The War Works Hard
by Dunya Mikhail
translated by Elizabeth Winslow
How magnificent the war is!
How eager
and efficient!
Early in the morning
it wakes up the sirens
and dispatches ambulances
to various places
swings corpses through the air
rolls stretchers to the wounded
summons rain
from the eyes of mothers
digs into the earth
dislodging many things
from under the ruins...
Some are lifeless and glistening
others are pale and still throbbing...
It produces the most questions
in the minds of children
entertains the gods
by shooting fireworks and missiles
into the sky
sows mines in the fields
and reaps punctures and blisters
urges families to emigrate
stands beside the clergymen
as they curse the devil
(poor devil, he remains
with one hand in the searing fire)...
The war continues working, day and night.
It inspires tyrants
to deliver long speeches
awards medals to generals
and themes to poets
it contributes to the industry
of artificial limbs
provides food for flies
adds pages to the history books
achieves equality
between killer and killed
teaches lovers to write letters
accustoms young women to waiting
fills the newspapers
with articles and pictures
builds new houses
for the orphans
invigorates the coffin makers
gives grave diggers
a pat on the back
and paints a smile on the leader's face.
It works with unparalleled diligence!
Yet no one gives it
a word of praise.
Freedom’s Kiss
by George Pappas
(written in 2011 in response to the protests in Egypt.)
Dictators can silence nothing.
The truth speaks in its own cadence
Words are weapons traveling across borders,
countries, and even universes.
Smug politicians talk about “balanced” dictatorships.
What’s balanced about a boot on one’s throat
choking off another plea for freedom?
Yet the flame is lit.
It rises higher with each passing day
after burning silently for decades in
the hearts & souls of the oppressed
in the land of the Pharaohs.
Now this tortured ache has
finally been unleashed in a desire
for freedom’s kiss.
This freedom to
speak,
think,
love,
dream,
hope has nothing to do
with politics or ideology.
It smolders deeply in each of us
waiting
for the moment to be set free.
1
I, too, sing America
by Langston Hughes
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed-I, too, am America.
Liberty Needs Glasses
by Tupac Shakur
excuse me but lady liberty needs glasses
and so does mrs justice by her side
both the broads r blind as bats
stumbling thru the system
justice bumped into mutulu and
trippin on geronimo pratt
but stepped right over oliver
and his crooked partner ronnie
justice stubbed her big toe on mandela
and liberty was misquoted by the indians
slavery was a learning phase
forgotten with out a verdict
while justice is on a rampage
4 endangered surviving black males
i mean really if anyone really valued life
and cared about the masses
they’d take em both 2 pen optical
and get 2 pair of glasses
A Recited Truth
by Mollie H., Argyle, NY
I pledge allegiance
To the flag
Of the United States of America
And to the controversial culture for which it stands
One nation, under whatever deity you choose,
Indivisible since 1965,
With liberty and justice for all who can afford a
decent lawyer.
Sura-Min-Ra’a*
By Nedhal Abbas
(translated from the original Arabic)
On Friday morning
In Sura-Min-Ra’a
A young man lays in pieces
Torn apart by sniper’s fire
A woman
In Black A’baya
Passes by
Holding her toddler by the hand.
The child
Stares at the remains,
At a hand opened to the sky.
He reaches for a touch,
Wondering
Could it be his father’s?
________________________________
* Sura-Min-Ra’a means “a delight to the seer” in Arabic. It is
also the traditional name for the modern city of Samarra,
which stands on the east bank of the Tigris, 125 km north of
Baghdad and is famous for its Great Mosque with its unique
spiral minaret built in 847.
In October 2004, The US occupation forces led an assault on
Samarra. Hundreds of people were killed. Bodies were left in
the streets and could not be collected for fear of American
snipers.
2
Freedom Carol
By Nedhal Abbas
(translated from the original Arabic)
Ah
I’ll say it again:
There are few things
On which we all agree;
Sooner or later
You’ll be free.
Democracy is new for you
But never mind
We will teach you
Marines;
Move forward
Go on
This is what you trained for
You are the hunter
You are the predator
Freedom is beautiful
Do you hear?
Soldiers march,
On native’s bodies
Battling a stench
They chant
Freedom is beautiful
By tanks
By warplanes,
Apache, Kiowa, marine cobra.
Smoke grenades
By Sniper shots
We‘ll end your plight
They deliver.
Wrapped in democracy,
Colored in freedom,
Packages of
Un-named mutilated naked burned
Blown apart un-counted bodies
We receive
137,000
Men women and children
Mohamed, Ali, Omar, Jawad
Selma, Nadia, Fatima, Suhad
Hussein, Ahmed, Salam, Azad
Aysha, Amal, Maysoon, Nuhad
Faisal, Raad, Zaid, Widad
Nuha, Haifaa, Kifah, Souad
From a distance
Chorus of freedom recite:
Ah
We’ll say it again;
Can’t you understand?
It’s our mission
To put an end
To your plight
Excerpt from The Buried Life
by Matthew Arnold
Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reprov'd;
I knew they liv'd and mov'd
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast.
But we, my love—does a like spell benumb
Our hearts—our voices?—must we too be dumb?
Ah, well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!
3
The Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
by Pablo Neruda
All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette
stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death
Fábula De La Sirena Y Los Borrachos
(in spanish)
Todos estos señores estaban dentro
cuando ella entró completamente desnuda
ellos habían bebido y comenzaron a escupirla
ella no entendía nada recién salía del rio
era una sirena que se había extraviado
los insultos corrían sobre su carne lisa
la inmundicia cubrió sus pechos de oro
ella no sabía llorar por eso no lloraba
no sabía vestirse por eso no se vestía
la tatuaron con cigarrillos y con corchos quemados
y reían hasta caer al suelo de la taberna
ella no hablaba porque no sabía hablar
sus ojos eran color de amor distante
sus brazos construídos de topacios gemelos
sus labios se cortaron en la luz del coral
y de pronto salió por esa puerta
apenas entro al rio quedó limpia
relució como una piedra blanca en la lluvia
y sin mirar atrás nadó de nuevo
nadó hacia nunca más hacia morir.
4
“Mediterranean Landscape,” by Pablo Picasso
#387 (The Moon is distant from the Sea)
by Emily Dickinson
The
Moon is distant from the Sea -And yet, with Amber Hands -She leads Him -- docile as a Boy -Along appointed Sands He never misses a Degree -Obedient to Her Eye
He comes just so far -- toward the Town -Just so far -- goes away -Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand -And mine -- the distant Sea -Obedient to the least command
Thine eye impose on me -A Poison Tree
by William Blake
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,-And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
#952 (A Man may make a Remark)
by Emily Dickinson
A Man may make a Remark In itself - a quiet thing
That may furnish the Fuse unto a Spark
In dormant nature - lain Let us divide - with skill Let us discourse - with care Powder exists in Charcoal Before it exists in Fire Liar
By Alison G., Kensington, CA
in your mouth
you fold your paper-thin words up
like origami and grin when they take flight
as paper cranes
hope swelling in the beating of their fragile wings
filling the spaces between us
and bursting in front of my eyes
leaving
drops of happiness trickling down
forming puddles by my feet.
5
“The Scream,” by Edvard Munch
The Talking Back of Miss
Valentine Jones: Poem # one
by June Jordan
well I wanted to braid my hair
bathe and bedeck my
self so fine
so fully aforethought for
your pleasure
see:
I wanted to travel and read
and runaround fantastic
into war and peace:
I wanted to
surf
dive
fly
climb
conquer
and be conquered
THEN
I wanted to pickup the phone
and find you asking me
if I might possibly be alone
some night
(so I could answer cool
as the jewels I would wear
on bareskin for you
digmedaddy delectation:)
"WHEN
you comin ova?"
But I had to remember to write down
margarine on the list
and shoepolish and a can of
sliced pineapple in casea company
and a quarta skim milk cause Teresa's
gaining weight and don' nobody groove on
that much
girl
and next I hadta sort for darks and lights before
the laundry hit the water which I had
to kinda keep an eye on because
if the big hose jumps the sink again that
Mrs. Thompson gointa come upstairs
and brain me with a mop don' smell too
nice even though she hang
it headfirst out the winda
and I had to check
on William like to
burn hisself to death with fever
boy so thin be
callin all day "Momma! Sing to me?"
"Ma! Am I gone die?" and me not
wake enough to sit beside him longer than
to wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/
his shirt and feed him orange
juice before I fall out of sleep and
Sweet My Jesus ain but one can
left
and we not thru the afternoon
and now
you (temporarily) shownup with a thing
you says' a poem and you
call it
"Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?"
guilty po' mouth
about duty beauties of my
headrag
boozeup doozies about
never mind
cause love is blind
well
I can't use it
and the very next bodacious Blackman
call me queen
because my life ain shit
because (in any case) he ain been here to share it
with me
(dish for dish and do for do and
dream for dream)
I'm gone scream him out my house
because
what I wanted was
to braid my hair/bathe and bedeck my
self so fully because
what I wanted was
your love
not pity
because
what I wanted was
your love
your love
6
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
by Pablo Neruda
Tonight
I can write the saddest
lines.
Write
, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Puedo Escribir los Versos mas
Tristes Esta Noche
(in spanish)
Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche esta estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella tambien me quiso.
En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La bese tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo tambien la queria.
Como no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oir la noche inmensa, mas inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocio.
Que importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no esta conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazon la busca, y ella no esta conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos arboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuanto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oido.
De otro. Sera de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo.
Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
7
A Dream Within a Dream
by Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Dreams
by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
As I Grew Older
by Langston Hughes
It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun—
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky—
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!
8
The City
by C. P. Cavafy
translated by Edmund Keeley
You said: "I'll go to another country. go to another
shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
and my heart lies buried like something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I've spent so many years, wasted them,
destroyed them totally."
You won't find a new country, won't find another
shore.
This city will always pursue you.
You'll walk the same streets, grow old
in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same
houses.
You'll always end up in this city. Don't hope for
things elsewhere:
there's no ship for you, there's no road.
Now that you've wasted your life here, in this small
corner,
you've destroyed it everywhere in the world.
Lilly of the Valley
by Alicia Keys
Lilly of the Valley
Pale as the moon
Something in your eyes
Is tortured
Something is wrong
And it's hurting me.
Lilly
So soft and beautiful
So pure yet painted
By the evils of the world.
Lilly
Please don't let them
Crush your petals
And throw you to the wind
Lilly, please love yourself
From the roots deep within.
Lilly of the Valley
Don't dance for the evil one
Who cares nothing
For how precious you are
Or how tenderly you need to be picked.
Lilly
You are special
You are beautiful
And only should be treated gently
Like the breeze that blows
Like the spring sun.
Lilly
Please don't let them
Crush your petals
And throw them to the wind
Scattered
Leaving the residue of worthlessness on your lips
Forever lost
From what once was within.
9
Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angleou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Can You See the
Pride in the Panther
by Tupac Shakur
Can You See the Pride In the Panther
As he grows in splendor and grace
Topling obstacles placed in the way,
of the progression of his race.
Can You See the Pride In the Panther
as she nurtures her young all alone
The seed must grow regardless
of the fact that it is planted in stone.
Can You See the Pride In the Panthers
as they unify as one.
The flower blooms with brilliance,
and outshines the rays of the sun.
10
Celebration (1993)
by Mari Evans
I will bring you a whole person
and you will bring me a whole person
and we will have us twice as much
of love and everything
I be bringing a whole heart
and while it do have nicks and
dents and scars,
that only make me lay it down
more careful-like
An; you be bringing a whole heart
a little chipped and rusty an'
sometime skip a beat but
still an' all you bringing polish too
and look like you intend
to make it shine
And we be bringing, each of us
the music of ourselves to wrap
the other in
Forgiving clarities
Soft as a choir's last
lingering note our
personal blend
I will be bringing you someone whole
and you will be bringing me someone whole
and we be twice as strong
and we be twice as true
and we will have twice as much
of love
and everything
O Captain! My Captain!
by Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has
weather'd every rack,
the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear,
the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and
daring; But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain
lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise upfor
you the flag is flung- for
you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores
a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces
turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed
and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
11
“Starry Night,” by Vincent Van Gogh
Still I Rise
by Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
How Do I Love Thee?
(Sonnet 43)
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
12
“Aspiration,” by Aaron Douglas
Water Picture
by May Swenson
In the pond in the park
all things are doubled:
Long buildings hang and
wriggle gently. Chimneys
are bent legs bouncing
on clouds below. A flag
wags like a fishhook
down there in the sky.
The arched stone bridge
is an eye, with underlid
in the water. In its lens
dip crinkled heads with hats
that don't fall off. Dogs go by,
barking on their backs.
A baby, taken to feed the
ducks, dangles upside-down,
a pink balloon for a buoy.
Treetops deploy a haze of
cherry bloom for roots,
where birds coast belly-up
in the glass bowl of a hill;
from its bottom a bunch
of peanut-munching children
is suspended by their
sneakers, waveringly.
A swan, with twin necks
forming the figure 3,
steers between two dimpled
towers doubled. Fondly
hissing, she kisses herself,
and all the scene is troubled:
water-windows splinter,
tree-limbs tangle, the bridge
folds like a fan.
My mistress' eyes are
nothing like the sun
(Sonnet 130)
by William Shakespeare
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
13
“Water lilies,” by Claude Monet
Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love-I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-Of many far wiser than we-And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me
dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
somewhere i have never
travelled, gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose
me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring
opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world
equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
14
The Rose that Grew
from Concrete
by Tupac Shakur
Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its
dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from
concrete
when no one else ever cared.
Family
by Kelsey M., Barrington, IL
Mom
Wrinkled skin, such apparent loneliness, but a slight glow
still in her eye.
Her work unseen, she scrubs and toils voluntarily.
Striving for others’ happiness.
Dad
Pressed pants with sleek button-up shirt, a constant
image.
A man with wanting eyes.
Touch of his skin is cold.
He bleeds account numbers and constant projects.
Brother
Military-style hair with athletic soccer build.
Glides through life a magnet for ribbons and trophies.
Carries a look that screams, “Don’t stand in my way!”
Perfection is stamped on his forehead.
Me
Given everything, but my eyes are black and cold, lost in a
gaze.
Empty heart, that doesn’t want or strive.
Confused on my path, but not seeking for the right one.
Just putting one foot in front of the other.
Where I'm From
I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I'm from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger,
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments—
snapped before I budded —
leaf-fall from the family tree.
15
“Family in Georgia,” Photo by Dorothea Lange
Eating Poetry
by Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
Trees
by Joyce Kilmer
I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
9.
by E. E. Cummings
there are so many tictoc
clocks everywhere telling people
what toctic time it is for
tictic instance five toc minutes toc
past six tic
Spring is not regulated and does
not get out of order nor do
its hands a little jerking move
over numbers slowly
we do not
wind it up it has no weights
springs wheels inside of
its slender self no indeed dear
nothing of the kind.
(So,when kiss Spring comes
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
lips because tic clocks toc don't make
a toctic difference
to kisskiss you and to
kiss me)
16
“Grey Tree,” Painting by Piet Mondrian
Tears of a Teenage Mother
by Tupac Shakur
He’s bragging about his new Jordans
the Baby just ran out of milk
He’s buying gold every 2 weeks
the Baby just ran out of Pampers
He’s buying clothes for his new girl
& the Baby just ran out of medicine
u ask for money for the Baby
and Daddy just ran out the Door
Life Through My Eyes
by Tupac Shakur
Life through my bloodshot eyes
would scare a square 2 death
poverty, murder, violence
and never a moment 2 rest
Fun and games R few
but treasured like gold 2 me
cuz I realize that I must return
2 my spot in poverty
But mock my words when I say
my heart will not exist
unless my destiny comes through
and puts an end 2 all this|
I Am!
by John Clare
I am! yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest—that I loved the best—
Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
17
“Number 14 Grey,” Painting by Jackson Pollock