Spoken Word Poetry of the Week: Sabrina Benaim, Unrequited Love in 9 Parts

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Beautiful as Sabrina’s poems always are! See here

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Poetry In The News

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Hello 😊 here’s your poetry in the news for this week:

Why Poetry Is a Refuge for Your Brain

Leonard Cohen’s final poetry collection due out next year

New Poetry Collection Honours Martin Luther King Jr

Polish poet’s verse tell of love, sorrow and the search for a home

‘This is the Place’ poet pens 40th anniversary verse

‘Now it’s the coolest thing’: rise of Rupi Kaur helps boost poetry sales

Poem of the week: You Do Not Have To Love Me, Leonard Cohen

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You do not have to love me
just because
you are all the women
I have ever wanted
I was born to follow you
every night
while I am still
the many men who love you

I meet you at a table
I take your fist between my hands
in a solemn taxi
I wake up alone
my hand on your absense
in Hotel Discipline

I wrote all these songs for you
I burned red and black candles
shaped like a man and a woman
I married the smoke
of two pyramids of sandalwood
I prayed for you
I prayed that you would love me
and that you would not love me

You Do Not Have To Love Me

Vain

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We all seek reassurance passing reflecting surface.

We all check our carefully positioned shields are intact.

But you. You’re like Cassiopeia with the Magic Mirror,

And no other vision can detract.

On Metro you check mask and mane immaculate.

Pass façade glimpsing perfection in every curve.

Who made you feel the need for such self inspection?

Who made you play this part of preen and preserve?

We all have the need for some introspection.

We all have things for which we feel some shame.

But please, I beg of those that I love dearest:

Shoot me in the face should I ever succumb to vain.

Like what you’re reading?

Favourite Poets: Wilfred Owen – The Last Laugh

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‘O Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped—In vain, vain, vain!
Machine-guns chuckled—Tut-tut! Tut-tut!
And the Big Gun guffawed.

Another sighed,—‘O Mother,—mother,—Dad!’
Then smiled at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
Leisurely gestured,—Fool!
And the splinters spat, and tittered.

‘My Love!’ one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets’ long teeth grinned;
Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;
And the Gas hissed.

The Last Laugh


A truly horrific picturing of the last moment of these soldiers. I always read this with a grimace on my face because you can picture it, can’t you? They know their end has come so they call out for their loved ones, and that’s the final thing to put a smile on their faces. You can only hope that it offered them some semblance of comfort.

Pelastajani

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I get what you said yesterday about not wanting to be saved.
It seems so purposeless.
Where’s the sense of being rescued when there’s nowhere to recover?
No more than a ‘there, there, it’s okay?‘

Of course.

They, who argue that you are needed, vital in this world
Would screech in indignance at your nerve
To want to walk away from this.

So tell me this.

When did They stop listening?
When did Their words rattle so empty
That it left You feeling hollow?

Maybe this isn’t the place for sorrow
But I’ve got no other place to go.
And neither do you.

I don’t tell them the dark has descended again
Because they don’t really want to know.
I know you feel that too.

So we should live. In spite of them all.
And if and when we have the gall
To stand strong, and whole, and proud,
We can declare, long and light and loud

We saved ourselves. Not You.