“The Gift to Sing” by James Weldon Johnson (1871 – 1938)


Sometimes the mist overhangs my path,
And blackening clouds about me cling;
But, oh, I have a magic way
To turn the gloom to cheerful day—
I softly sing.

And if the way grows darker still,
Shadowed by Sorrow’s somber wing,
With glad defiance in my throat,
I pierce the darkness with a note,
And sing, and sing.

I brood not over the broken past,
Nor dread whatever time may bring;
No nights are dark, no days are long,
While in my heart there swells a song,
And I can sing.

Accepting Submissions


For the first time ever, the GoodPoetry Journal is accepting manuscript submissions of previously unpulished poetry for consideration to be featured in its online and electronic and (forthcoming) print publications. New and established poets are encouraged to submit their works. Visit the ‘Submissions‘ page to learn more. We just like GoodPoetry!

“NIÁGARA” by José María Heredia y Heredia (1803 – 1839)


NIÁGARA

Templad mi lira, dádmela, que siento
En mi alma estremecida y agitada
Arder la inspiración. ¡Oh! ¡cuánto tiempo
En tinieblas pasó, sin que mi frente
Brillase con su luz…! Niágara undoso,

Continue reading “NIÁGARA” by José María Heredia y Heredia (1803 – 1839)

“Puente” by Nicolás Guillén (1920 – 1989)


PUENTE

¿Lejos?

Hay un arco tendido
que hace viajar la flecha
de tu voz.

Continue reading “Puente” by Nicolás Guillén (1920 – 1989)

“After the Winter” by Claude McKay (1889–1948)


Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
     And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
     Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,

“Summer Holiday” by Robinson Jeffers (1887 – 1962)


When the sun shouts and people abound

One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of

bronze

Continue reading “Summer Holiday” by Robinson Jeffers (1887 – 1962)

“Autumn Movement” by Carl Sandburg (1878 – 1967)


I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, 
       the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things 
       come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, 
       not one lasts.