African Woman

Africa! Beauty of the world
natural and black, lovely and blessed
models of God's creation,
silhoutted with beauty; oh Africa gold
blessed with the cur and cons of her body
and color of her skin
bethrothed to love, kind creature they are
with their soft heart they conquer all men
with their musical voice they give sound to the day/morning
and night/evening,
strong willed they are, they are pride of our nation, leaders of years

to come, for they know the value of all.they are mothers, daughters
and wives of africa

by shitta prisca

Other poems of PRISCA (1)

Comments (7)

If anyone is interested in reading a poem inspired by 'Mr. Flood's Party' by Edwin Arlington Robinson, then read below, if not please ignore and regardless enjoy your day :) Left 'Tis A Curse Living Too Long A curse of time living too long unlike the harvest moon to not belong; to slumber on as an old solitary meander song to remember lost years past when we were strong; cobweb shadows time dusted weaved lifelong 'tis late but yet death knell does not dong; A curse of living too long another to add to the list; is all our friends did pass away some decades past death did slay; we outlive them all, address book fills with deleted scratched out names; none live on to recite remember our deems of fame long passed lost spring summer days; we live on to be shadow strangers in places of changes those we knew buried burned spread to scattered cemeteries; a footnote a brief adieu eyes step read by echo passes in forgotten rows of engraved tombstone names. Copyright © Terence George Craddock Written in March 2015 on the 21.3.2015. Inspired by the poem 'Mr. Flood's Party' by Edwin Arlington Robinson.
A curse of living too long, another to add to the list is all our friends pass away, we outlive them all, address book fills with scratched out names; none live on to recite remember our deems of long passed days, we live on to be strangers in places of changes, those we knew are buried or burned spread to scattered cemeteries, a footnote is a brief adieu read by who in forgotten rows of tombstone names.
I don't usually like to read longer poems, but this one to me was well worth it. It does have a typo or two, but I enjoyed it thoroughly.
I like the wit and insight in this poem about a man who is really talking to himself. Mr Flood has lost most of his friends in Tilbury Town. It is one of Robinson's very best poems, in my opinion.
I'm sorry Robinson isn't best known for this poem, which is so many ways is better than either Richard Cory or Miniver Cheevy. This one is so precise in its realism, so exact; it is, at the same time, charming and sad, humorous and tragic. I like old Eben. Thanks to Robinson, I understand him. He is not to be pitied; he should be respected. Where are those neighbors who honored him long ago - and should still?
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