PoetryAmerican Literature2014

The Facebook SonnetWelcome to the endless high-schoolReunion. Welcome to past friendsAnd lovers, however kind or cruel.Let's undervalue and unmend

The present. Why can't we pretendEvery stage of life is the same?Let's exhume, resume and extendChildhood. Let's all play the games

That preoccupy the young. Let fameAnd shame intertwine. Let one's searchFor God become public domain.Let church.com become our church.

Let's sign up, sign in and confessHere at the altar of loneliness.

-Sherman Alexie

Early December in Croton-on-Hudson

Spiked sun. The Hudson’sWhittled down by ice.I hear the bone diceOf blown gravel clicking. Bone-pale, the recent snowFastens like fur to the river.Standstill. We were leaving to deliverChristmas presents when the tire blewLast year. Above the dead valves pines paredDown by a storm stood, limbs bared . . .I want you. -Louise Gluck

The Angelus

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten musicStill fills the wide expanse,Tingeing the sober twilight of the PresentWith colors of romance:I hear your call, and see the sun descendingOn rock and wave and sand,As down the coast the Mission voices blendingGirdle the heathen land.Within the circle of your incantationNo blight nor mildew falls;Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambitionPasses 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 upliftingAbove the setting sun;And past the headland, northward, slowly driftingThe freighted galleon.O solemn bells! whose consecrated massesRecall the faith of old, —O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight musicThe

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 understandThat 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 relatesHow 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 demandThe 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 ResponseMiss 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 StoryYou are food.You are here for meto eat. Fatten up,and I will like you better.

Your brother will be first,you must wait your turn.Feed him yourself, you willlearn to do it. You will take him

eggs with yellow sauce, muffinstorn apart and leaking butter, fried meatslate in the morning, and always sweetsin a sticky parade from the kitchen.

His vigilance, an ice pick of   hungerpricking his insides, will melt

in the unctuous cream fillings.He will forget. He will thank you

for it. His little finger stuck every daythrough cracks in the barswill grow sleek and round,his hollow face swell

like the moon. He will stop dreamingabout fear in the woods without food.He will lean toward the mawof   the oven as it opens

every afternoon, sighingbetter and better smells.

-Ava Leavell Haymon

The Author to Her BookThou 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 wouldThy 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 seeMy 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 tombTo slumber in its endless gloom.Then let me never cast a look,Within Fate’s fix’d mysterious book.

-Nathaniel Hawthorne

Lectures in the EverdarkI dress in the half-light & then it’s empty porches,

the sleepybaristas. Dark roast, yes, even headlights as synecdoche & yetI’m Still Life w/Donut in search of better verb. Something there is that doesn’t lovepentameter, & how my thesis

turns specter when cross-hatched at its seems. Tenebrism, Emma says,for want of hot chocolate. More coffee I auger. Mont Blanc on theblackboard, first frost on the quad.

-Chris McCreary

These DaysThe amazing thing is notthat geese can get suckedinto an Airbus engineand cause it to conk outor that a pilot can tell airtraffic control, “There’s onlyone thing I can do,”then take a deep breathand do it—ditchin the Hudson with a buckand whine, then walkthe aisle as the plane fillswith water to make sureeveryone’s gotten out—but that afterwardsmany who weren’t hurtin a lifelong way, onlyshaken, scratched, no doubtin shock, had nothing elseto do, finally, except take a busback to LaGuardia andcatch another plane home.Amazing too howbefore long people stoptalking about it,

they move onand eventually needan extra beat to recognizethat camera-shy pilotwhen he appears—retirednow, somehow smallernow, no longer shy—as an air travel expert(“Sometimes carry-onsjust shouldn’t becarried on”) on the nightlynews and connecthis name to what he didthat day, probably—let’s face it—becauseno one died.Though most storiesdon’t endlike that. In ShanxiProvince, the BBC told melate last night whenI should’ve been asleepinstead of sitting in the dark,twenty-four workers—all men, they said, and somemuch older thanI would’ve imagined

—were trappedin a mile-deep mineshaftdeemed too dangerous nowfor a rescue, thoughapparently it was safeenough to work in. Shovelclang and gravel rumbleturned to echoingsilence. Eventuallythe company execssent down a slendersilver robot with tanktreads, tiny pincer hands,a camera for a face,but all it found—how longit looked, they didn’tsay—was a single miner’shelmet, dentedand dusty, its frail lightstill 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 –He kindly stopped for me –The Carriage held but just Ourselves –And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring –We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –The Dews drew quivering and Chill –For only Gossamer, my Gown –My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground –The Roof was scarcely visible –The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses' HeadsWere toward Eternity –

-Emily Dickinson

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 BirdThat 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 frontierBeyond 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 MilesI 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, peerIn shanties, by the sides of roads;And then a quarry pare

To fit its sides, and crawl between,Complaining all the whileIn 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 WinterTHEE 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 SleepIN midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,Of the look at first of the mortally wounded--of that indescribablelook;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 sounearthly bright,Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gatherthe 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 awayfrom 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 PoetryI ask them to take a poemand hold it up to the light like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poemand watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's roomand feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterskiacross the surface of a poemwaving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to dois tie the poem to a chair with ropeand torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hoseto find out what it really means.

-Billy Collins

iPoemSomeone's taken a bitefrom 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 smileof 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 thingabout the Garden, I'm thinking,as I sit here in the caféwith my expensive computer,afraid to get up even for a minutein order to go to the bathroombecause someone might steal it

in this fallen world she invented with a single biteof an apple nobody, and I meannobody,was going to tell her not to eat.

• -George Bilgere

House of StraysSuddenly, a hole opens in the year and we slip into it, the riptidepull 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 roadand coaxing cats in the alley with cans of tunafish and a flashlight.Why my contentment is beautiful, but highly improbable, sort of likefour 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 pocketswhile you pay the check. Gripping the railings on bridges to keepdiving over. Some dark dog in my throat when I say hello.

-Kristy Bowen

YamThe potato that ate all its carrots,can see in the dark like a mole,

its eyes the scarsfrom centuries of shovels, tines.

May spelled backwardsbecause it hates the light,

pawing its way, padding along,there in the catacombs.

-Bruce Guernsey

Bless Their HeartsAt Steak ‘n Shake I learned that if you add“Bless their hearts” after their names, you can saywhatever 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 turnedinto a sentimental old fool. He getsweepy when he hears my daughter’s greetingon our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers camesomeone else blessed her office mate’s heart,then, as an afterthought, the jealous heartsof the entire anthropology department.We bestowed blessings on many a heartthat day. I even blessed my ex-wife’s heart.Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be gettingmuch tip, for which, no doubt, he’d bless our hearts.In a week it would be Thanksgiving,

and we would each sit with our respectivefamilies, counting our blessings and blessingthe hearts of family members as only familydoes best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, pleasebless us and bless our crummy little hearts.

-Richard Newman

Christmas Tree LotsChristmas 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, corneredin 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 newsto 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 Sammight 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 kickinghis legs in the air. I won't give into the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog,or even the neighbors' Nativity.Their four-year-old has arranged

his whole legion of dinosaursso they, too, worship the child,joining the cow and sheep. Or else,ultimate mortals, they've come to eatox 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 overgrowthe 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 togetherin a white room and the curtain fluttered.Return in thought to the concert where music flared.You gathered acorns in the park in autumnand leaves eddied over the earth's scars.Praise the mutilated worldand the gray feather a thrush lost,and the gentle light that strays and vanishesand returns.

-Adam Zagajewski

Cousin NancyMiss Nancy EllicottStrode across the hills and broke them,Rode across the hills and broke them —The barren New England hills —Riding to houndsOver the cow-pasture.

Miss Nancy Ellicott smokedAnd 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 watchMatthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,The army of unalterable law.

-T.S. Eliot

The Age Demanded It

The age demanded that we singAnd cut away our tongue.

The age demanded that we flowAnd hammered in the bung.

The age demanded that we danceAnd jammed us into iron pants.

And in the end the age was handedThe sort of shit that it demanded.

-Ernest Hemingway

AgapeThe night you died, I dreamed you came to campto hear confession from an Eagle Scouttortured 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 waterfrontdown 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 deadby 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

MontparnasseThere are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knowsNo 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 deadalone in bed and very dead.(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap sudsand 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 JoyThe things that one grows tired of—O, be sureThey 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 inureMy heart to the recurrence of the springs,Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings,The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pureMust ever well within me to beholdVenus decline; or great Orion, whose beltIs studded with three nails of burning gold,Ascend the winter heaven. Who never feltThis wondering joy may yet be good or great:But envy him not: he is not fortunate.

-Robinson Jeffers

The Green CarDefend me. I am not capable.The river sweeps by three minutes at oncecleansing me of guilt. But the bearcrashes through it and breaches myinnocence.He rages and frightens my innocence.

The psychologist says, "You are the bear.You are the river.You are the green carcrossing the bridge. Defend yourself."

But the green caris in a forest I have failed to speak to.The green car was never intendedto drive in that forest,not cross a bridgethat must not exist in a real dream.Further, the real dreamdefends itself.

-Landis Everson

Portrait of a Figure near WaterRebuked, she turned and ranuphill 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.

The barn was empty of animals. Only a swallow tiltednear the beams, and batshung from the raftersthe roof sagged between.

Her breath became steady

where, years past, the farmer cooled the big tin amphoræ of milk.The stone trough was stillfilled with water: she watched it and received its calm.

So it is when we retreat in anger: we think we burn aloneand there is no balm.Then water enters, though it makes no sound.

-Jane Kenyon

Our ValleyWe don’t see the ocean, not ever, but in July and Augustwhen the worst heat seems to rise from the hard clayof this valley, you could be walking through a fig orchardwhen suddenly the wind cools and for a momentyou get a whiff of salt, and in that moment you can almostbelieve something is waiting beyond the Pacheco Pass,something massive, irrational, and so powerful eventhe mountains that rise east of here have no word for it. You probably think I’m nuts saying the mountainshave no word for ocean, but if you live hereyou begin to believe they know everything.They maintain that huge silence we think of as divine,a silence that grows in autumn when snow fallsslowly between the pines and the wind diesto less than a whisper and you can barely catchyour 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 besideand thought was yours. Remember the small boatsthat bobbed out as the waves rode in, and the menwho carved a living from it only to find themselvescarved 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 BThe 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 inmy heart)i am never without it(anywherei go you go,my dear;and whatever is doneby only me is your doing,my darling) i fearno fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i wantno world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meantand 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 budand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which growshigher 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 AmericaI, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.They send me to eat in the kitchenWhen company comes,But I laugh,And eat well,And grow strong.

Tomorrow,I’ll be at the tableWhen company comes.Nobody’ll dareSay to me,“Eat in the kitchen,"Then.

Besides, They’ll see how beautiful I amAnd 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 singingI 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 SonWell, 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 timeI’se been a-climbin’ on,And reachin’ landin’s,And turnin’ corners,And sometimes goin’ in the darkWhere 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

Dreamsin my younger yearsbefore i learnedblack people aren’tsuppose to dreami wanted to bea raeletand 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 micand scream“baaaaaby nightandday baaaaaby nightandday”then as i grew and maturedi became more sensible and decided i would settle downand just becomea sweet inspiration

-Nikki Giovanni

The Life of a DayLike people or dogs, each day is unique and has its ownpersonality quirks, which can easily be seen if you look closely.But there are so few days as compared to people, not tomention dogs, that it would be surprising if a day werenot a hundred times more interesting than most people.Usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless they arewildly nice, such as autumn ones full of red maple trees andhazy sunlight, or if they are grimly awful ones in a winterblizzard that kills the lost traveler and bunches of cattle.For some reason we want to see days pass, even though mostof 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 boredsort of way for the next, when, we are convinced, our liveswill start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by perfectlywell adjusted, as some days are, with the right amounts ofsunlight and shade, and a light breeze perfumed from themixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak leaves, and thefaint odor of last night's meandering skunk.

-Tom Hennen

The War Works HardHow magnificent the war is!How eagerand efficient! Early in the morning, it wakes up the sirensand dispatches ambulancesto various places, swings corpses through the air,rolls stretchers to the wounded,summons rainfrom the eyes of mothers, digs into the earthdislodging many thingsfrom under the ruins...Some are lifeless and glistening,others are pale and still throbbing...It produces the most questionsin the minds of children, entertains the godsby shooting fireworks and missilesinto the sky, sows mines in the fieldsand reaps punctures and blisters, urges families to emigrate, stands beside the clergymenas they curse the devil(poor devil, he remainswith one hand in the searing fire)... The war continues working, day and night. It inspires tyrantsto deliver long speeches, awards medals to generalsand themes to poets. It contributes to the industryof artificial limbs, provides food for flies, adds pages to the history books, achieves equalitybetween killer and killed, teaches lovers to write letters, accustoms young women to waiting, fills the newspaperswith articles and pictures, builds new housesfor the orphans, invigorates the coffin makers, gives grave diggersa pat on the backand paints a smile on the leader's face. The war works with unparalleled diligence! Yet no one gives ita word of praise.

-Dunya Mikhail

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 thedarkest, 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 MorningBefore war startsIn early morningThe land is breath taking.The low, blazing, ruby sunMelts the night-shadow poolsCreating an ethereal appearance.

Each miniature house and treeSprouts its, long, thin shadowStretching long on dewy ground.The countryside is panoramic maze,Jungle, hamlets, hills and waterways,Bomb-craters, paddies, broken-backed bridges.

-Curt Bennett

Rice fields glow sky-sheens,Flat, calm, mirrored lakesReflect the morning peace.The patchwork quilted earth,

Slashed by snaking tree-lines,Slumbers in dawn's blue light.

Sharp, rugged mountain peaksSleep in a soft rolling blanketOf clinging, slippery, misty fog.Effortlessly, languidly, it flowsShyly spreading wispy tentacles outTo embrace the earth with velvet arms.

Break of Day in the TrenchesThe 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 poppyTo stick behind my ear.Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knewYour cosmopolitan sympathies.Now you have touched this English handYou will do the same to a GermanSoon, no doubt, if it be your pleasureTo cross the sleeping green between.It seems you inwardly grin as you passStrong 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 eyesAt the shrieking iron and flameHurled through still heavens?What quaver—what heart aghast?Poppies whose roots are in man’s veinsDrop, and are ever dropping;But mine in my ear is safe—Just a little white with the dust.

-Isaac Rosenberg

InductionThere 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 thatThe corpses buried for six thousand years.And under thatThe rock spewed forthFrom a thousand suns.And the sky is full of ballsLike this one.You could have your pick of them.There are enough of themTo go aroundAnd then some.Land is not enough.There's always something moreThan that to drive the soldier to his duty.Don't shoot until you know it.If not, you'll miss the mark.

-Unattributed