Let me redirect your time,
or better yet redirect your mind.
You keep telling me stories and
I'm just amused by your lies.
I wonder where we are going,
but then I remember it's all
a waste of time. You are a liar
and you will never be mind.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
From The Drak Tower
From The Dark Tower
We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made eternally to weep.
The night whose sable breast relieves the stark
White stars is no less lovely being dark,
And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.
By: Countee Cullen
Countee Cullen is poet, anthologist, novelist, translator, children's writer, and playwright. I pick this poem, because of the symbols in this poem. In this poem, Cullen expresses the crux of the protest poem which so flourished in the Harlem Renaissance. In poem after poem, articulate young Negroes answered these questions or asked them again, these questions and many more. And in the asking, and in the answering, they were speaking of the old, well-worn (though never quite realized) American ideals. Cullen symbols invariably refer to the natural sequence of things—the hope eventually realized, or the "just deserts" finally obtained. The sowing-reaping symbol here effectively expresses the frustration that inevitably falls to the individual or group of people caught in an unjust system. The image of a person planting the seeds of his labor, knowing even as he plants that "others" will pluck the fruit, is a picture of the frustration which is so often the Negro's lot. These images imply certain questions: What must be the feelings of the one who plants and how long will he continue to plant without reward?
We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made eternally to weep.
The night whose sable breast relieves the stark
White stars is no less lovely being dark,
And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.
By: Countee Cullen
Countee Cullen is poet, anthologist, novelist, translator, children's writer, and playwright. I pick this poem, because of the symbols in this poem. In this poem, Cullen expresses the crux of the protest poem which so flourished in the Harlem Renaissance. In poem after poem, articulate young Negroes answered these questions or asked them again, these questions and many more. And in the asking, and in the answering, they were speaking of the old, well-worn (though never quite realized) American ideals. Cullen symbols invariably refer to the natural sequence of things—the hope eventually realized, or the "just deserts" finally obtained. The sowing-reaping symbol here effectively expresses the frustration that inevitably falls to the individual or group of people caught in an unjust system. The image of a person planting the seeds of his labor, knowing even as he plants that "others" will pluck the fruit, is a picture of the frustration which is so often the Negro's lot. These images imply certain questions: What must be the feelings of the one who plants and how long will he continue to plant without reward?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Poem about My Rights
"Poem about My Rights"
Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can't
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can't do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can't do what I want to do with my own
body and
who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if the guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he
and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I am
which is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if
after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:
Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
before that
it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
that I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in other
words
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
me
I am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
my self
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and
whether it's about walking out at night
or whether it's about the love that I feel or
whether it's about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundaries
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and disputably single and singular heart
I have been raped
be-
cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial I
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent
to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
cars
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can't tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life
By: June Jordan
African-American poet, novelist, and playwright June Jordan wrote for all ages, but her concern for children, especially African-American children, always stood out in her work. In terms of writing for young adults, she is well known for His Own Where, a novel offering hope for those who live in poverty; but Jordan has also created distinguished poetic work for children, including Who Look at Me. In addition to aiming some of her own writings at young readers, Jordan has made efforts to help children write, leading workshops for African-American and Hispanic youngsters and editing a collection of some of their work with Terri Bush in The Voice of the Children. June Jordan, born in 1936, was a revolutionary outspoken, brilliant, talented writer, educator, and activist, who before her death also founded "Poetry for the People" and participated in anti-globalization protests. Her subject matters included issues related to racism, sexism, classism, and many other topics. Jordan passed away in June, 2002, from breast cancer.
I picked this poem, because June Jordan expresses the worth of women throughout her poem. This poem to me captures her voice, pain, rage, and resolution pertaining to a woman’s minds and emotions.
Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can't
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can't do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can't do what I want to do with my own
body and
who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if the guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he
and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I am
which is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if
after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:
Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
before that
it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
that I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in other
words
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
me
I am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
my self
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and
whether it's about walking out at night
or whether it's about the love that I feel or
whether it's about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundaries
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and disputably single and singular heart
I have been raped
be-
cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial I
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent
to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
cars
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can't tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life
By: June Jordan
African-American poet, novelist, and playwright June Jordan wrote for all ages, but her concern for children, especially African-American children, always stood out in her work. In terms of writing for young adults, she is well known for His Own Where, a novel offering hope for those who live in poverty; but Jordan has also created distinguished poetic work for children, including Who Look at Me. In addition to aiming some of her own writings at young readers, Jordan has made efforts to help children write, leading workshops for African-American and Hispanic youngsters and editing a collection of some of their work with Terri Bush in The Voice of the Children. June Jordan, born in 1936, was a revolutionary outspoken, brilliant, talented writer, educator, and activist, who before her death also founded "Poetry for the People" and participated in anti-globalization protests. Her subject matters included issues related to racism, sexism, classism, and many other topics. Jordan passed away in June, 2002, from breast cancer.
I picked this poem, because June Jordan expresses the worth of women throughout her poem. This poem to me captures her voice, pain, rage, and resolution pertaining to a woman’s minds and emotions.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
"Puppy Love" My Prose Poem
Puppy Love (Prose Poem)
Back when I was a little girl, I fell in love with my first crush. I met him in the sandbox during recess and by naptime; I planned our whole life together. We were to be married July 17, 2006 at my family church. I would walk down the aisle wearing a stunning white gown holding my dad’s arm and he would be waiting for me in his all black tuxedo. After the exchanging of our vows, we would live happily ever after like all the fairytales I read about. However, my fairytale started to change towards the end of the day, when my crush on this boy started to fade away. My crush started to fade away, when I seen his best friend walking my way.
Back when I was a little girl, I fell in love with my first crush. I met him in the sandbox during recess and by naptime; I planned our whole life together. We were to be married July 17, 2006 at my family church. I would walk down the aisle wearing a stunning white gown holding my dad’s arm and he would be waiting for me in his all black tuxedo. After the exchanging of our vows, we would live happily ever after like all the fairytales I read about. However, my fairytale started to change towards the end of the day, when my crush on this boy started to fade away. My crush started to fade away, when I seen his best friend walking my way.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
"Good Night, Willie Lee, I'll See You in the Morning"
"Good Night, Willie Lee, I'll See You in the Morning"
Looking down into my fathers
dead face
for the last time
my mother said without
tears, without smiles
but with civility
"Good night, Willie Lee, Ill see you
in the morning."
And it was then I knew that the healing
of all our wounds
is forgiveness
that permits a promise
of our return
at the end.
By: Alice Walker
I picked this poem, because I believe it is an great interpretation of a elegy poem. Because how the woman knows her husband is dead, but she still looks down at him and say “I’ll see you in the morning.” Walker uses this poem to display the destructive results of a woman's need for a love relationship with a man. Her images of pain and death, suggest the physical and mental stress on a woman in this double bind. Walker uses this poem to show the continuing vulnerability of heart and body, but we also see hints of an emerging awareness of woman's equal need, and increasing ability, to resist abuse.
Looking down into my fathers
dead face
for the last time
my mother said without
tears, without smiles
but with civility
"Good night, Willie Lee, Ill see you
in the morning."
And it was then I knew that the healing
of all our wounds
is forgiveness
that permits a promise
of our return
at the end.
By: Alice Walker
I picked this poem, because I believe it is an great interpretation of a elegy poem. Because how the woman knows her husband is dead, but she still looks down at him and say “I’ll see you in the morning.” Walker uses this poem to display the destructive results of a woman's need for a love relationship with a man. Her images of pain and death, suggest the physical and mental stress on a woman in this double bind. Walker uses this poem to show the continuing vulnerability of heart and body, but we also see hints of an emerging awareness of woman's equal need, and increasing ability, to resist abuse.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Juke Box Love Song
Juke Box Love Song
I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue busses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day--
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.
By: Langston Hughes
I love this poem, because Langston Hughes uses a literary point to explain the love he has for Harlem and a pass relationship. I love this poem, because it is basically Langston Hughes’s view of jazz and his environment in relation to Harlem, New York. The environment in which everything is represented makes it very clear that all of these elements are detailed very clearly through descriptive words and he still involves his acts against stereotyping in general in the poem by stating,” Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.” To me this part talks about a pass relationship in Harlem that Langston Hughes had and this poem was a way for him to reminisce on the times they spent together.
I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue busses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day--
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.
By: Langston Hughes
I love this poem, because Langston Hughes uses a literary point to explain the love he has for Harlem and a pass relationship. I love this poem, because it is basically Langston Hughes’s view of jazz and his environment in relation to Harlem, New York. The environment in which everything is represented makes it very clear that all of these elements are detailed very clearly through descriptive words and he still involves his acts against stereotyping in general in the poem by stating,” Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.” To me this part talks about a pass relationship in Harlem that Langston Hughes had and this poem was a way for him to reminisce on the times they spent together.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Lost "Free Verse"
I woke up this morning with something on my mind,
but it all was lost according to time.
I woke up this morning,
trying to grasp what I lost.
But time currputed my mind and
the thought was lost.
but it all was lost according to time.
I woke up this morning,
trying to grasp what I lost.
But time currputed my mind and
the thought was lost.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Coal
Coal
I
is the total black, being spoken
from the earth's inside.
There are many kinds of open
how a diamond comes into a knot of flame
how sound comes into a words, coloured
by who pays what for speaking.
Some words are open like a diamond
on glass windows
singing out within the crash of sun
Then there are words like stapled wagers
in a perforated book - buy and sign and tear apart -
and come whatever will all chances
the stub remains
an ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.
Some words live in my throat
breeding like adders. Other know sun
seeking like gypsies over my tongue
to explode through my lips
like young sparrows bursting from shell.
Some words
bedevil me
Love is word, another kind of open.
As the diamond comes into a knot of flame
I am Black because I come from the earth's inside
Now take my word for jewel in the open light.
By: Audre Lorde
Audre Lorde was born in 1934 in New York to parents of West Indian heritage. She passed away in 1992, a victim of breast cancer. Her battle with the disease, which was chronicled in works like The Cancer Journals, was just one of many struggles she had to deal with in life. Audre Lorde was a black homosexual female in a world dominated by white heterosexual males. She fought for justice on each of these minority fronts. Her writings protest against the swallowing of black American culture by an indifferent white population, against the perpetuation of sex discrimination, and against the neglect of the movement for gay rights. Her poetry, however, is not entirely political in content. It is extremely romantic in nature and is described by Joan Martin as ringing with, "passion, sincerity, perception, and depth of feeling."
American writer Audre Lorde calls herself “a black feminist lesbian mother poet" because her identity is based on the relationship of many divergent perspectives once perceived as incompatible. Thematically, she expresses or explores pride, love, anger, fear, racial and sexual oppression, urban neglect, and personal survival. Moreover, she eschews a hope for a better humanity by revealing truth in her poetry. She states, "I feel have a duty to speak the truth as I see it and to share not just my triumphs, not just the things that felt good, but the pain, the intense, often unmitigating pain." Lorde was a prolific writer who continually explored the marginalization’s experienced by individuals in a society fearful of differences.
In the poem “Coal," the controlling metaphor of coal, staple fuel, celebrates "the total black, being spoken/From the earth's inside," which becomes in its idealized form, the jewel, diamond. In the this reading, the poem's final visionary lines . . . claim their political identity precisely through an empowering biologism. . . . For Black American poets it meant a call to a poetics of Blackness which emphasized the role of poet as activist and leader and the role of poetry as expression of an intrinsically Black vision.
I
is the total black, being spoken
from the earth's inside.
There are many kinds of open
how a diamond comes into a knot of flame
how sound comes into a words, coloured
by who pays what for speaking.
Some words are open like a diamond
on glass windows
singing out within the crash of sun
Then there are words like stapled wagers
in a perforated book - buy and sign and tear apart -
and come whatever will all chances
the stub remains
an ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.
Some words live in my throat
breeding like adders. Other know sun
seeking like gypsies over my tongue
to explode through my lips
like young sparrows bursting from shell.
Some words
bedevil me
Love is word, another kind of open.
As the diamond comes into a knot of flame
I am Black because I come from the earth's inside
Now take my word for jewel in the open light.
By: Audre Lorde
Audre Lorde was born in 1934 in New York to parents of West Indian heritage. She passed away in 1992, a victim of breast cancer. Her battle with the disease, which was chronicled in works like The Cancer Journals, was just one of many struggles she had to deal with in life. Audre Lorde was a black homosexual female in a world dominated by white heterosexual males. She fought for justice on each of these minority fronts. Her writings protest against the swallowing of black American culture by an indifferent white population, against the perpetuation of sex discrimination, and against the neglect of the movement for gay rights. Her poetry, however, is not entirely political in content. It is extremely romantic in nature and is described by Joan Martin as ringing with, "passion, sincerity, perception, and depth of feeling."
American writer Audre Lorde calls herself “a black feminist lesbian mother poet" because her identity is based on the relationship of many divergent perspectives once perceived as incompatible. Thematically, she expresses or explores pride, love, anger, fear, racial and sexual oppression, urban neglect, and personal survival. Moreover, she eschews a hope for a better humanity by revealing truth in her poetry. She states, "I feel have a duty to speak the truth as I see it and to share not just my triumphs, not just the things that felt good, but the pain, the intense, often unmitigating pain." Lorde was a prolific writer who continually explored the marginalization’s experienced by individuals in a society fearful of differences.
In the poem “Coal," the controlling metaphor of coal, staple fuel, celebrates "the total black, being spoken/From the earth's inside," which becomes in its idealized form, the jewel, diamond. In the this reading, the poem's final visionary lines . . . claim their political identity precisely through an empowering biologism. . . . For Black American poets it meant a call to a poetics of Blackness which emphasized the role of poet as activist and leader and the role of poetry as expression of an intrinsically Black vision.
Monday, March 15, 2010
"Wise I"
Wise I
WHY's (Nobody Know
The Trouble I Seen)
Trad.
If you ever find
yourself, some where
lost and surrounded
by enemies
who won't let you
speak in your own language
who destroy your statues
& instruments, who ban
your oom boom ba boom
then you are in trouble
deep trouble
they ban your
oom boom ba boom
you in deep deep
trouble
humph!
probably take you several hundred years
to get
out!
By: Amiri Baraka
Amiri Baraka was born in Newark, New Jersey, where his father worked as a postman and lift operator. He studied at Rutgers, Columbia, and Howard Universities, leaving without a degree, and at the New School for Social Research. His major fields of study were philosophy and religion. Baraka also served three years in the U.S. Air Force as a gunner. Baraka continued his studies of comparative literature at Columbia University. He has taught at a number of universities, including the State University of New York at Buffalo.
In 1956 Baraka began his career as a writer, activist, and advocate of black culture and political power. In 1958 he founded Totem Press. In Harlem he established the Black Arts Repertory Theatre, which presented poetry readings, concerts, and produced a number of plays. The theatre was disbanded in 1966 and Baraka set up in Newark the Spirit House, a black community theatre (also known as the Heckalu Community Centre). In 1968 Baraka founded the Black Community Development and Defense Organization. He has also been Secretary-General of the National Black Political Assembly and Chairman of the Congress of African People. Doing his life time, Baraka published over 40 books of essays, poems, drama, and music history and criticism, a poet icon and revolutionary political activist novels.
I love the poem “Wise” by Baraka, because creatively and critically explores issues of racism, national oppression and colonialism.
WHY's (Nobody Know
The Trouble I Seen)
Trad.
If you ever find
yourself, some where
lost and surrounded
by enemies
who won't let you
speak in your own language
who destroy your statues
& instruments, who ban
your oom boom ba boom
then you are in trouble
deep trouble
they ban your
oom boom ba boom
you in deep deep
trouble
humph!
probably take you several hundred years
to get
out!
By: Amiri Baraka
Amiri Baraka was born in Newark, New Jersey, where his father worked as a postman and lift operator. He studied at Rutgers, Columbia, and Howard Universities, leaving without a degree, and at the New School for Social Research. His major fields of study were philosophy and religion. Baraka also served three years in the U.S. Air Force as a gunner. Baraka continued his studies of comparative literature at Columbia University. He has taught at a number of universities, including the State University of New York at Buffalo.
In 1956 Baraka began his career as a writer, activist, and advocate of black culture and political power. In 1958 he founded Totem Press. In Harlem he established the Black Arts Repertory Theatre, which presented poetry readings, concerts, and produced a number of plays. The theatre was disbanded in 1966 and Baraka set up in Newark the Spirit House, a black community theatre (also known as the Heckalu Community Centre). In 1968 Baraka founded the Black Community Development and Defense Organization. He has also been Secretary-General of the National Black Political Assembly and Chairman of the Congress of African People. Doing his life time, Baraka published over 40 books of essays, poems, drama, and music history and criticism, a poet icon and revolutionary political activist novels.
I love the poem “Wise” by Baraka, because creatively and critically explores issues of racism, national oppression and colonialism.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I Sit and Sew
I Sit and Sew
I sit and sew-- a useless task it seems,
My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams--
The panoply of war, the martial tread of men,
Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken
Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death
Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath--
But-- I must sit and sew.
I sit and sew-- my heart aches with desire--
That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire
On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things
Once men. My soul in pity flings
Appealing cries, yearning only to go
There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe--
But-- I must sit and sew.
The little useless seam, the idle patch;
Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch,
When there they lie in sodden mud and rain,
Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain?
You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream
That beckons me-- this pretty futile seam,
It stifles me-- God, must I sit and sew?
By: Alice Dunbar-Nelson
Alice Moore Dunbar Nelson was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, on 19 July 1875, Alice Ruth Moore was the daughter of Patricia Wright, a seamstress, and Joseph Moore, a merchant marine, and, due to her middle-class social status and racially mixed appearance, she enjoyed the diverse culture of the city. She graduated Straight University (now Dillard University) in 1892 and began her career as a teacher in the public school system of New Orleans. In 1895, Dunbar-Nelson published her first collection of short stories and poems, Violets and Other Tales. Although many of the pieces were obviously marked by her inexperience, I Sit and Sew reveal her gift for capturing the language, setting, and pathos peculiar to New Orleans life at the turn of the century. I love Dunbar-Nelson poetry, because her message addresses the issues that confronted African-Americans and women of her time. In this poem, Dunbar-Nelson challenges the period's stereotypical leftist image of the proletarian as a burly, half-naked industrial worker. Her proletarian is a woman, an office worker whose daily confinement is painfully at odds with her yearning for "beautiful things"--the consolations of art and the sensual pleasures of a middle-class dream-life. Like her poetry, Dunbar-Nelson's political activism encompassed many forms
I sit and sew-- a useless task it seems,
My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams--
The panoply of war, the martial tread of men,
Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken
Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death
Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath--
But-- I must sit and sew.
I sit and sew-- my heart aches with desire--
That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire
On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things
Once men. My soul in pity flings
Appealing cries, yearning only to go
There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe--
But-- I must sit and sew.
The little useless seam, the idle patch;
Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch,
When there they lie in sodden mud and rain,
Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain?
You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream
That beckons me-- this pretty futile seam,
It stifles me-- God, must I sit and sew?
By: Alice Dunbar-Nelson
Alice Moore Dunbar Nelson was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, on 19 July 1875, Alice Ruth Moore was the daughter of Patricia Wright, a seamstress, and Joseph Moore, a merchant marine, and, due to her middle-class social status and racially mixed appearance, she enjoyed the diverse culture of the city. She graduated Straight University (now Dillard University) in 1892 and began her career as a teacher in the public school system of New Orleans. In 1895, Dunbar-Nelson published her first collection of short stories and poems, Violets and Other Tales. Although many of the pieces were obviously marked by her inexperience, I Sit and Sew reveal her gift for capturing the language, setting, and pathos peculiar to New Orleans life at the turn of the century. I love Dunbar-Nelson poetry, because her message addresses the issues that confronted African-Americans and women of her time. In this poem, Dunbar-Nelson challenges the period's stereotypical leftist image of the proletarian as a burly, half-naked industrial worker. Her proletarian is a woman, an office worker whose daily confinement is painfully at odds with her yearning for "beautiful things"--the consolations of art and the sensual pleasures of a middle-class dream-life. Like her poetry, Dunbar-Nelson's political activism encompassed many forms
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
On Stripping Bark From Myself
On Stripping Bark From Myself
By: Alice Walker
Because women are expected to keep silent about
their close escapes I will not keep silent
and if I am destroyed (naked tree) someone will
please
mark the spot
where I fall and know I could not live
hearing their "how nice she is!"
whose adoration of the retouched image
I so despise.
No. I am finished with living
for what my mother believes
for what my brother and father defend
for what my lover elevates
for what my sister, blushing, denies or rushes
to embrace.
I find my own
small person
a standing self
against the world
an equality of wills
I have lived to understand.
Besides:
My struggle was always against
an inner darkness: I carry within myself
the only known keys
to my death - to unlock life, or close it shut
forever. A woman who loves wood grains, the colour
yellow
and the sun, I am happy to fight
all outside murderers
as I see I must.
Alice Walker was born on February 9, 1944, in Eatonton, Georgia, the eighth and last child of Willie Lee and Minnie Lou Grant Walker, who were sharecroppers. When Alice Walker was eight years old, she lost sight of one eye when one of her older brothers shot her with a BB gun by accident. In high school, Alice Walker was valedictorian of her class, and that achievement, coupled with a "rehabilitation scholarship" made it possible for her to go to Spelman, a college for black women in Atlanta, Georgia. After spending two years at Spelman, she transferred to Sarah Lawrence College in New York, and during her junior year traveled to Africa as an exchange student. She received her Bachelor of Arts degree from Sarah Lawrence College in 1965. Alice Walker was active in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960's, and in the 1990's she is still an involved activist. Alice Walker is most known for her novel "The Color Purple," which she received a Pulitzer Prize in 1983.
This poem embrace the pain of being in relationships between women and men. This poem speaks to women who sacrifice themselves in order to maintain relationships with their men. I love this poem, because it allows women to define themselves for themselves despite their environments or situation.
By: Alice Walker
Because women are expected to keep silent about
their close escapes I will not keep silent
and if I am destroyed (naked tree) someone will
please
mark the spot
where I fall and know I could not live
hearing their "how nice she is!"
whose adoration of the retouched image
I so despise.
No. I am finished with living
for what my mother believes
for what my brother and father defend
for what my lover elevates
for what my sister, blushing, denies or rushes
to embrace.
I find my own
small person
a standing self
against the world
an equality of wills
I have lived to understand.
Besides:
My struggle was always against
an inner darkness: I carry within myself
the only known keys
to my death - to unlock life, or close it shut
forever. A woman who loves wood grains, the colour
yellow
and the sun, I am happy to fight
all outside murderers
as I see I must.
Alice Walker was born on February 9, 1944, in Eatonton, Georgia, the eighth and last child of Willie Lee and Minnie Lou Grant Walker, who were sharecroppers. When Alice Walker was eight years old, she lost sight of one eye when one of her older brothers shot her with a BB gun by accident. In high school, Alice Walker was valedictorian of her class, and that achievement, coupled with a "rehabilitation scholarship" made it possible for her to go to Spelman, a college for black women in Atlanta, Georgia. After spending two years at Spelman, she transferred to Sarah Lawrence College in New York, and during her junior year traveled to Africa as an exchange student. She received her Bachelor of Arts degree from Sarah Lawrence College in 1965. Alice Walker was active in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960's, and in the 1990's she is still an involved activist. Alice Walker is most known for her novel "The Color Purple," which she received a Pulitzer Prize in 1983.
This poem embrace the pain of being in relationships between women and men. This poem speaks to women who sacrifice themselves in order to maintain relationships with their men. I love this poem, because it allows women to define themselves for themselves despite their environments or situation.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Aunt Jennifer's Tiger
Aunt Jennifer's Tiger
Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen,
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
They do not fear the men beneath the tree;
They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.
Aunt Jennifer's fingers fluttering through her wool
Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band
Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand.
When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie
Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
The tigers in the panel that she made
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.
By: Andrienne Rich
Adrienne Rich was born on May 16, 1929 in Baltimore, Maryland. She attended Radcliffe College, graduating in 1951. In 1953, she married Harvard University economist Alfred H. Conrad. Two years later, she published her second volume of poetry, The Diamond Cutters. After having three sons before the age of thirty, Rich gradually changed both her life and her poetry. Throughout the 1960s she wrote several collections, including Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law (1963) and Leaflets (1969). The content of her work became increasingly confrontational—exploring such themes as women’s role in society, racism, and the Vietnam War. The style of these poems also revealed a shift from careful metric patterns to free verse. Adrienne Rich wrote the poem “Aunt Jennifer‘s Tigers, “to explain a woman’s struggle to accept the indignities of her daily life and using sewing as an escape. In the poem, Jennifer has control over her tigers in her sewing, but her husband has control over her in reality. And the reason she creates tigers, because they are fearless and exotic unlike her. Her world is more domestic and she has to be submissive to her husband. I love this poem, because the images are images are strong and express the overall message. Since Aunt Jennifer is being control, she finds freedom in her explosion of fabric with her tigers.
Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen,
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
They do not fear the men beneath the tree;
They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.
Aunt Jennifer's fingers fluttering through her wool
Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band
Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand.
When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie
Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
The tigers in the panel that she made
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.
By: Andrienne Rich
Adrienne Rich was born on May 16, 1929 in Baltimore, Maryland. She attended Radcliffe College, graduating in 1951. In 1953, she married Harvard University economist Alfred H. Conrad. Two years later, she published her second volume of poetry, The Diamond Cutters. After having three sons before the age of thirty, Rich gradually changed both her life and her poetry. Throughout the 1960s she wrote several collections, including Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law (1963) and Leaflets (1969). The content of her work became increasingly confrontational—exploring such themes as women’s role in society, racism, and the Vietnam War. The style of these poems also revealed a shift from careful metric patterns to free verse. Adrienne Rich wrote the poem “Aunt Jennifer‘s Tigers, “to explain a woman’s struggle to accept the indignities of her daily life and using sewing as an escape. In the poem, Jennifer has control over her tigers in her sewing, but her husband has control over her in reality. And the reason she creates tigers, because they are fearless and exotic unlike her. Her world is more domestic and she has to be submissive to her husband. I love this poem, because the images are images are strong and express the overall message. Since Aunt Jennifer is being control, she finds freedom in her explosion of fabric with her tigers.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Order Up Free Entry 3/2/2010
Have you seen my status?
I am about to let the weakest link Go lol.
To cook a man
Prep: 20 minutes Bake1hour and15 minutes Oven: 350 f
6x8 Baking pan Cool: 30 minutes Serves: 1
• Preheat the oven to 350 f
• Allow the man to stand at room temperature for 30 minutes
• Grease the 6 x8 square feet baking pan and set it aside
• Start to grease the man’s elbows for four minutes or until thick
• In a small saucepan heat and stir his lies until they melt
• Before inserting the man into the baking pan, begin to trim the fat
• Gradually cut off his phone, twitter, myspace and facebook page
• Once done, place him in the oven and cook for 1hour and15 minutes
• Cook until golden brown
• When he’s golden brown take him out the oven and let him cool for 30 minutes
• Or until he’s ready to serve
By: Shanterica Brooks
I am about to let the weakest link Go lol.
To cook a man
Prep: 20 minutes Bake1hour and15 minutes Oven: 350 f
6x8 Baking pan Cool: 30 minutes Serves: 1
• Preheat the oven to 350 f
• Allow the man to stand at room temperature for 30 minutes
• Grease the 6 x8 square feet baking pan and set it aside
• Start to grease the man’s elbows for four minutes or until thick
• In a small saucepan heat and stir his lies until they melt
• Before inserting the man into the baking pan, begin to trim the fat
• Gradually cut off his phone, twitter, myspace and facebook page
• Once done, place him in the oven and cook for 1hour and15 minutes
• Cook until golden brown
• When he’s golden brown take him out the oven and let him cool for 30 minutes
• Or until he’s ready to serve
By: Shanterica Brooks
Monday, March 1, 2010
Digging
Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as 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 could 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, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, 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.
Seamus Heaney was born in April 1939, the eldest nine children. His father owned and worked a small farm in County Derry in Northern Ireland. Heaney's mother came from a family from the modern world than with the traditional rural economy. Heaney left the farm life, when he attended St. Columb's College, Derry in 1957 to continue his studies. In 1961 Heaney graduated from Queen's University and became a teacher at St. Joseph's College of Education. In 1966 he became a lecturer at Queen University. At Queen University, Heaney's published his first book called, Eleven Poems in 1965 and later the poem “Digging” in 1966.
I love the poem “Digging,” because Heaney uses nature to depict his ancestor’s cultural background. To me this poem has two different meanings. To me the first meaning of this poem explains how he uses his pen as his instrument. The second meaning of the poem deals with Heaney family. Heaney uses this poem to describe his connection between his grandfather and father, while searching for his own identity through their cultural background. I love how Heaney uses a semantic structure when comparing writing poetry to digging on a farm. This to me is brilliant and shows a great example of how to play on words in a poem.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as 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 could 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, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, 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.
Seamus Heaney was born in April 1939, the eldest nine children. His father owned and worked a small farm in County Derry in Northern Ireland. Heaney's mother came from a family from the modern world than with the traditional rural economy. Heaney left the farm life, when he attended St. Columb's College, Derry in 1957 to continue his studies. In 1961 Heaney graduated from Queen's University and became a teacher at St. Joseph's College of Education. In 1966 he became a lecturer at Queen University. At Queen University, Heaney's published his first book called, Eleven Poems in 1965 and later the poem “Digging” in 1966.
I love the poem “Digging,” because Heaney uses nature to depict his ancestor’s cultural background. To me this poem has two different meanings. To me the first meaning of this poem explains how he uses his pen as his instrument. The second meaning of the poem deals with Heaney family. Heaney uses this poem to describe his connection between his grandfather and father, while searching for his own identity through their cultural background. I love how Heaney uses a semantic structure when comparing writing poetry to digging on a farm. This to me is brilliant and shows a great example of how to play on words in a poem.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Free Entry
Couplet For the Soul
You are the fire that burns my soul
and I am the frost that eases your pain.
You are the fire that burns my soul
and I am the frost that eases your pain.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Wishes For Sons
wishes for sons
i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
I wish them no 7-11.
i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.
later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn't believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.
let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.
By: Lucille Clifton
Thelma Lucille Sayles later Lucille Clifton was born June 27, 1936, in Depew, New York. At the age of sixteen, Clifton graduated high school. She later won a scholarship to Howard University. D.C. During Clifton's college experience she met some of the people that influenced her life, and exposed her to writing. As a result, Clifton became recognized as a widely respected poet. Besides the poem, I recently talked about in my blog “Homage to My Hips,” I also love “Wishes for Sons.” I believe the word choice Clifton uses to describe the pain women endure provide great details to this poem. This can be shown in the first stanza. “i wish them cramps./i wish them a strange town/and the last tampon./I wish them no 7-11.” These first lines provide emphasis to the actions of women, while focusing on the concept of the poem. This poem to me allows men to experience the hard work it takes to be a woman through literature. The reason I picked this poem is because it allows men to understand the pain women go through and the affects it has on our body and mood.
i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
I wish them no 7-11.
i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.
later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn't believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.
let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.
By: Lucille Clifton
Thelma Lucille Sayles later Lucille Clifton was born June 27, 1936, in Depew, New York. At the age of sixteen, Clifton graduated high school. She later won a scholarship to Howard University. D.C. During Clifton's college experience she met some of the people that influenced her life, and exposed her to writing. As a result, Clifton became recognized as a widely respected poet. Besides the poem, I recently talked about in my blog “Homage to My Hips,” I also love “Wishes for Sons.” I believe the word choice Clifton uses to describe the pain women endure provide great details to this poem. This can be shown in the first stanza. “i wish them cramps./i wish them a strange town/and the last tampon./I wish them no 7-11.” These first lines provide emphasis to the actions of women, while focusing on the concept of the poem. This poem to me allows men to experience the hard work it takes to be a woman through literature. The reason I picked this poem is because it allows men to understand the pain women go through and the affects it has on our body and mood.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem
Sonnet to A Negro In Harlem
You are disdainful and magnificent--
Your perfect body and your pompous gait,
Your dark eyes flashing solemnly with hate;
Small wonder that you are incompetent
To imitate those whom you so dispise--
Your shoulders towering high above the throng,
Your head thrown back in rich, barbaric song,
Palm trees and manoes stretched before your eyes.
Let others toil and sweat for labor's sake
And wring from grasping hands their meed of gold.
Why urge ahead your supercilious feet?
Scorn will efface each footprint that you make.
I love your laughter, arrogant and bold.
You are too splendid for this city street!
By: Helene Johnson
Helene Johnson was on born July 7, 1906, in Boston, Massachusetts to Ella Benson Johnson and George William Johnson. She was an only child, and her parents separated shortly after her birth, so she never knew her father or his family. Johnson moved to New York in 1927 and attended Columbia University’s Extension Division where she studied to become a novelist. Her writing career started in 1924, when she submitted the poem “Trees at Night” to an urban magazine. Johnson continued to write and as a result sixteen of her poems were published in numerous magazines and anthologies. This lead to Helene Johnson being considered to be one of the youngest poets’s associated with the Harlem Renaissance. To me her strongest poem is “Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem, which was published in 1927. This poem highlights the issues of what defines an African American during the Harlem Renaissance. The word she uses is genuine and creates an expression of racial pride. This poem to me symbolizes the inspirational of black people and their contributions to society.
You are disdainful and magnificent--
Your perfect body and your pompous gait,
Your dark eyes flashing solemnly with hate;
Small wonder that you are incompetent
To imitate those whom you so dispise--
Your shoulders towering high above the throng,
Your head thrown back in rich, barbaric song,
Palm trees and manoes stretched before your eyes.
Let others toil and sweat for labor's sake
And wring from grasping hands their meed of gold.
Why urge ahead your supercilious feet?
Scorn will efface each footprint that you make.
I love your laughter, arrogant and bold.
You are too splendid for this city street!
By: Helene Johnson
Helene Johnson was on born July 7, 1906, in Boston, Massachusetts to Ella Benson Johnson and George William Johnson. She was an only child, and her parents separated shortly after her birth, so she never knew her father or his family. Johnson moved to New York in 1927 and attended Columbia University’s Extension Division where she studied to become a novelist. Her writing career started in 1924, when she submitted the poem “Trees at Night” to an urban magazine. Johnson continued to write and as a result sixteen of her poems were published in numerous magazines and anthologies. This lead to Helene Johnson being considered to be one of the youngest poets’s associated with the Harlem Renaissance. To me her strongest poem is “Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem, which was published in 1927. This poem highlights the issues of what defines an African American during the Harlem Renaissance. The word she uses is genuine and creates an expression of racial pride. This poem to me symbolizes the inspirational of black people and their contributions to society.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
First Kiss "Free Verse"
First Kiss
It’s a game or should I say a tease.
As people anticipate that special moment and what it may bring.
Scared to take the first step, because pushy one will seem,
so they wait to see whose brave enough to break the tension that’s in-between.
When that moment comes, it’s like a dream.
But until that moment comes, the first kiss
remains a mystery that will be wondrous to behold.
By Shanterica Brooks
It’s a game or should I say a tease.
As people anticipate that special moment and what it may bring.
Scared to take the first step, because pushy one will seem,
so they wait to see whose brave enough to break the tension that’s in-between.
When that moment comes, it’s like a dream.
But until that moment comes, the first kiss
remains a mystery that will be wondrous to behold.
By Shanterica Brooks
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Beautiful Black Men
Beautiful Black Men
(with compliments and apologies to all not mentioned by name)
i wanta say just gotta say something
bout those beautiful beautiful beautiful outasight
black men
with they afros
walking down the street
is the same ol danger
but a brand new pleasure
sitting on stoops, in bars, going to offices
running numbers, watching for their whores
preaching in churches, driving their hogs
walking their dogs, winking at me
in their fire red, lime green, burnt orange
royal blue tight tight pants that hug
what i like to hug
jerry butler, wilson pickett, the impressions
temptations, mighty mighty sly
don't have to do anything but walk
on stage
and i scream and stamp and shout
see new breed men in breed alls
dashiki suits with shirts that match
the lining that compliments the ties
that smile at the sandals
where dirty toes peek at me
and i scream and stamp and shout
for more beautiful beautiful beautiful
black men with outasight afros
By: Nikki Giovanni
Nikki Giovanni was born in Knoxville, Tennessee. Her birth name was Yolande Cornelia Giovanni Jr. Nikki Giovanni is one of the best-known African-American poets who reached prominence during the late 1960s and early 1970s. Her unique and insightful poetry testifies to her own evolving awareness and experiences: from her childhood to adulthood. Many of her poems were written during her civil rights activist days. Giovanni’s poetry expresses strong racial pride and respect for African Americans. Giovanni’s first published volumes of poetry grew out of her response to the assassinations of such figures as Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, Medgar Evers, and Robert Kennedy, and the pressing need she saw to raise awareness of the dilemma and the rights of black people. By the early 1970s, Giovanni had discovered that many poems symbolizing black hate had been publisher, so in response she wrote “Beautiful Black men.” Beautiful Black Men serve as her testimony to black men and what they mean to her. She acknowledges their style and gives them the praise they deserve. I chose this poem, because the images are strong and the details display a sense of pride.
(with compliments and apologies to all not mentioned by name)
i wanta say just gotta say something
bout those beautiful beautiful beautiful outasight
black men
with they afros
walking down the street
is the same ol danger
but a brand new pleasure
sitting on stoops, in bars, going to offices
running numbers, watching for their whores
preaching in churches, driving their hogs
walking their dogs, winking at me
in their fire red, lime green, burnt orange
royal blue tight tight pants that hug
what i like to hug
jerry butler, wilson pickett, the impressions
temptations, mighty mighty sly
don't have to do anything but walk
on stage
and i scream and stamp and shout
see new breed men in breed alls
dashiki suits with shirts that match
the lining that compliments the ties
that smile at the sandals
where dirty toes peek at me
and i scream and stamp and shout
for more beautiful beautiful beautiful
black men with outasight afros
By: Nikki Giovanni
Nikki Giovanni was born in Knoxville, Tennessee. Her birth name was Yolande Cornelia Giovanni Jr. Nikki Giovanni is one of the best-known African-American poets who reached prominence during the late 1960s and early 1970s. Her unique and insightful poetry testifies to her own evolving awareness and experiences: from her childhood to adulthood. Many of her poems were written during her civil rights activist days. Giovanni’s poetry expresses strong racial pride and respect for African Americans. Giovanni’s first published volumes of poetry grew out of her response to the assassinations of such figures as Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, Medgar Evers, and Robert Kennedy, and the pressing need she saw to raise awareness of the dilemma and the rights of black people. By the early 1970s, Giovanni had discovered that many poems symbolizing black hate had been publisher, so in response she wrote “Beautiful Black men.” Beautiful Black Men serve as her testimony to black men and what they mean to her. She acknowledges their style and gives them the praise they deserve. I chose this poem, because the images are strong and the details display a sense of pride.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Eyes of My Regret
The Eyes of My Regret
Always at dusk, the same tearless experience,
The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path
To the same well-worn rock;
The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun
The same tints, – rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey
Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily;
Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to
a point;
Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars,
Two eyes, unfathomable, soul-searing,
Watching, watching, watching me;
The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will
dusk after dusk;
The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the
night, chin on knees
Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly
miserable –
The eyes of my Regret.
By: Angelina Weld Grimke
Angelina Grimke was born February 20th 1805, in South Carolina. Her father was a slave holding judge that became the vice president of the NAACP. Her mother’s was white and her middle class white family opposed her marriage to Angelina’s father, due to him being black. This resulted in Angelina being raised by her father and some of his relatives. Angelina began writing at a very young age and even published some of her poems during the Harlem Renaissance. She wrote 173 poems of which 31 were published. A lot of Angelina’s poems were not published, because she’s an African American woman and her sexuality. Angelina Grimke prided herself in being a lesbian after the death of her father, which at the time homosexuality was frowned upon. Among them were love poems, elegies, poems concerned with racial injustice and black pride, nature poems and poems with the universal themes of life and death. The poem “The Eyes of My Regret,” is my favorite. The mood of the poem is sad and calm. The imagery she provides with her color schemes strengthen the message of the poem and release the deep hidden emotions that are responsible for her regret. This poems flows nicely and provide great details that readers are able to feel the misery she posses.
Always at dusk, the same tearless experience,
The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path
To the same well-worn rock;
The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun
The same tints, – rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey
Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily;
Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to
a point;
Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars,
Two eyes, unfathomable, soul-searing,
Watching, watching, watching me;
The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will
dusk after dusk;
The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the
night, chin on knees
Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly
miserable –
The eyes of my Regret.
By: Angelina Weld Grimke
Angelina Grimke was born February 20th 1805, in South Carolina. Her father was a slave holding judge that became the vice president of the NAACP. Her mother’s was white and her middle class white family opposed her marriage to Angelina’s father, due to him being black. This resulted in Angelina being raised by her father and some of his relatives. Angelina began writing at a very young age and even published some of her poems during the Harlem Renaissance. She wrote 173 poems of which 31 were published. A lot of Angelina’s poems were not published, because she’s an African American woman and her sexuality. Angelina Grimke prided herself in being a lesbian after the death of her father, which at the time homosexuality was frowned upon. Among them were love poems, elegies, poems concerned with racial injustice and black pride, nature poems and poems with the universal themes of life and death. The poem “The Eyes of My Regret,” is my favorite. The mood of the poem is sad and calm. The imagery she provides with her color schemes strengthen the message of the poem and release the deep hidden emotions that are responsible for her regret. This poems flows nicely and provide great details that readers are able to feel the misery she posses.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Lip Balm "Haiku"
Lip Balm
It's nice to observe,
the candy-coated honey drips
drizzle your soft lips.
By: Shanterica Brooks
It's nice to observe,
the candy-coated honey drips
drizzle your soft lips.
By: Shanterica Brooks
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
April Rain Song By Langston Hughes
April Rain Song
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.
Langston Hughes
I love this poem, because Langston Hughes shows his gentle side. To me this is just beautiful and demonstrates how the rain makes Langston Hughes feel. These seven lines are so powerful and complete with details, that readers are able to grasp the scenario. People can actually visualize how the rain is falling and the noise it makes as it hit the sidewalk. My favorite line in this poem is line 6. “The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night.” I love how he picked an image that everyone can relate to especially me. To me this line makes me think how the rain gentle drops fall on the roof and just puts me to sleep.
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.
Langston Hughes
I love this poem, because Langston Hughes shows his gentle side. To me this is just beautiful and demonstrates how the rain makes Langston Hughes feel. These seven lines are so powerful and complete with details, that readers are able to grasp the scenario. People can actually visualize how the rain is falling and the noise it makes as it hit the sidewalk. My favorite line in this poem is line 6. “The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night.” I love how he picked an image that everyone can relate to especially me. To me this line makes me think how the rain gentle drops fall on the roof and just puts me to sleep.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Night I Tied Up My Lover "Pantoum"
The Night I Tied Up My Lover
The night I tied up my lover.
He came in my room through the window
I saw his shadow on the wall,
as he held the blinds cautiously to delete the noise.
He came in my room through the window,
with only the light of March to guide his way.
As he held the blinds cautiously to delete the noise
I could see his eyes glowing like a tangerine iceberg afloat.
With only the light of March to guide his way
He quickly lifted his body to pull himself in,
I could see his eyes glowing like a tangerine iceberg afloat.
While he pulled himself in I dashed for my rope.
He quickly lifted his body to pull himself in
barely missing my dog that rested under the window pane.
While he pulled himself in I dashed for my rope.
Within seconds I had my rope positioned ready to strike.
Barely missing my dog that rested under the window pane
I saw his shadow on the wall.
Within seconds I had my rope positioned ready to strike.
The night I tied up my lover.
By: Shanterica Brooks
How to write Pantoums
The Pantoums is an oral form from of French poetry developed in the 15th century. Americans adopted the method of Pantoums as a way to use repetition of lines, no rhyme scheme and no set poem length. Pantoums are made entirely of quatrains. The first quatrain uses four lines that set up the pattern of the Pantoums. The second quatrain uses the second and fourth lines from the first quatrain as its first and third lines; these are the refrains. The second and fourth lines of the second quatrain are new to the poem. The third quatrain uses the second and fourth lines of the second quatrain as its refrains in the first and third line positions. The third quatrain's second and fourth lines are new to the poem. The fourth quatrain uses the second and fourth lines of the third quatrain as its first and third lines. The pattern ends in the final quatrain. The final quatrain uses the second and fourth lines of the preceding quatrain as its first and third lines and the first line as the last line.
This is my first Pantoums poem. This poem allowed me to take words given by Mrs. Parks and create a scenario that fits my personality. I chose “tied up my lover,” because it’s interesting and allows me to step out of my boundaries.
The night I tied up my lover.
He came in my room through the window
I saw his shadow on the wall,
as he held the blinds cautiously to delete the noise.
He came in my room through the window,
with only the light of March to guide his way.
As he held the blinds cautiously to delete the noise
I could see his eyes glowing like a tangerine iceberg afloat.
With only the light of March to guide his way
He quickly lifted his body to pull himself in,
I could see his eyes glowing like a tangerine iceberg afloat.
While he pulled himself in I dashed for my rope.
He quickly lifted his body to pull himself in
barely missing my dog that rested under the window pane.
While he pulled himself in I dashed for my rope.
Within seconds I had my rope positioned ready to strike.
Barely missing my dog that rested under the window pane
I saw his shadow on the wall.
Within seconds I had my rope positioned ready to strike.
The night I tied up my lover.
By: Shanterica Brooks
How to write Pantoums
The Pantoums is an oral form from of French poetry developed in the 15th century. Americans adopted the method of Pantoums as a way to use repetition of lines, no rhyme scheme and no set poem length. Pantoums are made entirely of quatrains. The first quatrain uses four lines that set up the pattern of the Pantoums. The second quatrain uses the second and fourth lines from the first quatrain as its first and third lines; these are the refrains. The second and fourth lines of the second quatrain are new to the poem. The third quatrain uses the second and fourth lines of the second quatrain as its refrains in the first and third line positions. The third quatrain's second and fourth lines are new to the poem. The fourth quatrain uses the second and fourth lines of the third quatrain as its first and third lines. The pattern ends in the final quatrain. The final quatrain uses the second and fourth lines of the preceding quatrain as its first and third lines and the first line as the last line.
This is my first Pantoums poem. This poem allowed me to take words given by Mrs. Parks and create a scenario that fits my personality. I chose “tied up my lover,” because it’s interesting and allows me to step out of my boundaries.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Daybreak Sonnet
Daybreak
Her head falls as her long beautiful hair covers her face.
The thickness of her hair blinds the sun, for morning has come too early.
Her eyes begin to flutter like the wind on a stormy day
as she remains motionless to absorb the warmth on her earthy
tone skin. As the warm air starts to heat the room, the girlie
fragrances on her dresser start to emerge. The smell of chocolate flows
through her nostrils and disperse among her veins. She thinks surly
it’s time to get up since the scent of chocolate makes my heart glows.
Violent winds thrust through the window bought in by low
rainstorm clouds. The mist of the rain suffocates the colors of my dreams
while the rain drops cloud my window screen. The trees outside display a show
waving like the crowd at the falcons game playing in the snow.
These images allow me to tighten up like a glove
in order to get out of bed and soar like a dove.
By Shanterica Brooks
I wrote this poem as a class assignment; however it turned out to be very good. This poem helped me understand how to write a sonnet in iambic pentameter. I was able to determine the rhythm and rhyme scheme of the quatrains and couplets that make up a Shakespearean sonnet. This part was hard, because it is hard to create a rhyme scheme without making the poem seem elementary. So I decided to select a topic that would tell a story that people can relate to. Since most sonnets tell tales of love or philosophy, I decided to focus on getting out of the bed. The first section describes not being able to get out of bed. The second section describes the atmosphere of the room and builds suspense, before the conclusion. Writing this poem helped me master the structure and rhythm of sonnets, while learning how to take other people ideas and thoughts and making into my own.
Her head falls as her long beautiful hair covers her face.
The thickness of her hair blinds the sun, for morning has come too early.
Her eyes begin to flutter like the wind on a stormy day
as she remains motionless to absorb the warmth on her earthy
tone skin. As the warm air starts to heat the room, the girlie
fragrances on her dresser start to emerge. The smell of chocolate flows
through her nostrils and disperse among her veins. She thinks surly
it’s time to get up since the scent of chocolate makes my heart glows.
Violent winds thrust through the window bought in by low
rainstorm clouds. The mist of the rain suffocates the colors of my dreams
while the rain drops cloud my window screen. The trees outside display a show
waving like the crowd at the falcons game playing in the snow.
These images allow me to tighten up like a glove
in order to get out of bed and soar like a dove.
By Shanterica Brooks
I wrote this poem as a class assignment; however it turned out to be very good. This poem helped me understand how to write a sonnet in iambic pentameter. I was able to determine the rhythm and rhyme scheme of the quatrains and couplets that make up a Shakespearean sonnet. This part was hard, because it is hard to create a rhyme scheme without making the poem seem elementary. So I decided to select a topic that would tell a story that people can relate to. Since most sonnets tell tales of love or philosophy, I decided to focus on getting out of the bed. The first section describes not being able to get out of bed. The second section describes the atmosphere of the room and builds suspense, before the conclusion. Writing this poem helped me master the structure and rhythm of sonnets, while learning how to take other people ideas and thoughts and making into my own.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
My Favorite Sonnet
If We Must Die
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like me we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
By Claude McKay
Claude McKay poem If WE Must Die is written as a Shakespearean sonnet. In this poem he uses an ababcdcdefefgg rhyme scheme. I never realized this poem was a sonnet until I noticed the 14 lines, the three quatrains and the couplet at the end. This sonnet is written in a iambic pentameter as a way to stay with traditional form. In this poem, I love the rhyme scheme that McKay uses to illustrate his message. By repeating the words if we must die, McKay shows the determination he has for black people fighting back and not just accepting the order of things. McKay wrote this poem in 1919, because he believed that African Americans deserve equal rights and protection from the white people attacking them. To me this poem means it is better to fight for what you believe in instead of running off like a coward.
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like me we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
By Claude McKay
Claude McKay poem If WE Must Die is written as a Shakespearean sonnet. In this poem he uses an ababcdcdefefgg rhyme scheme. I never realized this poem was a sonnet until I noticed the 14 lines, the three quatrains and the couplet at the end. This sonnet is written in a iambic pentameter as a way to stay with traditional form. In this poem, I love the rhyme scheme that McKay uses to illustrate his message. By repeating the words if we must die, McKay shows the determination he has for black people fighting back and not just accepting the order of things. McKay wrote this poem in 1919, because he believed that African Americans deserve equal rights and protection from the white people attacking them. To me this poem means it is better to fight for what you believe in instead of running off like a coward.
Friday, January 29, 2010
A Woman's Worth 1/29/2010
homage to my hips
these hips are big hips.
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
pretty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
yo put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top.
By: Lucille Clifton
Lucille Clifton’s ‘Homage to My Hips’ is a poem that commemorates the female body and its power. I love this poem, because when she talks about her body she expresses pride and ownership. Even the title of the poem ‘Homage of my hips’ is so strong. Homage means respect or reverence paid or rendered. This means that Clifton thinks her hips deserves recognition of their worth. I chose this poem; because many women forget the importance they poses and let men destroy their self-esteem by calling them out their name. These positive images in this poem allow women to appreciate their body and not enslave themselves society perception of beauty.
these hips are big hips.
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
pretty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
yo put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top.
By: Lucille Clifton
Lucille Clifton’s ‘Homage to My Hips’ is a poem that commemorates the female body and its power. I love this poem, because when she talks about her body she expresses pride and ownership. Even the title of the poem ‘Homage of my hips’ is so strong. Homage means respect or reverence paid or rendered. This means that Clifton thinks her hips deserves recognition of their worth. I chose this poem; because many women forget the importance they poses and let men destroy their self-esteem by calling them out their name. These positive images in this poem allow women to appreciate their body and not enslave themselves society perception of beauty.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Chico 1/27/2010
Chico...so many images come to mind
whenever I speak your name;
It seems like when you entered my life
so many things changed.
You became my friend, my companion to the end.
As you consumed my life with
your love, and manipulative smile.
I remember all the times
when I gaze deep into your big beautiful eyes,
and watch you twirl your tail
to get me under your spell.
Even though it would not change the damage you've done,
You keep me young and
with me you will always be at home.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
“The Little Black Boy” 1/16/2010
The Little Black Boy
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white.
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.My mother taught me underneath a tree
And sitting down before the heat of day.
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say.Look on the rising sun: there God does live
And gives his light, and gives his heat away.
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning joy in the noon day.And we are put on earth a little space..
That we may learn to bear the beams of love.
And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear
The cloud will vanish we shall hear his voice.
Saying: come out from the grove my love & care.
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.Thus did my mother say and kissed me.
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy:Ill shade him from the heat till he can bear,
To lean in joy upon our fathers knee.
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me.
By William Blake
“The Little Black Boy” is a poem about a young boy from Africa telling the story about when he started to accept the color of his skin. In the beginning of the poem the boy constantly refers to his soul being white as the English child he wants to assimilate. He only accepts his identity when mother teaches him about God. She says that God lives in the East and gives comfort and joy to men. William Blake uses the mother to symbolize his ideals of the Bible. He explains that people are put on earth to learn to accept God’s love. My favorite part of the poem is when the mother tells the boy that his black skin “is but a cloud” that will be dissipated when his soul meets God in heaven. The black boy then teaches the lesson to the English child and promises that when they are both free of their bodies and delighting in the presence of God, he will shade his white friend until he learns to bear the heat of God’s love. Then, the black boy says, he will be like the English boy, and the English boy will love him. Little Black Boy is a great five stanza poem, that teaches people to love appreciate themselves.
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white.
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.My mother taught me underneath a tree
And sitting down before the heat of day.
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say.Look on the rising sun: there God does live
And gives his light, and gives his heat away.
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning joy in the noon day.And we are put on earth a little space..
That we may learn to bear the beams of love.
And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear
The cloud will vanish we shall hear his voice.
Saying: come out from the grove my love & care.
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.Thus did my mother say and kissed me.
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy:Ill shade him from the heat till he can bear,
To lean in joy upon our fathers knee.
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me.
By William Blake
“The Little Black Boy” is a poem about a young boy from Africa telling the story about when he started to accept the color of his skin. In the beginning of the poem the boy constantly refers to his soul being white as the English child he wants to assimilate. He only accepts his identity when mother teaches him about God. She says that God lives in the East and gives comfort and joy to men. William Blake uses the mother to symbolize his ideals of the Bible. He explains that people are put on earth to learn to accept God’s love. My favorite part of the poem is when the mother tells the boy that his black skin “is but a cloud” that will be dissipated when his soul meets God in heaven. The black boy then teaches the lesson to the English child and promises that when they are both free of their bodies and delighting in the presence of God, he will shade his white friend until he learns to bear the heat of God’s love. Then, the black boy says, he will be like the English boy, and the English boy will love him. Little Black Boy is a great five stanza poem, that teaches people to love appreciate themselves.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
January 21, 2010 After Reading Peter Pan
After Reading Peter Pan
My mother closed her window
She did not want Peter to talk her away.
My father opened his window
He wanted to go, as soon as possible.
And now, years later, they
are too old to Never-Never Land.
And they do not speak
to each other
And my mother is surprise
to hear that I, at age seven ,
Flung the windows wide,
Not to travel, but to fly.
Out of this week’s packet, this was my favorite poem. This poem to me represents adventure and freedom that many people seek. I love how the author compares his parent’s interpretation of the story Peter Pan and how it affects their behavior. Because to me the mother is more of a home body, her home is where she feels comfortable. However, the father seeks adventure; he wants to explore the world and what it has to offer. These two big differences is the reason they did not work out. Which could be the reason the author wrote, “And they do not speak.” I also love that this is a two line stanza poem, because it is short, easy to read and provide the necessary facts to relate to readers.
My mother closed her window
She did not want Peter to talk her away.
My father opened his window
He wanted to go, as soon as possible.
And now, years later, they
are too old to Never-Never Land.
And they do not speak
to each other
And my mother is surprise
to hear that I, at age seven ,
Flung the windows wide,
Not to travel, but to fly.
Out of this week’s packet, this was my favorite poem. This poem to me represents adventure and freedom that many people seek. I love how the author compares his parent’s interpretation of the story Peter Pan and how it affects their behavior. Because to me the mother is more of a home body, her home is where she feels comfortable. However, the father seeks adventure; he wants to explore the world and what it has to offer. These two big differences is the reason they did not work out. Which could be the reason the author wrote, “And they do not speak.” I also love that this is a two line stanza poem, because it is short, easy to read and provide the necessary facts to relate to readers.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Jan. 20, 2010
Complaining About Nothing
In the morning I complain,
How someone has used all the toothpaste
In the morning I complain,
How someone has left trash in my car
In the Morning I complain,
How traffic is so bad.
In the afternoon I complain
How my teacher didn’t show up
In the afternoon I complain,
How much homework I have to do
In the afternoon I complain,
That I have to go to work
At night I complain,
About my rough day
At night I complain,
To my mom as we watch the news
At night I see how an earthquake has hit Haiti
At night I see how many people bodies are lying dead on the street
At night I see how the people in Haiti lost everything
At night I thank God for blessing me.
In the morning I complain,
How someone has used all the toothpaste
In the morning I complain,
How someone has left trash in my car
In the Morning I complain,
How traffic is so bad.
In the afternoon I complain
How my teacher didn’t show up
In the afternoon I complain,
How much homework I have to do
In the afternoon I complain,
That I have to go to work
At night I complain,
About my rough day
At night I complain,
To my mom as we watch the news
At night I see how an earthquake has hit Haiti
At night I see how many people bodies are lying dead on the street
At night I see how the people in Haiti lost everything
At night I thank God for blessing me.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Fairytale with a Twist
Anne Sexton, "Cinderella"
You always read about it:
the plumber with the twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
That story.
Or the nursemaid,
some luscious sweet from Denmark
who captures the oldest son's heart.
from diapers to Dior.
That story.
Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,
eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,
the white truck like an ambulance
who goes into real estate
and makes a pile.
From homogenized to martinis at lunch.
Or the charwoman
who is on the bus when it cracks up
and collects enough from the insurance.
From mops to Bonwit Teller.
That story.
Once
the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed
and she said to her daughter Cinderella:
Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile
down from heaven in the seam of a cloud.
The man took another wife who had
two daughters, pretty enough
but with hearts like blackjacks.
Cinderella was their maid.
She slept on the sooty hearth each night
and walked around looking like Al Jolson.
Her father brought presents home from town,
jewels and gowns for the other women
but the twig of a tree for Cinderella.
She planted that twig on her mother's grave
and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.
Whenever she wished for anything the dove
would drop it like an egg upon the ground.
The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.
Next came the ball, as you all know.
It was a marriage market.
The prince was looking for a wife.
All but Cinderella were preparing
and gussying up for the event.
Cinderella begged to go too.
Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils
into the cinders and said: Pick them
up in an hour and you shall go.
The white dove brought all his friends;
all the warm wings of the fatherland came,
and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.
No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,
you have no clothes and cannot dance.
That's the way with stepmothers.
Cinderella went to the tree at the grave
and cried forth like a gospel singer:
Mama! Mama! My turtledove,
send me to the prince's ball!
The bird dropped down a golden dress
and delicate little slippers.
Rather a large package for a simple bird.
So she went. Which is no surprise.
Her stepmother and sisters didn't
recognize her without her cinder face
and the prince took her hand on the spot
and danced with no other the whole day.
As nightfall came she thought she'd better
get home. The prince walked her home
and she disappeared into the pigeon house
and although the prince took an axe and broke
it open she was gone. Back to her cinders.
These events repeated themselves for three days.
However on the third day the prince
covered the palace steps with cobbler's wax
and Cinderella's gold shoe stuck upon it.
Now he would find whom the shoe fit
and find his strange dancing girl for keeps.
He went to their house and the two sisters
were delighted because they had lovely feet.
The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on
but her big toe got in the way so she simply
sliced it off and put on the slipper.
The prince rode away with her until the white dove
told him to look at the blood pouring forth.
That is the way with amputations.
They just don't heal up like a wish.
The other sister cut off her heel
but the blood told as blood will.
The prince was getting tired.
He began to feel like a shoe salesman.
But he gave it one last try.
This time Cinderella fit into the shoe
like a love letter into its envelope.
At the wedding ceremony
the two sisters came to curry favor
and the white dove pecked their eyes out.
Two hollow spots were left
like soup spoons.
Cinderella and the prince
lived, they say, happily ever after,
like two dolls in a museum case
never bothered by diapers or dust,
never arguing over the timing of an egg,
never telling the same story twice,
never getting a middle-aged spread,
their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.
Regular Bobbsey Twins.
That story.
In traditional romantic fairytales, writers create imaginary worlds by producing stories of unrealistic reports of human and nonhuman experiences. Throughout many of these fairytales, the main characters escape their current situation and receive a happy life. The most obvious representation of this episode is the Grimm brother’s version of Cinderella. In Cinderella, a young lady is treated as a servant by her step mother and step sisters, until she is rescued by a handsome prince and lives happily ever after. This particular interpretation of gender roles is one of the main reasons feminist critic Anne Sexton, challenge the unrealistic beliefs in traditional romantic fairytales. I love Anne Sexton’s twist on the tradition Cinderella, because she challenges the description of women in the Grimm brother’s fairytale “Cinderella.”She uses a sarcastic tone to depict the idea that marriage is the only way for women to achieve happiness. She takes the focus out of marriage and ask women to focus on themselves.
You always read about it:
the plumber with the twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
That story.
Or the nursemaid,
some luscious sweet from Denmark
who captures the oldest son's heart.
from diapers to Dior.
That story.
Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,
eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,
the white truck like an ambulance
who goes into real estate
and makes a pile.
From homogenized to martinis at lunch.
Or the charwoman
who is on the bus when it cracks up
and collects enough from the insurance.
From mops to Bonwit Teller.
That story.
Once
the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed
and she said to her daughter Cinderella:
Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile
down from heaven in the seam of a cloud.
The man took another wife who had
two daughters, pretty enough
but with hearts like blackjacks.
Cinderella was their maid.
She slept on the sooty hearth each night
and walked around looking like Al Jolson.
Her father brought presents home from town,
jewels and gowns for the other women
but the twig of a tree for Cinderella.
She planted that twig on her mother's grave
and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.
Whenever she wished for anything the dove
would drop it like an egg upon the ground.
The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.
Next came the ball, as you all know.
It was a marriage market.
The prince was looking for a wife.
All but Cinderella were preparing
and gussying up for the event.
Cinderella begged to go too.
Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils
into the cinders and said: Pick them
up in an hour and you shall go.
The white dove brought all his friends;
all the warm wings of the fatherland came,
and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.
No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,
you have no clothes and cannot dance.
That's the way with stepmothers.
Cinderella went to the tree at the grave
and cried forth like a gospel singer:
Mama! Mama! My turtledove,
send me to the prince's ball!
The bird dropped down a golden dress
and delicate little slippers.
Rather a large package for a simple bird.
So she went. Which is no surprise.
Her stepmother and sisters didn't
recognize her without her cinder face
and the prince took her hand on the spot
and danced with no other the whole day.
As nightfall came she thought she'd better
get home. The prince walked her home
and she disappeared into the pigeon house
and although the prince took an axe and broke
it open she was gone. Back to her cinders.
These events repeated themselves for three days.
However on the third day the prince
covered the palace steps with cobbler's wax
and Cinderella's gold shoe stuck upon it.
Now he would find whom the shoe fit
and find his strange dancing girl for keeps.
He went to their house and the two sisters
were delighted because they had lovely feet.
The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on
but her big toe got in the way so she simply
sliced it off and put on the slipper.
The prince rode away with her until the white dove
told him to look at the blood pouring forth.
That is the way with amputations.
They just don't heal up like a wish.
The other sister cut off her heel
but the blood told as blood will.
The prince was getting tired.
He began to feel like a shoe salesman.
But he gave it one last try.
This time Cinderella fit into the shoe
like a love letter into its envelope.
At the wedding ceremony
the two sisters came to curry favor
and the white dove pecked their eyes out.
Two hollow spots were left
like soup spoons.
Cinderella and the prince
lived, they say, happily ever after,
like two dolls in a museum case
never bothered by diapers or dust,
never arguing over the timing of an egg,
never telling the same story twice,
never getting a middle-aged spread,
their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.
Regular Bobbsey Twins.
That story.
In traditional romantic fairytales, writers create imaginary worlds by producing stories of unrealistic reports of human and nonhuman experiences. Throughout many of these fairytales, the main characters escape their current situation and receive a happy life. The most obvious representation of this episode is the Grimm brother’s version of Cinderella. In Cinderella, a young lady is treated as a servant by her step mother and step sisters, until she is rescued by a handsome prince and lives happily ever after. This particular interpretation of gender roles is one of the main reasons feminist critic Anne Sexton, challenge the unrealistic beliefs in traditional romantic fairytales. I love Anne Sexton’s twist on the tradition Cinderella, because she challenges the description of women in the Grimm brother’s fairytale “Cinderella.”She uses a sarcastic tone to depict the idea that marriage is the only way for women to achieve happiness. She takes the focus out of marriage and ask women to focus on themselves.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Free verse 1/16/2010
List of words I like to use in poetry.
Nature
Love
Brave
Bright
Calm
Charming
Confident
Courageous
Funny
Happy
Nature
Love
Brave
Bright
Calm
Charming
Confident
Courageous
Funny
Happy
Friday, January 15, 2010
Critical (2) 1/15/2010
BFF?? By Mr. and Mrs. Parks
Noone seems to understand how I really feel inside,
Myself I have to hide,
To be what you want me to be,
But maybe that’s not me,
And maybe I don’t always want to fit in,
When it’s such a suffocating mold I have to get in,
And I just want to be myself,
And put this mask back on the shelf,
And can you handle the real me,
Can you swallow the things you would see,
Maybe you would think I’m insane,
But who gets to say what’s normal for the human brain,
And maybe you would find I’m gassy,
And you don’t think that’s very classy,
But I say class is just a societal invention,
Then maybe we could be friends,
And we could start to end,
This cycle of hate,
Maybe we could all just relate,
And that’s what I would like to do,
But you won’t do that-will you?
After reading this poem, since I am a history major I automatically thought of the minstrel shows. Minstrel shows were created by Thomas Dartmouth during the 19th century. Doing the shows Dartmouth paints his face dark black and performs a song and dance routine imitating a crippled black slave. The characters associated with minstrel shows were ignorant, racist and portrayed negative stereotypes regarding black people. The Minstrel shows was a success and eventually black people started to work in the minstrel shows during the mid 1850s. To keep the minstrel show traditional, blacks darkened their already dark skin and performed racist comedy routines. However, after the show blacks were not allowed to go to the after party with the white cast members, because they were black.
Now with the history of the Minstrel show out the way, the lines that made me think of this were lines 2, 6, 8, 9, 15 and 19. All these lines deal with the hardship that black actors faced during this time. By wearing the mask they were equivalent to whites and by taking the mask off they became inferior.
This poem teaches me that a simple middle school poem like this can portray a deeper meaning depending on the reader.
Noone seems to understand how I really feel inside,
Myself I have to hide,
To be what you want me to be,
But maybe that’s not me,
And maybe I don’t always want to fit in,
When it’s such a suffocating mold I have to get in,
And I just want to be myself,
And put this mask back on the shelf,
And can you handle the real me,
Can you swallow the things you would see,
Maybe you would think I’m insane,
But who gets to say what’s normal for the human brain,
And maybe you would find I’m gassy,
And you don’t think that’s very classy,
But I say class is just a societal invention,
Then maybe we could be friends,
And we could start to end,
This cycle of hate,
Maybe we could all just relate,
And that’s what I would like to do,
But you won’t do that-will you?
After reading this poem, since I am a history major I automatically thought of the minstrel shows. Minstrel shows were created by Thomas Dartmouth during the 19th century. Doing the shows Dartmouth paints his face dark black and performs a song and dance routine imitating a crippled black slave. The characters associated with minstrel shows were ignorant, racist and portrayed negative stereotypes regarding black people. The Minstrel shows was a success and eventually black people started to work in the minstrel shows during the mid 1850s. To keep the minstrel show traditional, blacks darkened their already dark skin and performed racist comedy routines. However, after the show blacks were not allowed to go to the after party with the white cast members, because they were black.
Now with the history of the Minstrel show out the way, the lines that made me think of this were lines 2, 6, 8, 9, 15 and 19. All these lines deal with the hardship that black actors faced during this time. By wearing the mask they were equivalent to whites and by taking the mask off they became inferior.
This poem teaches me that a simple middle school poem like this can portray a deeper meaning depending on the reader.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Critical (1) 1/14/2010
Dreams
By Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow
This poem was written by Langston Hughes in 1926, it refers to the agonizing treatment that African Americans encountered during the 1920s regarding segregation and prejudiced laws. My favorite line in this poem is line three. In line three, Langston Hughes figuratively compares life to a bird. The phrase broken-winged bird implies that the bird has suffered some type of misfortune. This misfortune has crippled the bird and left it powerless. The bird wings exemplify a human’s ability to dream. Similar to the bird, people who are unable to dream are powerless. If a person does not dream, they are unable to develop. This makes life pointless, so in order to thrive in life people must dream.
I choose the poem, because this gives people a better understand of me. I think in order for people to know where they are going it is critical to know their history.
What I can learn from this poem is how specific words are chosen to make an argument or thought more concrete. I believe Langston Hughes choose a bird, because a bird symbolizes freedom and independence things people associate with dreams.
By Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow
This poem was written by Langston Hughes in 1926, it refers to the agonizing treatment that African Americans encountered during the 1920s regarding segregation and prejudiced laws. My favorite line in this poem is line three. In line three, Langston Hughes figuratively compares life to a bird. The phrase broken-winged bird implies that the bird has suffered some type of misfortune. This misfortune has crippled the bird and left it powerless. The bird wings exemplify a human’s ability to dream. Similar to the bird, people who are unable to dream are powerless. If a person does not dream, they are unable to develop. This makes life pointless, so in order to thrive in life people must dream.
I choose the poem, because this gives people a better understand of me. I think in order for people to know where they are going it is critical to know their history.
What I can learn from this poem is how specific words are chosen to make an argument or thought more concrete. I believe Langston Hughes choose a bird, because a bird symbolizes freedom and independence things people associate with dreams.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
#1
Hello everyone,
My name is Shanterica, but all my friends call me Shan. I am 21 years old and the youngest of three children. My hobbies consist of playing softball, hanging with my friends and watching the Disney channel. (Yes the Disney Channel) When I am not in school, I work for DeKalb County Parks and Recreations. I am a counselor to children 7 and 8. I have been working there since I was thirteen. When I started working there it was just a summer job; however, it has become the stepping stone to my career. My personal goal after graduate is to either, become a teacher or open up my own recreation center.
In order to make my dream a reality, I decided to attend the University of West Georgia. Since West Georgia does not have parks recreation as a major, I decided to major education. The only problem was when I started college, I hated writing. I just wanted to learn about history and focus on becoming a history teacher. Writing to me was too time-consuming and meaningless, except if you wanted to become a writer. Since then I have gained a great appreciation for writing and has improve drastically on my writing skills. Since my major requires me to take a lot of english classes, I have became open-minded to different genres. I have completed Africa American Literature, British Literature, Africana Studies, Fiction and now Poetry. I have always been interested in writing poetry. That is why I enrolled into this class. By taking this class, I hope to continue improving my writing skills and learn how to express myself through poetry.
My name is Shanterica, but all my friends call me Shan. I am 21 years old and the youngest of three children. My hobbies consist of playing softball, hanging with my friends and watching the Disney channel. (Yes the Disney Channel) When I am not in school, I work for DeKalb County Parks and Recreations. I am a counselor to children 7 and 8. I have been working there since I was thirteen. When I started working there it was just a summer job; however, it has become the stepping stone to my career. My personal goal after graduate is to either, become a teacher or open up my own recreation center.
In order to make my dream a reality, I decided to attend the University of West Georgia. Since West Georgia does not have parks recreation as a major, I decided to major education. The only problem was when I started college, I hated writing. I just wanted to learn about history and focus on becoming a history teacher. Writing to me was too time-consuming and meaningless, except if you wanted to become a writer. Since then I have gained a great appreciation for writing and has improve drastically on my writing skills. Since my major requires me to take a lot of english classes, I have became open-minded to different genres. I have completed Africa American Literature, British Literature, Africana Studies, Fiction and now Poetry. I have always been interested in writing poetry. That is why I enrolled into this class. By taking this class, I hope to continue improving my writing skills and learn how to express myself through poetry.
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