Negra llorona. Eve took the apple in that ache-opened mouth,on fire and in pieces, from the knife’s sharp edge. Haven’t they riveted your wrists, haven’t theyhad you at your knees? Dismiss. I will still be able to gently hold your hand, as that is what I prefer. These are the hands That touch us first Feel your head Find the pulse And make your bed. These hands have seen what hard labor is all about. My soul will always be in your heart, and it knows I will always care. Senator: Shame on you for forcing through Trump’s Supreme Court nominee before COVID relief and amidst an election! In the photo her fist presses against the red-goldgeometry of her thigh. ), Ways to get involved in the 2020 Election. How they do things both beautiful and awful—to gently trace a throat in one moment, to hold it tightly in another—a type of sweet wreckery that makes me feel godlike and helpless all at once."

Gacela oscura. These old hands are wrinkled There's a brown spot here and there The nails are worn off to a quick No sign of polish anywhere But these old hands tell a story And if you'd care to stay I'll tall you for the service They've done from day to day They've brought younguns into the world Rocked the cradle by he hour covered my hear tin a Flag salute

Finally, a sweet, a, these two potters crushed and smoothed you, into being—grind, then curve—built your form up—. How long must I circlethe high gate above her knees? My Centimani.My hundred-handed one? They have felt the softness of a butterfies wings This content was created by a Daily Kos Community member. In a village, many menwrapped a woman in a sheet.She didn't struggle.Her bare feet dragged in the dirt. They have held books to read while a child sits and  listens. The anthology was edited by Kate Hendry; Dr Lesley Morrison, GP; Dr John Gillies, GP and Chair, Royal College of GPs in Scotland (2010-2014); Revd Ali Newell, and Lilias Fraser. For details, click COVID-19 in the menu bar above. Forgive me, distant wars, for bringingflowers home. These hands are scarred, Criss-crossed with reminders Of old wounds, and old times. These are the hands That fill the bath Mop the floor Flick the switch Soothe the sore Burn the swabs Give us a jab Throw out sharps Design the lab. Autoplay next video. They've traveled far and wide with you, standing  by my side. On Friday September 18, 2020, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, a women's rights icon, died at 87.

Zahir, Aleph, Hands-time-seven,Sphinx, Leonids, locomotura,Rubidium, August, and September—And when you cried out, O, Prometheans,didn’t they bring fire? These are the hands That tap your back Test the skin Hold your arm Wheel the bin Change the bulb Fix the drip Pour the jug Replace your hip. They have visited the ocean with you, and felt the waves of high tide. Zahir, Aleph, Hands-time-seven, Sphinx, Leonids, locomotura, Rubidium, August, and September— And when you cried out, O, Prometheans, didn’t they bring fire? These are the hands That touch us first Feel your head Find the pulse And make your bed. © Academy of American Poets, 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038, isn’t this what God felt when he pressed together, a sin worth hurting for. Remember me as I once was, caring and vibrant. She is Director of the Center for Imagination in the Borderlands and is the Maxine and Jonathan Marshall Chair in Modern and Contemporary Poetry at Arizona State University.

The final poem is by poet Lemn Sissay titled “Making …

These hands have done so much in my life. We are only permitting three members of the public in at a time. In the Kashmir mountains,my brother shot many men,blew skulls from brown skins,dyed white desert sand crimson. The first man was her father.He threw two stones in a row.Her brother had filled his pocketswith stones on the way there. What is there to say to a manwho has traversed such a world,whose hands and eyes havebetrayed him? Finally,a sin worth hurting for. These are the hands That fill the bath Mop the floor Flick the switch Soothe the sore Burn the swabs Give us a jab Throw out sharps one breast a fig tree, the other a nightingale, of trigger and carve, suffering and stars—, of your small church? Have they not burnedon the altar of your belly, eaten the breadof your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor,to nectareous feast?

And when these hands touched your throat,showed you how to take the apple and the rib,how to slip a thumb into your mouth and taste it all,didn’t you sing out their ninety-nine names—. Natalie Diaz’s most recent book is Postcolonial Love Poem (Graywolf Press, 2020).

We are very grateful for the individual donations which funded the cost of this anthology, and to the Deans of the Scottish medical schools who made it possible to give the books to their graduating students. Blood burst through the sheetlike a patch of violets,a hundred roses in bloom. Daily Kos moves in solidarity with the Black community.

This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on August 9, 2013.

It is hard not to have faith in this:from the blue-brown clay of nightthese two potters crushed and smoothed youinto being—grind, then curve—built your form up—. Because of coronavirus, an unprecedented... Sign the petition: Pledge to continue Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s legacy of fighting for women’s rights.

I no longer recall, in their abilities, they served me to do their best. Their beauty makes me smile, and my heart sings. They have found time to relax and reel in a trout. They have been there to hold infants while the day doth wane. When these hands are no longer as strong as they once were, Pulsus. Live your life to its fullest, this is your assignment.

He describes the contributors as revealing ‘the hidden places of their minds in these intimate moments’ of clinical and workplace encounters. The Library is open to the public, Monday to Friday, 10am to 2pm.

They have seen me through both joy and strife. These hands have hugged children in distraught or in pain, Don't pine away for me at a grave site as my spirit is not there, isn’t this what God felt when he pressed togetherthe first Beloved: Everything.Fever.

These Hands Poem by Anne Rhitak. The wonder and joy that is shown, makes my eyes glisten. Any election results reported on November 3rd will be incomplete and inaccurate. —Wisława Szymborska.

When these hands turn to dust after I shed this mortal coil, These are the hands - by Michael Rosen, poem read by Sophie Raworth BBC presenter Sophie Raworth reads These Are The Hands by Michael Rosen. Much of what they have accomplished, in usage and rest, These are the hands That tap your back Test the skin Hold your arm Wheel the bin Change the bulb Fix the drip Pour the jug Replace your hip. And I knew hers—it was Auxocromo, it was Cromóforo, it was Eliza.It hurtled through me like honeyed-rum. Both relics of a bygone era, Both have seen so much use. These hands, if not gods, then why when you have come to me, and I have returned you to that from which you came—bright mud, mineral-salt— why then do you whisper O, my Hecatonchire. Used with permission of the author. I wash the silk and silt of her from my hands—now who I come to, I come clean to, I come good to.

how to slip a thumb into your mouth and taste it all, didn’t you sing out their ninety-nine names—, when you have come to me, and I have returned you, to that from which you came—bright mud, mineral-salt—, Why I Don’t Mention Flowers When Conversations with My Brother Reach Uncomfortable Silences. The Foreword to These are the Hands is by Michael Rosen, well-known writer, broadcaster and poet, whose own poem, written for the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the NHS, gives the anthology its title.

Haven’t they moved like rivers—like Glory, like light—over the seven days of your body? Sign the petition: Traditional media cannot make premature calls on Election Night. of your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor, Haven’t they riveted your wrists, haven’t they. The crowd was a hiveof disturbed bees. A copy of the first edition was given to all graduating doctors in Scotland in 2014 and 2015, and with support from RCGPS and the Medical and Dental Defence Union of Scotland, to all graduating doctors in 2016, 2017 and 2018. Know that I will still always love you, even though I'm now a part of the soil. I do my grief work with her body—laborto make the emerald tigers in her hips leap,lead them burning greento drink from the violet jetting her. These hands raised a family, these hands built a home Now these hands raised to praise the Lord These hands won the heart of my loved one And with hers they were never alone

Along the clayen banks I follow her-astonished,gathering grief’s petals she lets fall like horns.

O, the beautiful making they do—of trigger and carve, suffering and stars—. —Natalie Diaz. Again the gods put their large hands in me,move me, break my heart like a clay jar of wine,loosen a beast from some darklong depth—. my melancholy is hoofed. Vapor. With these hands I … And these are the hands That stop the leaks Empty the pan Wipe the pipes Carry the can Clamp the veins Make the cast Log the dose And touch us last. The reading was about the laying of hands on someone, and I began thinking of how my own hands work upon a body. © Michael Rosen, reproduced by permission of United Agents (www.unitedagents.co.uk) on behalf of the author. She is Mojave and an enrolled member of the Gila River Indian Tribe, and lives in Phoenix, Arizona. These hands have had lots of joyful fun along the way, With These Hands With these hands so soft and clean, On which I stroke the Vaseline, I soothe the fever, cool the heat, Lift verrucas out of feet, Slap the plasters on the knees, Dig the garden, prune the trees, And if it doesn’t work at all, I throw the mower at the wall. (This content is not subject to review by Daily Kos staff prior to publication.

The volleyof stones against her bodydrowned out her moans. These hands, if not gods, then whywhen you have come to me, and I have returned youto that from which you came—bright mud, mineral-salt—why then do you whisper O, my Hecatonchire. These hands have had lots of joyful fun along the way, Including giving you chocolates and a bright flower bouquet. They've traveled far and wide with you, standing by my side. atlas of bone, fields of muscle,one breast a fig tree, the other a nightingale,both Morning and Evening.

Including giving you chocolates and a bright flower bouquet.

My Centimani. The former children's laureate is …

When the eyes and lips are touched with honeywhat is seen and said will never be the same. Have they not burned, on the altar of your belly, eaten the bread. I, the terrible beautifulLampon, a shining devour-horse tetheredat the bronze manger of her collarbones. We are rearranged. And when these hands touched your throat. As I sit on the old chair I look at my hand lying On the table, both so worn With use, and lined with age. Her storied... Sign and send a petition to your U.S. Achilles chasing Hektor round the walls of Iliumthree times.



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