Anger Poems
To The Pay Toilet
by Marge Piercy
You strop my anger, especially
when I find you in restaurant or bar
and pay for the same liquid, coming and going.
In bus depots and airports and turnpike plazas
some woman is dragging in with three kids hung off her
shrieking their simple urgency like gulls.
She's supposed to pay for each of them
and the privilege of not dirtying the corporate floor.
Sometimes a woman in a uniform's on duty
black or whatever the prevailing bottom is
......
To Posterity
by Bertolt Brecht
1.
Indeed I live in the dark ages!
A guileless word is an absurdity. A smooth forehead betokens
A hard heart. He who laughs
Has not yet heard
The terrible tidings.
Ah, what an age it is
When to speak of trees is almost a crime
......
Plutonian Ode
by Allen Ginsberg
I
What new element before us unborn in nature? Is there
a new thing under the Sun?
At last inquisitive Whitman a modern epic, detonative,
Scientific theme
First penned unmindful by Doctor Seaborg with poison-
ous hand, named for Death's planet through the
sea beyond Uranus
whose chthonic ore fathers this magma-teared Lord of
......
The Common Man
by Julian Tuwim
When plastered billboards scream with slogans
'fight for your country, go to battle'
When media's print assults your senses,
'Support our leaders' shrieks and rattles...
And fools who don't know any better
Believe the old, eternal lie
That we must march and shoot and kill
Murder, and burn, and bomb, and grill...
When press begins the battle-cry
......
The Poem Of Antar
by Antarah (Ant Ibn Shaddad
Have the poets left in the garment a place for a patch to be patched by me; and did you know the abode of your beloved after reflection?2
The vestige of the house, which did not speak, confounded thee, until it spoke by means of signs, like one deaf and dumb.
Verily, I kept my she-camel there long grumbling, with a yearning at the blackened stones, keeping and standing firm in their own places.
It is the abode of a friend, languishing in her glance, submissive in the embrace, pleasant of smile.
Oh house of 'Ablah situated at Jiwaa, talk with me about those who resided in you. Good morning to you, O house of 'Ablah, and be safe from ruin.
......
Soaked with anger
by Mario Odekerken
Soaked with anger, not with rain,
it pours throug marrow,floods the brain.
Each breath a storm,each thought a flame,
no calm to call,no one to blame.
Thunder clenched behind the eyes,
lightning fists that crack the skies.
A silent scream in heavy air,
No one listens.No one dares.
......
Thunder
by Jonathan Goff
my heart strains to speak
in thunder
but no one bothers to listen
so I bury the sound—
deep down in my ribs
where hurricanes grow teeth
what if the bitter road
i’ve hobbled down
means nothing
......
Rotten and Hungry
by Mac Schultz
Ever since I was born, I was rotten. I was born out of contempt, made out of hate. It was always going to be this way, and that is fine. I can accept it, even embrace it, I’ll find some way to aestheticize the gasoline in my blood. I feed the poison until it’s all-consuming and surrounds me in a warm blanket of filth and flesh.
I don’t want to lose it, because I don’t know what else there is. There isn’t much else for me.
I lack creativity and natural talent. A more accurate description is that I lack the words to describe the vivid feeling in my chest. The way my head throbs every day, trying to break out of its bony constraints and slither out of me because I swear there’s something meaningful in there.
So I can find comfort in the rot, in knowing that it must be worth something. It has to be, because I cannot accept that I just feel everything far too deeply and intensely until there’s nothing to feel at all.
I cannot even accept mundane kindness. I react to it like a vulture, pecking at it until I’ve taken all there is, harbouring and hunting the remnants because I just cannot trust it. I react with suspicion and - because I refuse to show that I’m afraid - my fear turns into anger.
......
Rage against the world we live in
by Mario Odekerken
Steel skies and concrete lies,
we march beneath fluorescent eyes.
Truth is sold and silence bought,
justice rots,while power's sought.
But in our fists,the fire stays-
a spark that cuts through darkest days.
We scream,we fight, we won't forgive-
we rage,because we dare to live.
villian arc
by Morgan Cockerham
I am the echo of your wants,
a whisper you can’t chase.
And when you reach for me,
I’m gone—like smoke you can't erase.
I've got some tricks tucked up my sleeve.
I've become someone I hate.
If you're drawn to pain, come closer—
I’ll hand you all my weight.
......
