Poetry
American Literature
2014
The Facebook Sonnet
Welcome to the endless high-school
Reunion. Welcome to past friends
And lovers, however kind or cruel.
Let's undervalue and unmend
The present. Why can't we pretend
Every stage of life is the same?
Let's exhume, resume and extend
Childhood. Let's all play the games
That preoccupy the young. Let fame
And shame intertwine. Let one's search
For God become public domain.
Let church.com become our church.
Let's sign up, sign in and confess
Here at the altar of loneliness.
-Sherman Alexie
Early December in Croton-on-Hudson
Spiked sun. The Hudson’s
Whittled down by ice.
I hear the bone dice
Of blown gravel clicking. Bonepale, the recent snow
Fastens like fur to the river.
Standstill. We were leaving to deliver
Christmas presents when the tire blew
Last year. Above the dead valves pines pared
Down by a storm stood, limbs bared . . .
I want you.
-Louise Gluck
The Angelus
Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten
music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the
sober twilight of the Present With colors of
romance: I hear your call, and see the sun
descending On rock and wave and sand, As
down the coast the Mission voices
blending Girdle the heathen land. Within the
circle of your incantation No blight nor mildew
falls; Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low
ambition Passes those airy walls. Borne on
the swell of your long waves receding, I touch
the farther Past, — I see the dying glow of
Spanish glory, The sunset dream and
last! Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission
towers, The white Presidio; The swart
commander in his leathern jerkin. The priest in
stole of snow. Once more I see Portola's cross
uplifting Above the setting sun; And past the
headland, northward, slowly drifting The
freighted galleon. O solemn bells! whose
consecrated masses Recall the faith of old, —
O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight
music The spiritual fold! Your voices break
and falter in the darkness, — Break, falter, and
are still; And veiled and mystic, like the Host
descending. The sun sinks from the hill.
-Bret Harte
Mission San Francisco de Asis
The Presidio
On Being Brought from Africa to America
'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic die."
Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.
- Phillis Wheatley
His Excellency General Washington
…Muse! Bow propitious while my pen relates
How pour her armies through a thousand gates…
In bright array they seek the work of war,
Where high unfurl'd the ensign waves in air.
Shall I to Washington their praise recite?
Enough thou know'st them in the fields of fight.
Thee, first in peace and honors—we demand
The grace and glory of thy martial band.
Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
Thy ev'ry action let the Goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, WASHINGTON! Be thine… -Phillis Wheatley
Washington’s Response
Miss Phillis,
Your favour of the 26th of October did not reach my hands ’till the middle of
December. Time enough, you will say, to have given an answer ere this. Granted.
But a variety of important occurrences, continually interposing to distract the
mind and withdraw the attention, I hope will apologize for the delay, and plead
my excuse for the seeming, but not real neglect.
I thank you most sincerely for your polite notice of me, in the elegant Lines you
enclosed; and however undeserving I may be of such encomium and panegyrick,
the style and manner exhibit a striking proof of your great poetical Talents. In
honour of which, and as a tribute justly due to you, I would have published the
Poem, had I not been apprehensive, that, while I only meant to give the World
this new instance of your genius, I might have incurred the imputation of Vanity.
This and nothing else, determined me not to give it place in the public Prints.
If you should ever come to Cambridge, or near Head Quarters, I shall be happy to
see a person so favoured by the Muses, and to whom Nature has been so liberal
and beneficent in her dispensations.
I am, with great respect, your obedient humble servant,
George Washington
The Witch Has Told You a Story
You are food.
You are here for me
to eat. Fatten up,
and I will like you better.
Your brother will be first,
you must wait your turn.
Feed him yourself, you will
learn to do it. You will take him
eggs with yellow sauce, muffins
torn apart and leaking butter, fried
meats
late in the morning, and always sweets
in a sticky parade from the kitchen.
His vigilance, an ice pick of hunger
pricking his insides, will melt
in the unctuous cream fillings.
He will forget. He will thank you
for it. His little finger stuck every day
through cracks in the bars
will grow sleek and round,
his hollow face swell
like the moon. He will stop dreaming
about fear in the woods without food.
He will lean toward the maw
of the oven as it opens
every afternoon, sighing
better and better smells.
-Ava Leavell Haymon
The Author to Her Book
Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less
wise than true,
Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view,
Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to
trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may
judg).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother
call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection
would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joynts to make thee even
feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobling then is
meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’
house I find.
In this array ’mongst Vulgars mayst thou
roam.
In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not
come;
And take thy way where yet thou art not
known,
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of
door.
-Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)
Oh, Could I Raise the Darkened
Veil
Oh could I raise the darken’d veil,
Which hides my future life from me,
Could unborn ages slowly sail,
Before my view—and could I see
My every action painted there,
To cast one look I would not dare.
There poverty and grief might stand,
And dark Despair’s corroding hand,
Would make me seek the lonely tomb
To slumber in its endless gloom.
Then let me never cast a look,
Within Fate’s fix’d mysterious book.
-Nathaniel Hawthorne
Lectures in the Everdark
I dress in the halflight & then it’s empty porches,
turns specter when crosshatched at its seems. Tenebrism,
the sleepy
baristas.
Emma says,
for want of hot chocolate. More coffee
I
Dark roast, yes,
even headlights as synecdoche & yet
I’m Still Life w/Donut
in search of
better verb. Something there is
that doesn’t love
pentameter, & how my thesis
auger. Mont Blanc on the
blackboard, first frost
on the quad.
-Chris McCreary
These Days
The amazing thing is not that
geese can get sucked into an
Airbus engine and cause it to
conk out or that a pilot can tell
air traffic control, “There’s
only one thing I can do,” then
take a deep breath and do it—
ditch in the Hudson with a
buck and whine, then walk the
aisle as the plane fills with
water to make sure everyone’s
gotten out— but that
afterwards many who weren’t
hurt in a lifelong way,
only shaken, scratched, no
doubt in shock, had nothing
else to do, finally, except take a
bus back to LaGuardia
and catch another plane
home. Amazing too
how before long people
stop talking about it, they move
on and eventually need an
extra beat to recognize that
camera-shy pilot when he
appears—retired now,
somehow smaller now, no
longer shy— as an air travel
expert (“Sometimes carryons just shouldn’t be carried
on”) on the nightly news and
connect his name to what he
did that day, probably— let’s
face it—because no one
died. Though most
stories don’t end like that. In
Shanxi Province, the BBC told
me late last night when I
should’ve been asleep instead
of sitting in the dark, twentyfour workers— all men, they
said, and some much older
than I would’ve imagined—
were trapped in a mile-deep
mineshaft deemed too
dangerous now for a rescue,
though apparently it was
safe enough to work in.
Shovel clang and gravel
rumble turned to
echoing silence.
Eventually the company
execs sent down a
slender silver robot with
tank treads, tiny pincer
hands, a camera for a face, but
all it found—how long it looked,
they didn’t say—was a single
miner’s helmet, dented and
dusty, its frail light still burning.
-Matthew Thorburn
Some Keep the Sabbath Going
to Church
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister –
And an Orchard, for a Dome –
Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –
I, just wear my Wings –
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton – sings.
God preaches, a noted Clergyman –
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –
I’m going, all along.
-Emily Dickinson
Because I Could not Stop for
Death
Because I could not stop for Death –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
He kindly stopped for me –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves – My Tippet – only Tulle –
And Immortality.
We paused before a House that
We slowly drove – He knew no haste seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
And I had put away
The Roof was scarcely visible –
My labor and my leisure too,
The Cornice – in the Ground –
For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children
strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –
-Emily Dickinson
Or rather – He passed Us –
Hope is the Thing with
Feathers
“Hope” is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops - at all And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm I’ve heard it in the chillest land And on the strangest Sea Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
-Emily Dickinson
Images of Peaceful Protest
Images of Peaceful Protest
The Saddest Noise the
Sweetest Noise
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise, The maddest noise that grows,— The birds, they
make it in the spring, At night’s delicious close. Between the March and April line— That
magical frontier Beyond which summer hesitates, Almost too heavenly near. It makes us
think of all the dead That sauntered with us here, By separation’s sorcery Made cruelly
more dear. It makes us think of what we had, And what we now deplore. We almost wish
those siren throats Would go and sing no more. An ear can break a human heart As
quickly as a spear, We wish the ear had not a heart So dangerously near.
-Emily Dickinson
I Like to See it Lap the Miles
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at
tanks; And then, prodigious, step
Around a pile of mountains, And, supercilious, peer In shanties, by the sides
of roads; And then a quarry pare
To fit its sides, and crawl between, Complaining all the while In horrid,
hooting stanza; Then chase itself down hill
And neigh like Boanerges; Then, punctual as a star, Stop--docile and
omnipotent-- At its own stable door.
-Emily Dickinson 1891
To a Locomotive in Winter
THEE for my recitative!
Thee in the driving storm, even as now—the snow—the winter-day declining;
Thee in thy panoply, thy measured dual throbbing, and thy beat convulsive;
Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel;
Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shuttling at thy sides;
Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar—now tapering in the distance;
Thy great protruding head-light, fix’d in front;
Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple;
The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack;
Thy knitted frame—thy springs and valves—the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels;
Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily-following,
Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering:
Type of the modern! emblem of motion and power! pulse of the continent!
For once, come serve the Muse, and merge in verse, even as here I see thee,
With storm, and buffeting gusts of wind, and falling snow;
By day, thy warning, ringing bell to sound its notes,
By night, thy silent signal lamps to swing.
Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant, with all thy lawless music! thy swinging lamps at night;
Thy piercing, madly-whistled laughter! thy echoes, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing all!
Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding;
(No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,)
Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d,
Launch’d o’er the prairies wide—across the lakes,
To the free skies, unpent, and glad, and strong.
-Walt Whitman, 1900
O Captain! My Captain!
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 up—for 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.
Beat! Beat! Drums!
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying,
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds,
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.
-Walt Whitman
In Midnight Sleep
IN midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish, Of the look at first of the mortally wounded--of that
indescribable look; Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide, I dream, I dream, I
dream.
Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains;
Of skies, so beauteous after a storm--and at night the moon so unearthly bright,
Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather the heaps,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
Long, long have they pass'd--faces and trenches and fields;
Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure--or away from the fallen,
Onward I sped at the time--But now of their forms at night,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
-Walt Whitman
Mississippi River Geography
Mississippi River Symbolism
Introduction to Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
-Billy Collins
iPoem
Someone's taken a bite
from my laptop's glowing apple,
the damaged fruit of our disobedience,
of which we must constantly be reminded.
There's the fatal crescent,
the dark smile
of Eve, who never dreamed of a laptop,
who, in fact, didn't even have clothes,
or anything else for that matter,
which was probably the nicest thing
about the Garden, I'm thinking,
as I sit here in the café
with my expensive computer,
afraid to get up even for a minute
in order to go to the bathroom
because someone might steal it
in this fallen world she invented
with a single bite
of an apple nobody, and I mean
nobody,
was going to tell her not to eat.
•
-George Bilgere
House of Strays
Suddenly, a hole opens in the year and we slip into it, the riptide pull of
strange, lonely dogs and broken phone lines. You forgive me if I mistake
hunted for haunted, but I do like to rearrange things in my body every few
years. Take a can of gasoline to the frayed and ghosted. Lights out. All
hands on deck. Still you wonder why I keep losing my shoes in the
road and coaxing cats in the alley with cans of tunafish and a
flashlight. Why my contentment is beautiful, but highly improbable, sort
of like four leaf clovers or an ice cream truck in the middle of the
night. This tiny thing breathing between us that aches something
awful. By summer, I am slipping all the complimentary mints in my
coat
pockets while you pay the check. Gripping the railings on
bridges to keep diving over. Some dark dog in my throat when I say hello.
-Kristy Bowen
Yam
The potato that ate all its carrots,
can see in the dark like a mole,
its eyes the scars
from centuries of shovels, tines.
May spelled backwards
because it hates the light,
pawing its way, padding along,
there in the catacombs.
-Bruce Guernsey
Bless Their Hearts
At Steak ‘n Shake I learned that if you add
“Bless their hearts” after their names, you can
say
whatever you want about them and it’s OK.
My son, bless his heart, is an idiot,
she said. He rents storage space for his kids’
toys—they’re only one and three years old!
I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned
into a sentimental old fool. He gets
weepy when he hears my daughter’s greeting
on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came
someone else blessed her office mate’s heart,
then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts
of the entire anthropology department.
We bestowed blessings on many a heart
that day. I even blessed my ex-wife’s heart.
Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting
much tip, for which, no doubt, he’d bless our
hearts.
In a week it would be Thanksgiving,
and we would each sit with our respective
families, counting our blessings and blessing
the hearts of family members as only family
does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please
bless us and bless our crummy little hearts.
-Richard Newman
Christmas Tree Lots
Christmas trees lined like war refugees,
a fallen army made to stand in their greens.
Cut down at the foot, on their last leg,
they pull themselves up, arms raised.
We drop them like wood;
tied, they are driven through the streets,
dragged through the door, cornered
in a room, given a single blanket,
only water to drink, surrounded by joy.
Forced to wear a gaudy gold star,
to surrender their pride,
they do their best to look alive.
-Chris Green
Your Luck is About to Change
(A fortune cookie)
Ominous inscrutable Chinese news
to get just before Christmas,
considering my reasonable health,
marriage spicy as moo-goo-gai-pan,
career running like a not-too-old Chevrolet.
Not bad, considering what can go wrong:
the bony finger of Uncle Sam
might point out my husband,
my own national guard,
and set him in Afghanistan;
my boss could take a personal interest;
the pain in my left knee could spread to my right.
Still, as the old year tips into the new,
I insist on the infant hope, gooing and kicking
his legs in the air. I won't give in
to the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog,
or even the neighbors' Nativity.
Their four-year-old has arranged
his whole legion of dinosaurs
so they, too, worship the child,
joining the cow and sheep. Or else,
ultimate mortals, they've come to eat
ox and camel, Mary and Joseph,
then savor the newborn babe.
-Susan Elizabeth Howe
Try to Praise the Mutilated
World
Try to praise the mutilated world.
(Click to listen to the poem being read by its poet.)
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
-Adam Zagajewski
Cousin Nancy
Miss Nancy Ellicott
Strode across the hills and broke them,
Rode across the hills and broke them —
The barren New England hills —
Riding to hounds
Over the cow-pasture.
Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked
And danced all the modern dances;
And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,
But they knew that it was modern.
Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,
The army of unalterable law.
-T.S. Eliot
The Age Demanded It
The age demanded that we sing
And cut away our tongue.
The age demanded that we flow
And hammered in the bung.
The age demanded that we dance
And jammed us into iron pants.
And in the end the age was handed
The sort of shit that it demanded.
-Ernest Hemingway
Agape
The night you died, I dreamed you came to camp
to hear confession from an Eagle Scout
tortured by forty years of sin and doubt.
You whispered vespers by a hissing lamp.
Handlers, allowing you to hike with me,
followed us to the Bad Axe waterfront
down a firebreak this camper used to hunt.
Through all I said you suffered silently.
I blamed the authors of my unbelief:
St. Paul, who would have deemed my love obscene,
the Jesuit who raped me as a teen,
the altar boy when I was six, the grief
of a child chucked from Eden, left for dead
by Peter’s Church and all the choirs above.
In a thick Polish accent choked with love,
Te Dominus amat was all you said.
-Timothy Murphy
Montparnasse
There are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knows
No successful suicides.
A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead.
(they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome)
A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead.
(no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone)
They find a model dead
alone in bed and very dead.
(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)
Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap suds
and stomach pumps rescue the people one knows.
Every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the café.
-Ernest Hemingway
Hysteria
As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter
and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars
with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps,
inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark
caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles.
An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading
a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron table,
saying: “If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the
garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the
garden ...” I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be
stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be
collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety
to this end.
-T.S. Eliot
Wonder and Joy
The things that one grows tired of—O, be sure They are only foolish
artificial things! Can a bird ever tire of having wings? And I, so long as
life and sense endure, (Or brief be they!) shall nevermore inure My
heart to the recurrence of the springs, Of gray dawns, the gracious
evenings, The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pure Must ever well
within me to behold Venus decline; or great Orion, whose belt Is
studded with three nails of burning gold, Ascend the winter heaven.
Who never felt This wondering joy may yet be good or great: But
envy him not: he is not fortunate.
-Robinson Jeffers
The Green Car
Defend me. I am not capable.
The river sweeps by three minutes at once
cleansing me of guilt. But the bear
crashes through it and breaches my
innocence.
He rages and frightens my innocence.
The psychologist says, "You are the bear.
You are the river.
You are the green car
crossing the bridge. Defend yourself."
But the green car
is in a forest I have failed to speak to.
The green car was never intended
to drive in that forest,
not cross a bridge
that must not exist in a real dream.
Further, the real dream
defends itself.
-Landis Everson
Portrait of a Figure near Water
Rebuked, she turned and ran
uphill to the barn. Anger, the inner
arsonist, held a match to her brain.
She observed her life: against her
will
it survived the unwavering flame.
where, years past, the farmer
cooled
the big tin amphoræ of milk.
The stone trough was still
filled with water: she watched it
and received its calm.
The barn was empty of animals.
Only a swallow tilted
near the beams, and bats
hung from the rafters
the roof sagged between.
So it is when we retreat in anger:
we think we burn alone
and there is no balm.
Then water enters, though it
makes
no sound.
-Jane Kenyon
Her breath became steady
Our Valley
We don’t see the ocean, not ever, but in July and August when the worst heat seems to rise from the hard clay of this
valley, you could be walking through a fig orchard when suddenly the wind cools and for a moment you get a whiff of
salt, and in that moment you can almost believe something is waiting beyond the Pacheco Pass, something massive,
irrational, and so powerful even the mountains that rise east of here have no word for it.
You probably think I’m nuts saying the mountains have no word for ocean, but if you live here you begin to believe
they know everything. They maintain that huge silence we think of as divine, a silence that grows in autumn when
snow falls slowly between the pines and the wind dies to less than a whisper and you can barely catch your breath
because you’re thrilled and terrified.
You have to remember this isn’t your land. It belongs to no one, like the sea you once lived beside and thought was
yours. Remember the small boats that bobbed out as the waves rode in, and the men who carved a living from it
only to find themselves carved down to nothing. Now you say this is home, so go ahead, worship the mountains as
they dissolve in dust, wait on the wind, catch a scent of salt, call it our life.
-Philip Levine
Theme for English B
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me at
twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see
and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you, hear me---we
two---you, me, talk on this page. (I hear New York too.)
Me---who? Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. I like a
pipe for a Christmas present, or records---Bessie, bop, or
Bach. I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races. So
will my page be colored that I write? Being me, it will not
be white. But it will be a part of you, instructor. You
are white--- yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American. Sometimes perhaps you don't want to
be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true! As I learn from you, I guess you
learn from me--- although you're older---and white--and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
-Langston Hughes
i carry your heart with me (i
carry it in)
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
-e.e. cummings
I, Too, Sing America
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.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oiCWngPt-L4
(Langston Hughes reads.)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TuRQDrySOVQ
(Denzel Washington recites.)
I hear America singing
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe
and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off
work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the
deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing
as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the
morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at
work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young
fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
-Walt Whitman
Mother to Son
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
-Langston Hughes
Dreams
in my younger years
before i learned
black people aren’t
suppose to dream
i wanted to be
a raelet
and say “dr o wn d in my youn tears”
or “tal kin bout tal kin bout”
or marjorie hendricks and grind
all up against the mic
and scream
“baaaaaby nightandday
baaaaaby nightandday”
then as i grew and matured
i became more sensible
and decided i would
settle down
and just become
a sweet inspiration
-Nikki Giovanni
The Life of a Day
Like people or dogs, each day is unique and has its own
personality quirks, which can easily be seen if you look closely.
But there are so few days as compared to people, not to
mention dogs, that it would be surprising if a day were
not a hundred times more interesting than most people.
Usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless they are
wildly nice, such as autumn ones full of red maple trees and
hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly awful ones in a winter
blizzard that kills the lost traveler and bunches of cattle.
For some reason we want to see days pass, even though most
of us claim we don't want to reach our last one for a long time.
We examine each day before us with barely a glance and say,
no, this isn't one I've been looking for, and wait in a bored
sort of way for the next, when, we are convinced, our lives
will start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by perfectly
well adjusted, as some days are, with the right amounts of
sunlight and shade, and a light breeze perfumed from the
mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak leaves, and the
faint odor of last night's meandering skunk.
-Tom Hennen
The War Works Hard
How magnificent the war is! How eager and efficient!
-Dunya Mikhail
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. The
war works with unparalleled diligence! Yet no one gives
it a word of praise.
A. E. F.
There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart,
The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust.
A spider will make a silver string nest in the
darkest, warmest corner of it.
The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty.
And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall.
Forefingers and thumbs will point casually toward it.
It will be spoken among half-forgotten, whished-to-be-forgotten things.
They will tell the spider: Go on, you're doing good work.
-Carl Sandburg
Vietnamese Morning
Before war starts In early
morning The land is breath
taking. The low, blazing, ruby
sun Melts the night-shadow
pools Creating an ethereal
appearance.
Rice fields glow sky-sheens, Flat,
calm, mirrored lakes Reflect the
morning peace. The patchwork
quilted earth, Slashed by snaking
tree-lines, Slumbers in dawn's blue
light.
Each miniature house and
tree Sprouts its, long, thin
shadow Stretching long on dewy
ground. The countryside is panoramic
maze, Jungle, hamlets, hills and
waterways, Bomb-craters, paddies,
broken-backed bridges.
Sharp, rugged mountain
peaks Sleep in a soft rolling
blanket Of clinging, slippery, misty
fog. Effortlessly, languidly, it
flows Shyly spreading wispy tentacles
out To embrace the earth with velvet
arms.
-Curt Bennett
Break of Day in the Trenches
The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet’s poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they
knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver—what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe—
Just a little white with the dust.
-Isaac Rosenberg
Induction
There are few things worth dying
for. There are few things worth living
for. Land is not enough for either. It's only
dust. And under that The corpses buried
for six thousand years. And under
that The rock spewed forth From a
thousand suns. And the sky is full of
balls Like this one. You could have your
pick of them. There are enough of
them To go around And then some. Land
is not enough. There's always something
more Than that to drive the soldier to his
duty. Don't shoot until you know it. If not,
you'll miss the mark.
-Unattributed