It is impossible for me to remember
the cozy room I slept in as a child.
Somebody made my bed up to be paradise.
It was hard for me, a hard night, when I entered art.
The tendons in my wrist are visible.
What will I do now I have made this fist?
To loosen it feels weird, anticlimactic—
a misuse, a misunderstanding, of fists.
That's how it was with me that night.
And so, mysteriously, I lost my sweetness.
Weird, to feel intended for violence,
when what I wanted was an hour of rest.
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Comments about this poem (Fist by Dan Chiasson )
- मेगनआव गोग्लैदोँ, Ronjoy Brahma
- Sun, Barati Lesetlhe
- Moon, Barati Lesetlhe
- Letters to the heart...., Nandipha Mphanya
- In each day's silent need (Italian sonnet), Gert Strydom
- Despair, Gert Strydom
- DALYA IN RAVENSBURG 74, Terry Collett
- Tomar Hansi Tomar Kanna, ramesh rai
- But peace, hasmukh amathalal
- Rah! rRah! Siss-boom-bah!, Frank Avon
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