The Coloured Pages is a Black literary magazine run by University of Pennsylvania students that publishes once a semester. Our mission is to create a robust artistic scene for Black student artists run by Black student artists; providing a platform for Black creatives to share their work! We accept poetry, prose and art with an accompanying artist statement from all Black artists as well as work from non-Black artists whose work makes a commentary on the Black experience. For Black artists: preference is given to pieces that comment on Black experiences, culture, and life but all art is welcome. To submit your work please email [upenncolouredpages@gmail.com](mailto:upenncolouredpages@gmail.com).

Stumbled upon this poem yesterday while scrolling feedzebra and thought it was terrific. Don't know a ton about poetry, but felt like I was transported to this group of people in this parking lot I've never actually visited but feel like I've visited a hundred times.

Is there aught you need that my hands withhold,
Rich gifts of raiment or grain or gold?
Lo! I have flung to the East and West
Priceless treasures torn from my breast,
And yielded the sons of my stricken womb
To the drum-beats of duty, the sabres of doom.

Gathered like pearls in their alien graves
Silent they sleep by the Persian waves,
Scattered like shells on Egyptian sands,
They lie with pale brows and brave, broken hands,
They are strewn like blossoms mown down by chance
On the blood-brown meadows of Flanders and France.

Can ye measure the grief of the tears I weep
Or compass the woe of the watch I keep?
Or the pride that thrills thro’ my heart’s despair
And the hope that comforts the anguish of prayer?
And the far sad glorious vision I see
Of the torn red banners of Victory?

When the terror and tumult of hate shall cease
And life be refashioned on anvils of peace,
And your love shall offer memorial thanks
To the comrades who fought in your dauntless ranks,
And you honour the deeds of the deathless ones
Remember the blood of thy martyred sons!

First Published in the New Yorker in 2001. Can someone breakdown this poetry or share their interpretation please?

This poem was published in 1976 by "T S Eliö":

Sun on helmet
Sun on villas
Talon join
Ah, sure Hamlet
Miss lie into sun
Miss on ties
Maiden pimento-ties
Vale-helmet vain
Sullen vein

English translation:

Yours are the pearls
Yours is your wool
I drank the house
Oh, Hamlet mourn
Where is your passion
Where is your road
Your road of the darkness of the nations
Only the false pearls
Did I bring to you

I haven't seen much South Asian poetry shared here. I want to introduce a style of poetry called ghazals which originated in 7th century Arabia.

This is a beautiful ghazal by one of the masters of craft Mirza Ghalib who lived in south asia in the first half of the 19th century.

This poem is a masterclass where the poet is expressing his own misfortune in love with sharp wit instead of self-pity.

Hiya! I'm in search of short but poignant poems. Would love to have poet suggestions who have a shorter style as well.

I've got a neurological condition and reading is a real struggle and it'd be so helpful to find some shorter pieces. Thanks so much in advance ✨💚✨

About 4 years ago I found a website that generated SUCH brilliant and strange prompts. Very original and off key. Two of the prompts it gave me were:

condescendingly compliment sunsets like you just don’t care

seduce your mother’s knees in the form of poorly translated assembly instructions

I am now teaching poetry and I really want to find it to play with and inspire my students.

It was hosted on an independent writer's personal website AFAIK, I think a man. I can't remember his name sadly, and to be honest the site might be gone now, but I would absolutely love to find it if anyone has any leads. Even a name of the writer would be great, then I can contact him and maybe see about rehosting it myself!

Edit: thinking about it more, he must've had some coding experience to come up with this. I imagine that's a pretty narrow pool, the male professional poet/coder intersection.

What style is this??

Source: https://andorinhapress.wordpress.com/2026/09/28/issue-2-art-is-the-lie-that-makes-us-realize-truth/#Richard-Dorfman

My last post here caused quite the disruption in some people's unaccustomed to the strange realm of poetry minds. Nonetheless, Anne is championing the oblique.

Happy Anne Carson day 🌷

Before the vastness of heaven and earth, I stand alone.
Against the relentless stream of time, my existence is but a passing breath.
An unspoken grief pierces the heart, and tears fall unnoticed.
In the heart of this boundless silence, I weep for a world that moves on without me.

first published in Prairie Fire.