poem of the Day: A Shropshire Lad, II
Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 04/04/2010 | 1 Comment »
A Shropshire Lad, II Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to [...]
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