Tumgik
#ghetto poetry
padawan-historian · 5 months
Text
“Write down! I am an Arab You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors And the land which I cultivated Along with my children And you left nothing for us Except for these rocks … So will the State take them As it has been said?!” – Identity card, Mahmoud Darwish
28 notes · View notes
ravagez · 4 months
Text
Tumblr media
Me and the girl I pulled by being weird and off putting.
6 notes · View notes
balladofsallyrose · 2 years
Text
I 👏 NEED 👏 A 👏 STEPHEN 👏 STILLS 👏 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 👏
31 notes · View notes
ukdamo · 2 years
Text
The Butterfly
Pavel Friedmann
The last, the very last, So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow. Perhaps if the sun’s tears would sing against a white stone…
Such, such a yellow Is carried lightly ‘way up high. It went away I’m sure because it wished to kiss the world goodbye.
For seven weeks I’ve lived in here, Penned up inside this ghetto But I have found my people here. The dandelions call to me And the white chestnut candles in the court. Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one. Butterflies don’t live in here, In the ghetto.
The poem was written at Theresienstadt concentration camp on 4 June 1942. On September 29, 1944 he was deported to Auschwitz where he died. Pavel Friedmann was born January 7 1921, in Prague, and deported to Terezín* on April 26, 1942. 
17 notes · View notes
charles-petrarca · 2 years
Text
No friends here now cross the street
Sienna child but mind as dark as night
Struggling to elude discrimination from distant shades and those alike
Befuddled at the thought of a friendship and companionship to follow
Because in the end both parties very much capable of turning a bright and full soul dark and hollow
To blindly spread love or forever bear hatred that is my dilemma
Pondering on cumbersome thoughts is the kid skin same as sienna
8 notes · View notes
Text
Tumblr media
The most poetic Twitter thread you will ever read
2 notes · View notes
gleisbettromantik · 2 years
Text
“People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald
6 notes · View notes
verybadfairy · 2 years
Text
I can't decide what color wings to wear to Paris Fashion Week.
I wanna fuck I wanna fly I want this smile to be a permanent fixture I wanna be the the thing you think about in bed 'cause baby streetlights blow out when I walk by
I want plastic surgery I want rhinoplasty I want filler I want me I want you I want to grow wings just for you to chain me by the ankle to the basement floor and right before you leave right before you close that fucking door
I'll thank you for the body glitter on the concrete because it's something to look at and I'm
a trashy whore
2 notes · View notes
wittylittle · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media
« Good morning,
You really turn me on,
Sounds like a blast »
1 note · View note
jigslionheart · 16 days
Text
Untitled Poem
Check out the new poetry I penned which touched on several topics on addictions, wokeness and life.
Afar, the high danglesI run up the slippery rockwatched my life tangleinto the hangman’s knot Every man gambleson each, with all that he’s worthhis life on a game of Scrabblewhere numbers lean on his word The priestess worshipsin the hotbed of menand as the soil toughensshe raises the cub as a hen The river pushes to landbrothers who were once lostleaving writs on the sandeach trader bears his…
View On WordPress
0 notes
elmp · 10 months
Text
My Neighbors Have No Standing To Judge Me Look At How They Keep Things In This Ghetto
I have no problem
Showing the entire world
My dick. Shame? Nice try.
0 notes
baldgoddese · 1 year
Text
It’s all about you 💙
~ese~
Ghetto love - Wizkid
1 note · View note
2dkanojo · 1 year
Text
"I CRACK THE DOOR & LET IT CREAK.
I TELL HIM IT'S TIME TO WAKE UP. I TELL HIM I COULD'VE LOVED HIM.
I TELL HIM THAT I'VE TOLD
WHAT HE'S DONE.
MAKE UP FOR THE TIMES HE
INSISTED ON LOOKING YOU
IN THE EYES.
I AM HALF HIS WEIGHT BUT ALL HIS RAGE"
source/cred(⁠•⁠ө⁠•⁠)
0 notes
ddesire · 2 years
Text
Freestyle
The days, the moments, the feels
The time that it takes to be real
I see it before it happens it’s kinda strange
Have you believing that I lack range
Til I open my eyes and I see
See you for whatever it is that you’re trying to be
I speak my truth unapologetically
Something that you rarely see, barely
I confronted you as if you looked in the mirror
Yet you attack my character; and all I want you to do is see clearer
So I take it cause I can and you walk away
Then you pull on my energy cause you wish you would’ve stayed
I lose sleep over your thoughts and my body feels weak
You feel big in your ego because to you I seem meek
But the power I hold is more than you’ll ever know
I can see parts of you that you didn’t think were on show
1 note · View note
bobemajses · 5 months
Text
Tumblr media
Illustration by E. M. Lilien for the "Lieder des Lebens" (or "Song of Life") section of Morris Rosenfeld's poetry collection Lieder des Ghetto, Berlin, 1902.
475 notes · View notes
kitchen-light · 7 months
Quote
[Paul] Celan, whose parents were murdered at a camp in the Transnistria Governorate, translated Shakespeare while interned in a ghetto. For him, language was a project to be wrestled with. He believed it was possible for language to make something happen; and even if it didn’t make something happen, then at least it was worthwhile trying. He held people to account for loose language (his short correspondence with Heidegger, that phenomenologist, are extraordinary in their critique), and demanded that attention be paid to the impact that words can have in public.
Pádraig Ó Tuama, from his essay “The possibilities of language”, published at the Poetry Unbound substack, March 26, 2023
230 notes · View notes