excerpts
Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.
If sculpting is your art, O craftsman, Shape my face, my body, and my soul with your hand.
If sculpting is your art, O craftsman, Shape my face, my body, and my soul with your hand. Turn water into glass for me, if you can, Or cleanse this mirror of its rust and sand. To weave my veil, mix the hues of a rainbow, And carve colours from flowers and butterflies aglow. You claim your hands hold many crowned heads, Then shape a melody from wood, let music be spread. On a blank page, you’ve drawn trees and bloom, If you write poetry, give it taste and room. As you’ve chiselled the sun with precision and care, Take your tools and create brilliance to share. I will build a world vast and free, Not confined by a grave, a cage, or misery. It’s my craft to make sweetness and honey abound, But you, craft the sting, and let its pain resound. You, a master of mud’s enchantments divine, Why stunned by the beauty of a woman so fine?
By Muhammad Waseem 2 years ago in Poets
On the socioeconomics of being humane
The socioeconomics of humanness lies in the beauty of balancing the aspects of togetherness and isolation. In a world where life coincides with the duality of forces, oscillating between the forces of light and dark, beauty and hate, love and hatred, birth and death, humans are the most endearing and detrimental beings ever to exist. The prowess of intellect and communication, with the stellar mind that created the strides of evolution and lapses of civilization, is undeniably the most striking aspect of what makes humans the most resilient beings of them all.
By Hridya Sharma2 years ago in Poets
Of Promises and Potholes
On Moi Avenue, where the dust drifts slow,Mzee Kamau sits, with tales to show.Promises swirl in the city’s breath,A chorus of vows left for dead.“Ah, promises,” Mzee starts to say,“Like potholes—they shift, but never decay.”Young Biko, bold, leans close to hear,With fire in his eye and change so near.“Our leaders,” says Kamau with a sigh,“Are chameleons beneath this Nairobi sky.They pledge us roads, and water, and light,Yet all we see is the same old plight.”Mama Wanjiru, with bananas in hand,Mocks the dream of a wired land.“Wi-Fi in villages, yet water runs dry,Another illusion, another sly lie.”And they laugh, they shout, each voice rings true,The power in knowing what leaders won’t do.From corners of Kibera to hills of Meru,The people sing of promises untrue.Yet hope, like potholes, never fully dies,Though buried beneath government lies.For each laugh that echoes, each story they share,Is a spark of a dream, of leaders who care.The streets are tired, the promises worn,But under each mock, a vision is born—Of a Kenya where trust isn’t cheap as dust,And the road to change is paved, not just.
By Bryan Wafula2 years ago in Poets
