Finally,a sin worth hurting for. 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. These hands have had lots of joyful fun along the way, Including giving you chocolates and a bright flower bouquet. Know that I will still always love you, even though I'm now a part of the soil. My Centimani.My hundred-handed one? ), Ways to get involved in the 2020 Election. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on August 9, 2013. Their beauty makes me smile, and my heart sings. In a village, many menwrapped a woman in a sheet.She didn't struggle.Her bare feet dragged in the dirt.

© 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.

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. —Natalie Diaz. 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. When these hands turn to dust after I shed this mortal coil, Blood burst through the sheetlike a patch of violets,a hundred roses in bloom.

Atman. The wonder and joy that is shown, makes my eyes glisten. Used with permission of the author. They've traveled far and wide with you, standing by my side. Finally, a sweet, a, these two potters crushed and smoothed you, into being—grind, then curve—built your form up—. And I knew hers—it was Auxocromo, it was Cromóforo, it was Eliza.It hurtled through me like honeyed-rum. Remember me as I once was, caring and vibrant. 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. 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. 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. (This content is not subject to review by Daily Kos staff prior to publication. He describes the contributors as revealing ‘the hidden places of their minds in these intimate moments’ of clinical and workplace encounters. Daily Kos moves in solidarity with the Black community. We go where there is love, to the river,on our knees beneath the sweet water.I pull her under four timesuntil we are rivered.

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. I have gazed the black flower bloomingher animal eye.

Copyright © 2013 by Natalie Diaz. Have they not burnedon the altar of your belly, eaten the breadof your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor,to nectareous feast? Gacela oscura. The Library is open to the public, Monday to Friday, 10am to 2pm. Like Jacob’s angel, I touched the garnet of her wrist,and she knew my name. These are the hands - by Michael Rosen, poem read by Sophie Raworth BBC presenter Sophie Raworth reads These Are The Hands by Michael Rosen.

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. Pulsus. O, the beautiful making they do—of trigger and carve, suffering and stars—. Senator: Shame on you for forcing through Trump’s Supreme Court nominee before COVID relief and amidst an election! They have felt the softness of a butterfies wings 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—. 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. These hands are scarred, Criss-crossed with reminders Of old wounds, and old times. Don't pine away for me at a grave site as my spirit is not there, These are the hands That touch us first Feel your head Find the pulse And make your bed. 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."

The first man was her father.He threw two stones in a row.Her brother had filled his pocketswith stones on the way there. They have visited the ocean with you, and felt the waves of high tide. They have held books to read while a child sits and  listens. In the Kashmir mountains,my brother shot many men,blew skulls from brown skins,dyed white desert sand crimson. These hands have hugged children in distraught or in pain,

For details, click COVID-19 in the menu bar above. "The images and hands of this poem began building during Mass one Sunday. We are only permitting three members of the public in at a time. How long must I circlethe high gate above her knees? 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. Both relics of a bygone era, Both have seen so much use.

Her storied... Sign and send a petition to your U.S. The final poem is by poet Lemn Sissay titled “Making …

What is there to say to a manwho has traversed such a world,whose hands and eyes havebetrayed him? She is Mojave and an enrolled member of the Gila River Indian Tribe, and lives in Phoenix, Arizona. In the photo her fist presses against the red-goldgeometry of her thigh. I wash the silk and silt of her from my hands—now who I come to, I come clean to, I come good to. Along the clayen banks I follow her-astonished,gathering grief’s petals she lets fall like horns. 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—.

my melancholy is hoofed.

When the eyes and lips are touched with honeywhat is seen and said will never be the same. This poem is included in the second edition of Tools of the Trade: Poems for new doctors (Scottish Poetry Library, 2016).

These hands have had lots of joyful fun along the way, 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. 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 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 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.

Vapor. 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.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringingflowers home. Finally, a sweet, aYou are mine. I will still be able to gently hold your hand, as that is what I prefer.

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 The crowd was a hiveof disturbed bees. My soul will always be in your heart, and it knows I will always care. 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—. isn’t this what God felt when he pressed togetherthe first Beloved: Everything.Fever. They've traveled far and wide with you, standing  by my side.
I, the terrible beautifulLampon, a shining devour-horse tetheredat the bronze manger of her collarbones. Live your life to its fullest, this is your assignment.


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