EN102

Dirge by Kenneth Fearing

1-2-3 was the number he played but today the number came 3-2-1; bought his Carbide at 30 and it went to 29; had the favorite at Bowie but the track was slow— O, executive type, would you like to drive a floating power, knee-action, silk-upholstered six? Wed a Hollywood star? Shoot the course in 58? Draw to the ace, king, jack? O, fellow with a will who won't take no, watch out for three cigarettes on the same, single match; O democratic voter born in August under Mars, beware of liquidated rails— Denouement to denouement, he took a personal pride in the certain, certain way he lived his own, private life, but nevertheless, they shut off his gas; nevertheless, the bank foreclosed; nevertheless, the landlord called; nevertheless, the radio broke, And twelve o'clock arrived just once too often, just the same he wore one gray tweed suit, bought one straw hat, drank one straight Scotch, walked one short step, took one long look, drew one deep breath, just one too many, And wow he died as wow he lived, going whop to the office and blooie home to sleep and biff got married and bam had children and oof got fired, zowie did he live and zowie did he die, With who the hell are you at the corner of his casket, and where the hell we going on the right-hand silver knob, and who the hell cares walking second from the end with an American Beauty wreath from why the hell not, Very much missed by the circulation staff of the New York Evening Post; deeply, deeply mourned by the B.M.T., Wham, Mr. Roosevelt; pow, Sears Roebuck; awk, big dipper; bop, summer rain; Bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong.

After great pain by Emily Dickinson

After great pain, a formal feeling comes - The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs - The stiff Heart questions 'was it He, that bore,' And 'Yesterday, or Centuries before'? The Feet, mechanical, go round - A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought - Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone - This is the Hour of Lead - Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow - First - Chill - then Stupor - then the letting go -

Sonnet by Billy Collins

All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now, and after this next one just a dozen to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas, then only ten more left like rows of beans. How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan and insist the iambic bongos must be played and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines, one for every station of the cross. But hang on here while we make the turn into the final six where all will be resolved, where longing and heartache will find an end, where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen, take off those crazy medieval tights, blow out the lights, and come at last to bed

The Rape of the Lock by Alexander Pope

And now, unveil'd, the Toilet stands display'd, Each Silver Vase in mystic Order laid. First, rob'd in White, the Nymph intent adores With Head uncover'd, the cosmetic Pow'rs. A heav'nly Image in the Glass appears, To that she bends, to that her Eyes she rears; Th' inferior Priestess, at her Altar's side, Trembling, begins the sacred Rites of Pride. Unnumber'd Treasures ope at once, and here The various Off'rings of the World appear; From each she nicely culls with curious Toil, And decks the Goddess with the glitt'ring Spoil. This Casket India's glowing Gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder Box. The Tortoise here and Elephant unite, Transform'd to Combs, the speckled and the white. Here Files of Pins extend their shining Rows, Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux. Now awful Beauty puts on all its Arms; The Fair each moment rises in her Charms, Repairs her Smiles, awakens ev'ry Grace, And calls forth all the Wonders of her Face;

A Valedictorian: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne

As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say The breath goes now, and some say, No: So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, Men reckon what it did, and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined, That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.

Batter my heart, three-personed God by John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurp'd town to another due, Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Because I could not stop for Death-- by Emily Dickinson

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 haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, 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 - 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 seemed A Swelling of the Ground - The Roof was scarcely visible - The Cornice - in the Ground - Since then - 'tis Centuries - and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity -

Digging by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.

The Sun Rising by John Donne

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus? Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school boys and sour prentices, Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long; If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay. She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus. Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

First Fight. Then Fiddle. by Gwendolyn Brooks

First fight. Then fiddle. Ply the slipping string A With feathery sorcery; muzzle the note B With hurting love; the music that they wrote B Bewitch, bewilder. Qualify to sing A Threadwise. Devise no salt, no hempen thing A For the dear instrument to bear. Devote B The bow to silks and honey.2 Be remote B A while from malice and from murdering3. A 4But first to arms, to armor. Carry hate C In front of you and harmony behind. D Be deaf to music and to beauty blind. D Win war. Rise bloody, maybe not too late C For having first to civilize a space E Wherein to play your violin with grace5

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles form earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

Something Like a Sonnet for Phillis Miracle Wheatley by June Jordan

Girl from the realm of birds florid and fleet flying full feather in far or near weather Who fell to a dollar lust coffled like meat Captured by avarice and hate spit together Trembling asthmatic alone on the slave block built by a savagery travelling by carriage viewed like a species of flaw in the livestock A child without safety of mother or marriage Chosen by whimsy but born to surprise They taught you to read but you learned how to write Begging the universe into your eyes: They dressed you in light but you dreamed with the night. From Africa singing of justice and grace, Your early verse sweetens the fame of our Race.

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister by Robert Browning

Gr-r-r--there go, my heart's abhorrence! Water your damned flower-pots, do! If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God's blood, would not mine kill you! What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? Oh, that rose has prior claims-- Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? Hell dry you up with its flames! At the meal we sit together; Salve tibi! I must hear Wise talk of the kind of weather, Sort of season, time of year: Not a plenteous cork crop: scarcely Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt; What's the Latin name for "parsley"? What's the Greek name for "swine's snout"? Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, Laid with care on our own shelf! With a fire-new spoon we're furnished, And a goblet for ourself, Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps-- Marked with L. for our initial! (He-he! There his lily snaps!) Saint, forsooth! While Brown Dolores Squats outside the Convent bank With Sanchicha, telling stories, Steeping tresses in the tank, Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, --Can't I see his dead eye glow, Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's? (That is, if he'd let it show!) When he finishes refection, Knife and fork he never lays Cross-wise, to my recollection, As do I, in Jesu's praise. I the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange pulp-- In three sips the Arian frustrate; While he drains his at one gulp! Oh, those melons! if he's able We're to have a feast; so nice! One goes to the Abbot's table, All of us get each a slice. How go on your flowers? None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy? Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble, Keep them close-nipped on the sly! There's a great text in Galatians, Once you trip on it, entails Twenty-nine district damnations, One sure, if another fails; If I trip him just a-dying, Sure of heaven as sure can be, Spin him round and send him flying Off to hell, a Manichee? Or, my scrofulous French novel On grey paper with blunt type! Simply glance at it, you grovel Hand and foot in Belial's gripe; If I double down its pages At the woeful sixteenth print, When he gathers his greengages, Ope a sieve and slip it in't? Or, there's Satan!--one might venture Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave Such a flaw in the indenture As he'd miss till, past retrieve, Blasted lay that rose-acacia We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine... 'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratia Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r--you swine!

The Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Half a league half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred: 'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do & die, Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd & thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack & Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke, Shatter'd & sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse & hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! - See more at: http://www.nationalcenter.org/ChargeoftheLightBrigade.html#sthash.a6lK2sQq.dpuf

Alzheimer's by Kelly Cherry

He stands at the door, a crazy old man Back from the hospital, his mind rattling like the suitcase, swinging from his hand, That contains shaving cream, a piggy bank, A book he sometimes pretends to read, His clothes. On the brick wall beside him Roses and columbine slug it out for space, claw the mortar. The sun is shining, as it does late in the afternoon in England, after rain. Sun hardens the house, reifies it, Strikes the iron grillwork like a smithy and sparks fly off, burning in the bushes-- the rosebushes-- While the white wood trim defines solidity in space. This is his house. He remembers it as his, Remembers the walkway he built between the front room and the garage, the rhododendron he planted in back, the car he used to drive. He remembers himself, A younger man, in a tweed hat, a man who loved Music. There is no time for that now. No time for music, The peculiar screeching of strings, the luxurious Fiddling with emotion. Other things have become more urgent. Other matters are now of greater import, have more Consequence, must be attended to. The first Thing he must do, now that he is home, is decide who This woman is, this old, white-haired woman Standing here in the doorway, Welcoming him in.

Death of a Young Son by Drowning by Margaret Atwood

He, who navigated with success the dangerous river of his own birth once more set forth on a voyage of discovery into the land I floated on but could not touch to claim. His feet slid on the bank, the currents took him; he swirled with ice and trees in the swollen water and plunged into distant regions, his head a bathysphere; through his eyes' thin glass bubbles he looked out, reckless adventurer on a landscape stranger than Uranus we have all been to and some remember. There was an accident; the air locked, he was hung in the river like a heart. They retrieved the swamped body, cairn of my plans and future charts, with poles and hooks from among the nudging logs. It was spring, the sun kept shining, the new grass leapt to solidity; my hands glistened with details. After the long trip I was tired of waves. My foot hit rock. The dreamed sails collapsed, ragged. I planted him in this country like a flag.

How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barret 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

I celebrate myself, and sing myself by Walt Whitman

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy

Yet Do I Marvel by Countee Cullen

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind And did He stoop to quibble could tell why The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus To struggle up a never-ending stair. Inscrutable His ways are, and immune To catechism by a mind too strewn With petty cares to slightly understand What awful brain compels His awful hand. Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

Design by Robert Frost

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, On a white heal-all, holding up a moth Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth-- Assorted characters of death and blight Mixed ready to begin the morning right, Like the ingredients of a witches' broth-- A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth, And dead wings carried like a paper kite. What had that flower to do with being white, The wayside blue and innocent heal-all? What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall?-- If design govern in a thing so small

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines And keep him there; and let him thence escape If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape Flood, fire, and demon --- his adroit designs Will strain to nothing in the strict confines Of this sweet order, where, in pious rape, I hold his essence and amorphous shape, Till he with Order mingles and combines. Past are the hours, the years of our duress, His arrogance, our awful servitude: I have him. He is nothing more nor less Than something simple not yet understood; I shall not even force him to confess; Or answer. I will only make him good.

I, being born a woman and distressed by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind, Am urged by your propinquity to find Your person fair, and feel a certain zest To bear your body's weight upon my breast: So subtly is the fume of life designed, To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind, And leave me once again undone, possessed. Think not for this, however, the poor treason Of my stout blood against my staggering brain, I shall remember you with love, or season My scorn wtih pity, -- let me make it plain: I find this frenzy insufficient reason For conversation when we meet again.

I, Too 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.

To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet

If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were loved by wife, then thee; If ever wife was happy in a man, Compare with me ye women if you can. I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold, Or all the riches that the East doth hold. My love is such that rivers cannot quench, Nor ought but love from thee give recompense. Thy love is such I can no way repay; The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray. Then while we live, in love let's so persever, That when we live no more we may live ever.

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One Day by X. J. Kennedy

In a prominent bar in Secaucus one day Rose a lady in skunk with a topheavy sway, Raised a knobby red finger-all turned from their beer- While with eyes bright as snowcrust she sang high and clear: 'Now who of you'd think from an eyeload of me That I once was a lady as proud as could be? Oh I'd never sit down by a tumbledown drunk If it wasn't, my dears, for the high cost of junk. 'All the gents used to swear that the white of my calf Beat the down of the swan by a length and a half. In the kerchief of linen I caught to my nose Ah, there never fell snot, but a little gold rose. 'I had seven gold teeth and a toothpick of gold, My Virginia cheroot was a leaf of it rolled And I'd light it each time with a thousand in cash- Why the bums used to fight if I flicked them an ash. 'Once the toast of the Biltmore, the belle of the Taft, I would drink bottle beer at the Drake, never draught, And dine at the Astor on Salisbury steak With a clean tablecloth for each bite I did take. 'In a car like the Roxy I'd roll to the track, A steel-guitar trio, a bar in the back, And the wheels made no noise, they turned ever so fast, Still it took you ten minutes to see me go past. 'When the horses bowed down to me that I might choose, I bet on them all, for I hated to lose. Now I'm saddled each night for my butter and eggs And the broken threads race down the backs of my legs. 'Let you hold in mind, girls, that your beauty must pass Like a lovely white clover that rusts with its grass. Keep your bottoms off barstools and marry you young Or be left-an old barrel with many a bung. 'For when time takes you out for a spin in his car You'll be hard-pressed to stop him from going too far And be left by the roadside, for all your good deeds, Two toadstools for tits and a face full of weeds.' All the house raised a cheer, but the man at the bar Made a phone call and up pulled a red patrol car And she blew us a kiss as they copped her away From that prominent bar in Secaucus, N.J.

Ballad of the Landlord by Langston Hughes

Landlord, landlord, My roof has sprung a leak. Don't you 'member I told you about it Way last week? Landlord, landlord, These steps is broken down. When you come up yourself It's a wonder you don't fall down. Ten Bucks you say I owe you? Ten Bucks you say is due? Well, that's Ten Bucks more'n I'l pay you Till you fix this house up new. What? You gonna get eviction orders? You gonna cut off my heat? You gonna take my furniture and Throw it in the street? Um-huh! You talking high and mighty. Talk on-till you get through. You ain't gonna be able to say a word If I land my fist on you. Police! Police! Come and get this man! He's trying to ruin the government And overturn the land! Copper's whistle! Patrol bell! Arrest. Precinct Station. Iron cell. Headlines in press: MAN THREATENS LANDLORD TENANT HELD NO BAIL JUDGE GIVES NEGRO 90 DAYS IN COUNTY JAIL!

Let me not to the marriage of true minds by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore by William Shakespeare

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

My lady's presence makes the roses red by Henry Constable

MY Lady's presence makes the Roses red, Because to see her lips they blush for shame. The Lily's leaves, for envy, pale became, For her white hands in them this envy bred. The Marigold the leaves abroad doth spread, 5 Because the sun's and her power is the same. The Violet of purple colour came, Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed. In brief all flowers from her their virtue take; From her sweet breath, their sweet smells do proceed; 10 The living heat which her eyebeams doth make Warmeth the ground, and quickeneth the seed. The rain, wherewith she watereth the flowers, Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers

The Kind of Man I Am at the DMV by Stacey Waite

Mommy, that man is a girl, says the boy pointing his finger, like a narrow spotlight, targeting the center of my back, his kid-hand learning to assert what he sees, his kid-hand learning the failure of gender's tidy little story about itself. The kind of man I am is a girl, the kind of man I am is pushups-on-the-basement-floor, is chest-bound-tight-against-himself, is thick-gripping-hands-to-the-wheel when the kind of man I am drives away from the boy who will become a boy, except for now, while he's still a girl-voice, a girl-face, a hairless arm, a powerless hand. That boy is a girl, that man who is a girl thinks to himself as he pulls out of the lot, his girl eyes shining in the Midwest sun.

Elena by Pat Mora

My Spanish isn`t good enough I remember how I`d smile Listening my little ones Understanding every word they´d say, Their jokes, their songs, their plots Vamos a pedirle dulces a mama. Vamos. But that was in Mexico. Now my children go to American High Schools. They speak English. At night they sit around the Kitchen table, laugh with one another. I stand at the stove and feel dumb, alone. I bought a book to learn English. My husband frowned, drank more beer. My oldest said, 'Mama, he doesn´t want you to Be smarter than he is' I´m forty, Embarrased at mispronouncing words, Embarrased at the laughter of my children, The grocery, the mailman. Sometimes I take my English book and lock myself in the bathroom, say the thick words softly, for if I stop trying, I will be deaf when my children need my help.

Facing it by Yusef Komunyakaa

My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't, dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way--the stone lets me go. I turn that way--I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman's trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

Dim Lady by Harryette Mullen

My honeybunch's peepers are nothing like neon. Today's special at Red Lobster is redder than her kisser. If Liquid Paper is white, her racks are institutional beige. If her mop were Slinkys, dishwater Slinkys would grow on her noggin. I have seen tablecloths in Shakey's Pizza Parlors, red and white, but no such picnic colors do I see in her mug. And in some minty-fresh mouthwashes there is more sweetness than in the garlic breeze my main squeeze wheezes. I love to hear her rap, yet I'm aware that Muzak has a hipper beat. I don't know any Marilyn Monroes. My ball and chain is plain from head to toe. And yet, by gosh, my scrumptious twinkie has as much sex appeal for me as any lanky model or platinum movie idol who's hyped beyond belief.

Marks by Linda Pastan

My husband gives me an A for last night's supper, an incomplete for my ironing, a B plus in bed. My son says I am average, an average mother, but if I put my mind to it I could improve. My daughter believes in Pass/Fail and tells me I pass. Wait 'til they learn I'm dropping out.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun 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.

Kind of Blue by Lynn Powell

Not Delft or delphinium, not Wedgewood among the knickknacks, not wide-eyed chicory evangelizing in the devil strip— But way on down in the moonless octave below midnight, honey, way down where you can't tell cerulean from teal. Not Mason jars of moonshine, not waverings of silk, not the long-legged hunger of a heron or the peacock's iridescent id— But Delilahs of darkness, darling, and the muscle of the mind giving in. Not sullen snow slumped against the garden, not the first instinct of flame, not small, stoic ponds, or the cold derangement of a jealous sea— But bluer than the lips of Lazarus, baby, before Sweet Jesus himself could figure out what else in the world to do but weep.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments by William Shakespeare

Not marble nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room, Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

Nuns Fret Not by William Wordsworth

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns

O my Luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel, a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

A Certain Lady by Dorothy Parker

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head And drink your rushing words with eager lips And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips When you rehearse your list of loves to me Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed And you laugh back, nor can you ever see The thousand little deaths my heart has died And you believe, so well I know my part That I am gay as morning, light as snow And all the straining things within my heart You'll never know. Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet And you bring tales of fresh adventurings Of ladies delicately indiscreet Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things And you are pleased with me, and strive anew To sing me sagas of your late delights Thus do you want me — marveling, gay, and true Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights And when, in search of novelty, you stray Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go And what goes on, my love, while you're away You'll never know

On Yom Kippur in 1967 by Yehuda Amichai

On Yom Kippur in 1967, the Year of Forgetting, I put on my dark holiday clothes and walked to the Old City of Jerusalem. For a long time I stood in front of an Arab's hole-in-the-wall shop, not far from the Damascus Gate, a shop with buttons and zippers and spools of thread in every color and snaps and buckles. A rare light and many colors, like an open Ark. I told him in my heart that my father too had a shop like this, with thread and buttons. I explained to him in my heart about all the decades and the causes and the events, why I am now here and my father's shop was burned there and he is buried here. When I finished, it was time for the Closing of the Gates prayer. He too lowered the shutters and locked the gate and I returned, with all the worshippers, home.

Sea of Faith by John Brehm

Once when I was teaching "Dover Beach" to a class of freshmen, a young woman raised her hand and said, "I'm confused about this 'Sea of Faith.' " "Well," I said, "let's talk about it. We probably need to talk a bit about figurative language. What confuses you about it?" "I mean, is it a real sea?" she asked. "You mean, is it a real body of water that you could point to on a map or visit on a vacation?" "Yes," she said. "Is it a real sea?" Oh Christ, I thought, is this where we are? Next year I'll be teaching them the alphabet and how to sound words out. I'll have to teach them geography, apparently, before we can move on to poetry. I'll have to teach them history, too- a few weeks on the Dark Ages might be instructive. "Yes," I wanted to say, "it is. It is a real sea. In fact it flows right into the Sea of Ignorance IN WHICH YOU ARE DROWNING. Let me throw you a Rope of Salvation before the Sharks of Desire gobble you up. Let me hoist you back up onto this Ship of Fools so that we might continue our search for the Fountain of Youth. Here, take a drink of this. It's fresh from the River of Forgetfulness." But of course I didn't say any of that. I tried to explain in such a way as to protect her from humiliation, tried to explain that poets often speak of things that don't exist. It was only much later that I wished I could have answered differently, only after I'd betrayed myself and been betrayed that I wished it was true, wished there really was a Sea of Faith that you could wade out into, dive under its blue and magic waters, hold your breath, swim like a fish down to the bottom, and then emerge again able to believe in everything, faithful and unafraid to ask even the simplest of questions, happy to have them simply answered.

In an Artist's Studio by Christina Rossetti

One face looks out from all his canvasses, One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans; We found her hidden just behind those screens, That mirror gave back all her loveliness. A queen in opal or in ruby dress, A nameless girl in freshest summer greens, A saint, an angel;— every canvass means The same one meaning, neither more nor less. He feeds upon her face by day and night, And she with true kind eyes looks back on him Fair as the moon and joyfull as the light; Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim; Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright; Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

The Beautiful Changes by Richard Wilbur

One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides The Queen Anne's Lace lying like lilies On water; it glides So from the walker, it turns Dry grass to a lake, as the slightest shade of you Valleys my mind in fabulous blue Lucernes. The beautiful changes as a forest is changed By a chameleon's tuning his skin to it; As a mantis, arranged On a green leaf, grows Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows. Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and things' selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

That time of year thou mayst in me behold by William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the deathbed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

The Twenty-Third Psalm by Anonymous

The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green Pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake, Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me, thy rod and staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointed my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks

The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon.

Range-Finding by Robert Frost

The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung And cut a flower beside a ground bird's nest Before it stained a single human breast. The stricken flower bent double and so hung. And still the bird revisited her young. A butterfly its fall had dispossessed A moment sought in air his flower of rest, Then lightly stooped to it and fluttering clung. On the bare upland pasture there had spread O'ernight 'twixt mullein stalks a wheel of thread And straining cables wet with silver dew. A sudden passing bullet shook it dry. The indwelling spider ran to greet the fly, But finding nothing, sullenly withdrew.

What Is the Zoo for What by Patricia Lockwood

The word "zoo" is a zoo for the zoo. A fountain is a zoo for water, the song is a zoo for sound, the harmonica is a zoo for the hot breath of Neil Young, vagina is a zoo for baby. Baby, girl baby, is a zoo for vagina. The rose is a zoo for the smell of the rose, the smell of the rose rattles its cage, the zookeeper throws something bleeding to it, the something bleeding is not enough, a toddler fell into the cage of the rose, the toddler was entirely eaten. His name was Rilke, it was in all the papers. A Little Pine Box is a zoo for him now, it said in all the papers. Then all the kids started doing it. Falling into the violet's cage, approaching the cave where the smell of violets slept, getting their whole head clawed off by it. Neil Young did it to a buttercup and his face got absolutely mauled. The music that was piped into the zoo let all the longing escape from it and it ran riot over the earth, full of the sight of the smell of a buttercup rearranging the face of Neil Young, attacking pets at random, attacking me in my bed as I slept, attacking the happy wagging ends of my poems. Can I put Neil Young in a poem. Will he get trapped in there forever. My voice is a zoo right now for this, and this paces very much inside it, it would like very much to escape and eat hot blood again and go home, and right down to the restless way I walk I am an argument against zoos. Zoo is very cruel. Let everything out and live in the wild. Let it hunt for itself again. Get the stink of human hand off it. But the hand is a zoo for hold.

The Word Plum by Helen Chasin

The word plum is delicious pout and push, luxury of self-love, and savoring murmur full in the mouth and falling like fruit taut skin pierced, bitten, provoked into juice, and tart flesh question and reply, lip and tongue of pleasure.

There was a young girl from St Paul by Anonymous

There was a young girl from St Paul, Wore a newspaper-dress to a ball. The dress caught on fire And burned her entire Front page, sporting section and all.

Metrical Feet by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks, strong foot!, yet ill able Ever to come up with Dactyl's trisyllable. Iambics march from short to long. With a leap and a bound the swift Anapests throng. One syllable long, with one short at each side, Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride -- First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred Racer. If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise, And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies; Tender warmth at his heart, with these meters to show it, WIth sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a poet -- May crown him with fame, and must win him the love Of his father on earth and his father above. My dear, dear child! Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridge See a man who so loves you as your fond S.T. Colerige.

The Star by Jane Taylor

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky. When the blazing sun is set, And the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. Then the traveler in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark, He could not see where to go If you did not twinkle so. In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye Till the sun is in the sky. As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Upon the breeze she spread her golden hair by Francesco Petrarch

Upon the breeze she spread her golden hair that in a thousand gentle knots was turned and the sweet light beyond all radiance burned in eyes where now that radiance is rare; and in her face there seemed to come an air of pity, true or false, that I discerned: I had love's tinder in my breast unburned, was it a wonder if it kindled there? She moved not like a mortal, but as though she bore an angel's form, her words had then a sound that simple human voices lack; a heavenly spirit, a living sun was what I saw; now, if it is not so, the wound's not healed because the bow goes slack.

The Facebook Sonnet by Sherman Alexie

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 play all the games That occupy 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.

Dothead by Amit Majmudar

Well yes, I said, my mother wears a dot. I know they said "third eye" in class, but it's not an eye eye, not like that. It's not some freak third eye that opens on your forehead like on some Chernobyl baby. What it means is, what it's showing is, there's this unseen eye, on the inside. And she's marking it. It's how the X that says where treasure's at is not the treasure, but as good as treasure,-- All right. What I said wasn't half so measured. In fact, I didn't say a thing. Their laughter had made my mouth go dry. Lunch was after World History; that week was India--myths, caste system, suttee, all the Greatest Hits. The white kids I was sitting with were friends, at least as I defined a friend back then. So wait, said Nick, does your mom wear a dot? I nodded, and I caught a smirk on Todd-- She wear it to the shower? And to bed?-- while Jesse sucked his chocolate milk and Brad was getting ready for another stab. I said, Hand me that ketchup packet there. And Nick said, What? I snatched it, twitched the tear, and squeezed dollop on my thumb and worked circles till the red planet entered the house of war and on my forehead for the world to see my third eye burned those schoolboys in their seats, their flesh in little puddles underneath, pale pools where Nataraja cooled his feet.

Harlem 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?

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why by Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

When I consider how my light is spent by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."

To a Daughter Leaving Home by Linda Pastan

When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away on two round wheels, my own mouth rounding in surprise when you pulled ahead down the curved path of the park, I kept waiting for the thud of your crash as I sprinted to catch up, while you grew smaller, more breakable with distance, pumping, pumping for your life, screaming with laughter, the hair flapping behind you like a handkerchief waving goodbye.

Women have loved before as I love now by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Women have loved before as I love now; At least, in lively chronicles of the past— Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mast Much to their cost invaded—here and there, Hunting the amorous line, skimming the rest, I find some woman bearing as I bear Love like a burning city in the breast. I think however that of all alive I only in such utter, ancient way Do suffer love; in me alone survive The unregenerate passions of a day When treacherous queens, with death upon the tread, Heedless and willful, took their knights to bed.

Identity Card by Mahmoud Darwish

Write down ! I am an Arab And my identity card number is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth will come after a summer Will you be angry? . Write down! I am an Arab Employed with fellow workers at a quarry I have eight children I get them bread Garments and books from the rocks.. I do not supplicate charity at your doors Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber So will you be angry? . Write down! I am an Arab I have a name without a title Patient in a country Where people are enraged My roots Were entrenched before the birth of time And before the opening of the eras Before the pines, and the olive trees And before the grass grew. My father.. descends from the family of the plow Not from a privileged class And my grandfather..was a farmer Neither well-bred, nor well-born! Teaches me the pride of the sun Before teaching me how to read And my house is like a watchman's hut Made of branches and cane Are you satisfied with my status? I have a name without a title! . Write down! I am an Arab You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors And the land which I cultivated Along with my children And you left nothing for us Except for these rocks.. So will the State take them As it has been said?! . Therefore! Write down on the top of the first page: I do not hate poeple Nor do I encroach But if I become hungry The usurper's flesh will be my food Beware.. Beware.. Of my hunger And my anger!

Hip Hop by Mos Def

You say one for the treble, two for the time Come on y'all let's rock this! You say one for the treble, two for the time Come on! Speech is my hammer, bang the world into shape Now let it fall, My restlessness is my nemesis It's hard to really chill and sit still Committed to page, I write rhymes Sometimes won't finish for days Scrutinize my literature, from the large to the miniature I mathematically add-minister Subtract the wack Selector, wheel it back, I'm feeling that (Ha ha ha) From the core to the perimeter black, You know the motto Stay fluid even in staccato (Mos Def) Full blooded, full throttle Breathe deep inside the trunk hollow There's the hum, young man where you from Brooklyn number one Native son, speaking in the native tongue I got my eyes on tomorrow (there it is) While you still try to follow where it is I'm on the Ave where it lives and dies Violently, silently Shine so vibrantly that eyes squint to catch a glimpse Embrace the bass with my dark ink fingertips Used to speak the king's English But caught a rash on my lips So now my chat just like dis Long range from the base-line (switch) Move like an apparition Float to the ground with ammunition (chi-chi-chi-POW) Move from the gate, voice cued on your tape Putting food on your plate Many crews can relate Who choosing your fate (yo) We went from picking cotton To chain gang line chopping To Be-Bopping To Hip-Hopping Blues people got the blue chip stock option Invisible man, got the whole world watching (where ya at) I'm high, low, east, west, All over your map I'm getting big props, with this thing called hip hop Where you can either get paid or get shot When your product in stock The fair-weather friends flock When your chart position drop Then the phone calls, Chill for a minute Let's see who else tops Snatch your shelf spot Don't gas yourself ock The industry just a better built cell block A long way from the shell tops And the bells that L rocked (rock, rock, rock, rock) Hip Hop is prosecution evidence The out of court settlement Ad space for liquor Sick without benefits Luxury tenements choking the skyline It's low life getting tree-top high Here there's a back water remedy Bitter intent to memory A class E felony Facing the death penalty Stimulant and sedative, original repetitive Violently competitive, a school unaccredited The break beats you get broken with on time and inappropriate Hip Hop went from selling crack to smoking it Medicine for loneliness Remind me of Thelonius and Dizzy Propers to B-Boys getting busy The war-time snap shot The working man's jack-pot A two dollar snack box Sold beneath the crack spot Olympic sponsor of the black glock Gold medalist in the back shot From the sovereign state of the have-nots Where farmers have trouble with cash crops It's all city like phase two Hip Hop will simply amaze you Craze you, pay you Do whatever you say do But black, it can't save you

The White House by Claude McKay

Your door is shut against my tightened face, And I am sharp as steel with discontent; But I possess the courage and the grace To bear my anger proudly and unbent. The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet, And passion rends my vitals as I pass, A chafing savage, down the decent street; Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass. Oh, I must search for wisdom every hour, Deep in my wrathful bosom sore and raw, And find in it the superhuman power To hold me to the letter of your law! Oh, I must keep my heart inviolate Against the potent poison of your hate.

My Love for You is So Embarrrasingly by Todd Boss

grand...would you mind terribly, my groundling, if I compared it to the Hindenburg (I mean, before it burned)-- that vulnerable, elephantine dream of transport, a fabric Titanic on an ocean of air? There: with binoculars, dear, you can just make me out, in a gondola window, wildly flapping both arms as the ship's shadow moves like a vagrant country across the country where you live in a relative safety. I pull that oblong shadow along behind me wherever I go. It is so big, and goes so slowly, it alters ground temperatures noticeably, makes housewives part kitchen curtains, wrings whimpers from German shepherds. Aren't I ridiculous? Isn't it anachronistic, this dirigible devotion, this Zeppelin affection, a moon that touches, with a kiss of wheels, the ground you take for granted beneath your heels?---

in Just-- by e. e. cummings

in Just- spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee and eddieandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful the queer old balloonman whistles far and wee and bettyandisbel come dancing from hop-scotch and jump-rope and it's spring and the goat-footed balloonMan whistles far and wee

next to of course god america I by e. e. cummings

next to of course god america i love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh say can you see by the dawn's early my country 'tis of centuries come and go and are no more what of it we should worry in every language even deafanddumb thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry by jingo by gee by gosh by gum why talk of beauty what could be more beaut- iful than these heroic happy dead who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter they did not stop to think they died instead then shall the voice of liberty be mute? He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

cream of wheat by Lucille Clifton

sometimes at night we stroll the market aisles ben and jemima and me they walk in front remembering this and that i lag behind trying to remove my chefs cap wondering about what ever pictured me then left me personless Rastus i read in an old paper i was called rastus but no mother ever gave that to her son toward dawn we return to our shelves our boxes ben and jemima and me we pose and smile i simmer what is my name