Poetry Project (Complete)

1.Nikki Giovanni_

1. Knoxville Tennessee by Nikki Giovanni
I always like summer Best you can eat fresh corn From daddy's garde And okra And greens And cabbage And lots of Barbeque And butter milk And home made ice-creamAt the church picnic And listen to Gospel music Outside At the churchHomecoming And go to the mountains with Your grandmotherAnd go barefootedAnd be warmAll the timeNot only when you go to bedAnd sleep

I chose this poem beacuse it expresses the happines that the summer brings. It also just tells a story of a woman in her skin just having the time of her life. I feel as though that the figurative language in this poem expresses joy.








2.I'm Not Lonely
i'm not lonelysleeping all alone
you think i'm scaredbut i'm a big girli don't cryor anything
i have a greatbig bedto roll aroundin and lots of spaceand idon't dreambad dreamslike i usedto have that youwere leaving meanymore
now that you're gonei don't dreamand no matterwhat you thinki'm not lonelysleepingall alone





This poem is really deep. she expresses a story with out saying many words. she is saying even though she is alone she not lonely. This is a poem especially for women.





3.CHOICES
if i can't dowhat i want to dothen my job is to notdo what i don't wantto do
it's not the same thingbut it's the best i cando
if i can't havewhat i want . . . thenmy job is to wantwhat i've gotand be satisfiedthat at least thereis something more to want
since i can't gowhere i needto go . . . then i must . . . gowhere the signs pointthrough always understandingparallel movementisn't lateral
when i can't expresswhat i really feeli practice feelingwhat i can expressand none of it is equali knowbut that's why mankindalone among the animalslearns to cry





This poem is about making serious choices. This tells that she is entitled to do what she wants. This is basically saying she is a free woman. I believe I cvould represent this poem.





2Mya Angelou_


1. Still I RiseYou may write me down in historyWith your bitter, twisted lies,You may trod me in the very dirtBut still, like dust, I'll rise.Does my sassiness upset you?Why are you beset with gloom?'Cause I walk like I've got oil wellsPumping in my living room.Just like moons and like suns,With the certainty of tides,Just like hopes springing high,Still I'll rise.Did you want to see me broken?Bowed head and lowered eyes?Shoulders falling down like teardrops.Weakened by my soulful cries.Does my haughtiness offend you?Don't you take it awful hard'Cause I laugh like I've got gold minesDiggin' in my own back yard.You may shoot me with your words,You may cut me with your eyes,You may kill me with your hatefulness,But still, like air, I'll rise.Does my sexiness upset you?Does it come as a surpriseThat I dance like I've got diamondsAt the meeting of my thighs?Out of the huts of history's shameI riseUp from a past that's rooted in painI riseI'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.Leaving behind nights of terror and fearI riseInto a daybreak that's wondrously clearI riseBringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,I am the dream and the hope of the slave.I riseI riseI rise.





Still I rise is about freedom. She is saying that no one can stop her from doing her. She is very confident in herself. This is how I feel.





2. The DetachedWe die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets, Stranglers to our 2utstretched necks, Stranglers, who neither care norcare to know thatDEATH IS INTERNAL.We pray, Savoring sweet the teethed lies, Bellying the grounds before alien gods, Gods, who neither know norwish to know thatHELL IS INTERNAL.We love, Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands, Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses, Kisses that neither touch norcare to touch ifLOVE IS INTERNAL.





This poem is about everything coming from with in. She is saying if someone dies is because you let them. If you love some one is because of how you feel inside. This poem expresses a new way of thinking.





3. Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's sizeBut when I start to tell them,They think I'm telling lies.I say,It's in the reach of my armsThe span of my hips,The stride of my step,The curl of my lips.I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.I walk into a roomJust as cool as you please,And to a man,The fellows stand orFall down on their knees.Then they swarm around me,A hive of honey bees.I say,It's the fire in my eyes,And the flash of my teeth,The swing in my waist,And the joy in my feet.I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.Men themselves have wonderedWhat they see in me.They try so muchBut they can't touchMy inner mystery.When I try to show themThey say they still can't see.I say,It's in the arch of my back,The sun of my smile,The ride of my breasts,The grace of my style.I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.Now you understandJust why my head's not bowed.I don't shout or jump aboutOr have to talk real loud.When you see me passingIt ought to make you proud.I say,It's in the click of my heels,The bend of my hair,the palm of my hand,The need of my care,'Cause I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.





All I can say is I am what this poem describes. She is an all around crowd pleaser. She is not concieted she is just aware of how talented she is. She has to believe in her self or no one else will.





3Gwendolyn brooks


1. The Mother


Abortions will not let you forget.You remember the children you got that you did not get,The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,The singers and workers that never handled the air.You will never neglect or beatThem, or silence or buy with a sweet.You will never wind up the sucking-thumbOr scuttle off ghosts that come.You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killedchildren.I have contracted. I have easedMy dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seizedYour luckAnd your lives from your unfinished reach,If I stole your births and your names,Your straight baby tears and your games,Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,and your deaths,If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.Though why should I whine,Whine that the crime was other than mine?--Since anyhow you are dead.Or rather, or instead,You were never made.But that too, I am afraid,Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?You were born, you had body, you died.It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.Believe me, I loved you all.Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved youAll.





This is a sad poem about abortions. Many people had to go through this tradgity but they only did it because they had to. I believe this poem is for them to let them no that its okay.





2. to be in love


To be in love Is to touch with a lighter hand.In yourself you stretch, you are well. You look at things Through his eyes. A cardinal is red. A sky is blue.Suddenly you know he knows too.He is not there but You know you are tasting together The winter, or a light spring weather.His hand to take your hand is overmuch. Too much to bear.You cannot look in his eyes Because your pulse must not say What must not be said.When he Shuts a door- Is not there_ Your arms are water.And you are free With a ghastly freedom. You are the beautiful half Of a golden hurt.You remember and covet his mouth To touch, to whisper on. Oh when to declare Is certain Death! Oh when to apprize Is to mesmerize, To see fall down, the Column of Gold, Into the commonest ash.





this poem is about feeling love. I like this poem because i can relate to it. I understand first hand what she is talking about. This poem intrests me.



3.
sonnet-ballad

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?They took my lover's tallness off to war,Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guessWhat I can use an empty heart-cup for.He won't be coming back here any more.Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knewWhen he went walking grandly out that doorThat my sweet love would have to be untrue.Would have to be untrue. Would have to courtCoquettish death, whose impudent and strangePossessive arms and beauty (of a sort)Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes."Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?



This poem is about some one being taken away. This is just asking what is she supposed to do now? She is obviously upset about this separation.



4. Langston hughes


Cultural Exchange

In the Quarter of the NegroesWhere the doors are doors of paperDust of dingy atomsBlows a scratchy sound.Amorphous jack-o'-Lanterns caperAnd the wind won't wait for midnightFor fun to blow doors down.By the river and the railroadWith fluid far-off goindBoundaries bind unbindingA whirl of whisteles blowing.No trains or steamboats going--Yet Leontyne's unpacking.In the Quarter of the NegroesWhere the doorknob lets in LiederMore than German ever bore,Her yesterday past grandpa--Not of her own doing--In a pot of collard greensIs gently stewing.Pushcarts fold and unfoldIn a supermarket sea.And we better find out, mama,Where is the colored laundromatSince we move dup to Mount Vernon.In the pot begind the paper doorson the old iron stove what's cooking?What's smelling, Leontyne?Lieder, lovely LiederAnd a leaf of collard green.Lovely Lieder, Leontyne.You know, right at ChristmasThey asked me if my blackness,Would it rub off?I said, Ask your mama.Dreams and nightmares!Nightmares, dreams, oh!Dreaming that the NegroesOf the South have taken over--Voted all the DixiecratsRight out of power--Comes the COLORED HOUR:Martin Luther King is Governor of Georgia,Dr. Rufus Clement his Chief Adviser,A. Philip Randolph the High Grand Worthy.In white pillared mansionsSitting on their wide verandas,Wealthy Negroes have white servants,White sharecroppers work the black plantations,And colored children have white mammies:Mammy FaubusMammy EastlandMammy WallaceDear, dear darling old white mammies--Sometimes even buried with our family.Dear oldMammy Faubus!Culture, they say, is a two-way street:Hand me my mint julep, mammny.Hurry up!Make haste!



2Daybreak in Alabama

When I get to be a composerI'm gonna write me some music aboutDaybreak in AlabamaAnd I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in itRising out of the ground like a swamp mistAnd falling out of heaven like soft dew.I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in itAnd the scent of pine needlesAnd the smell of red clay after rainAnd long red necksAnd poppy colored facesAnd big brown armsAnd the field daisy eyesOf black and white black white black peopleAnd I'm gonna put white handsAnd black hands and brown and yellow handsAnd red clay earth hands in itTouching everybody with kind fingersAnd touching each other natural as dewIn that dawn of music when IGet to be a composerAnd write about daybreak



3Democracy

Democracy will not comeToday, this yearNor everThrough compromise and fear.I have as much right As the other fellow hasTo standOn my two feet And own the land.I tire so of hearing people say, Let things take their course.Tomorrow is another day.I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.FreedomIs a strong seedPlantedIn a great need.I live here, too.I want freedomJust as you.



5. William shakespeare



1.A Fairy Song

Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire!I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moon's sphere;And I serve the Fairy Queen,To dew her orbs upon the green;The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favours;In those freckles live their savours;I must go seek some dewdrops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.



2.How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.



3."Heaven"—is what I cannot reach!

239"Heaven"—is what I cannot reach!The Apple on the Tree—Provided it do hopeless—hang—That—"Heaven" is—to Me!The Color, on the Cruising Cloud—The interdicted Land—Behind the Hill—the House behind—There—Paradise—is found!Her teasing Purples—Afternoons—The credulous—decoy—Enamored—of the Conjuror—That spurned us—Yesterday!



6. lucille lifton

1 me and you be sisters

me and you be sisters.we be the same.me and youcoming from the same place.me and yoube greasing our legstouching up our edges.me and yoube scared of ratsbe stepping on roaches.me and youcome running high down purdy street one timeand mama laugh and shake her head atme and you.me and yougot babiesgot thirty-fivegot blacklet our hair go backbe loving ourselvesbe loving ourselvesbe sisters.only where you sing,I poet.



2who is there to protect herfrom the hands of the fathernot the windows which see andsay nothing not the moonthat awful eye not the womanshe will become with herscarred tongue who who who the owllaments into the evening whowill protect her this prettylittlegirl



3 if the little girl liesstill enoughshut enoughhard enoughshapeshifter may notwalk tonightthe full moon may notfind him herethe hair on himbristlingrisingup



7.Richard Allen Taylor
1. Light Verse
God bless all who brought us light: the cave man who found fire when lightning struck and learned to strike sparks; the little known but very bright Chinese inventor whose insights in chemistry produced the All-American firework sights we see every July 4th and in the rocket’s red glare, the light of Lady Liberty, her torch raised high. We will never forget Edison, who labored though the night those long years, looking for the right filament. Westinghouse, Sylvania, GE, many others we applaud; bees for their wax, whales for their oil, fossils for their fuel. Let us not overlook the luminous sun, the stars, the illuminated moon, the reflected light that collects like silvery rain in mountain lakes, refracted light split into rainbows, waves or particles, emitted light, photoelectric, photosynthetic, bounced from mirrors, passed through prisms. To those who illuminate dark corners we give thanks and praise—poets, philosophers, electricians, all who make us see the light, rhetorical or incandescent, who teach us to examine things in the light of day, to hope for the light at the end of the tunnel. To all who shed light on the subject, we shed our grace and say oh say can you see the dawn’s early light, the twilight, the highlights, soft lights, lamp lights, white lights on dark nights and all the colors there ever were, light itself divided into a thousand voices all starting with Genesis and heaven and earth and God, who thought of it first.

2. Dear Wednesday Night Poetry Group
Thank you for your kind assistancein revising my poem, "The Bird Feeder,"in which I sought to weave with the grace of swans, a narrative of how I suddenly discovered the true meaning of life.
Thank you for your gentle suggestionsfor removing excess commas to improveflow and for your wise advice on enjambment (though opinion seemed to be dividedon this). Your not-so-subtle hints
that the poem might require major surgery, that many of the original twenty-four lines were too literal, too obscure, too preachy, too concrete, too abstract, too much, too toowere a little harsh. I know you were joking when you suggested that my poem might be better
as a short story, but to attack the poem's heart, blood drippingfrom your teeth, I thought excessively brutal.I would have appreciated a copy of the emailchanging the Wednesday night poetry groupto the Tuesday night poetry group;
nevertheless, I thank you for your input,all of which I have incorporated into the finishedpoem, which I now submit for your review:
Empty bird feederhangs useless and abandoned,stock market plummets.

3.Calendar Girl
I just come here for the food, honest.
Not for the titillating sight of sexy waitresses my daughter's age in tight silk pants and necklines too low to be called necklines, though of course I appreciate beauty wherever I find it and it is pleasant to meet "Geri" who signs her name on a paper napkin and asks me to let her know if I need anything.
Anything. A weary traveler, I do need cold beer, hot wings, beer-battered shrimp, civility, celery sticks, and have no plans to ask for more
but Geri is pretty and smart and she thinks I need more. The Hooters Swimsuit Calendar, she says, on sale for only $25.99. No thanks, I reply, unless your picture is in it.
A clever dodge, I think to myself, but she persists. If I could put my picture in it, would you buy it?
Of course, I answer, smooth as her silk pants which, for some reason, I find necessary to mention again. She vanishes, then reappears moments later with a Polaroid of herself
posing in the stockroom, one hand on a jaunty silk-panted hip, the horns of an owl molded to the curves of her perfect breasts, her cover-girl smile framed by the golden parentheses of her corn-silk hair. She presents the photo for my nodding approval and drops itbetween the pages of my new calendar,
for which I have no use. My wife has no appreciation for this kind of art in the houseand my boss forbids this sort of thing in the office. And thinking of no one on my Christmas list for whom it would be a suitable gift, I will carry the calendar around in my suitcase for several weeks before stuffing it into a hotel trash can.
But tonight, the food is delicious, the itemized fifty-dollar receipt, now rendered unusable for my expense report, an expensive dessert. The photo of Geri I keep as a bookmark. Tucked safely between poems, she smiles the sweet smile of commissioned sales and reminds me that
I just go there for the food, honest.

8. E E Cummings
1. "It is at moments after i have dreamed "

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed
with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds
the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;
moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:
one pierced moment whiter than the rest
-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.


2. "i love you much(most beautiful darling)"

i love you much(most beautiful darling)
more than anyone on the earth and i
like you better than everything in the sky
-sunlight and singing welcome your coming
although winter may be everywhere
with such a silence and such a darkness
noone can quite begin to guess
(except my life)the true time of year-
and if what calls itself a world should have
the luck to hear such singing(or glimpse such
sunlight as will leap higher than high
through gayer than gayest someone's heart at your each
nearness)everyone certainly would(my
most beautiful darling)believe in nothing but love


3."may i feel said he"

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she
(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she
(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)
may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she
may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she
but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she
(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she
(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

9. Cornelius Eady
Im a fool to love you

1.Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,Some type of supernatural creature.My mother would tell you, if she could,About her life with my father,A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.She would tell you about the choicesA young black woman faces.Is falling in love with some manA deal with the devilIn blue terms, the tongue we useWhen we don't want nuanceTo get in the way,When we need to talk straight.My mother chooses my fatherAfter choosing a manWho was, as we sing it,Of no account.This man made my father look good,That's how bad it was.He made my father seem like an islandIn the middle of a stormy sea,He made my father look like a rock.And is the blues the moment you realizeYou exist in a stacked deck,You look in a mirror at your young face,The face my sister carries,And you know it's the only leverageYou've got.Does this create a hurt that whispersHow you going to do?Is the blues the momentYou shrug your shouldersAnd agree, a girl without moneyIs nothing, dustTo be pushed around by any old breeze.Compared to this,My father seems, briefly,To be a fire escape.This is the way the blues worksIts sorry wonders,Makes trouble look likeA feather bed,Makes the wrong man's kissesA
healing.
2. Once, When I livedIn Virginia,My upstairs neighbor asked If, at the readingI was to giveWould anyOf my new poemsInclude a bitOf the surrounding Landscape,And I said to herNo, I don't wirteAbout that, but,This wasA false statement.I could have told herBehind a certain houseIn Illinois,Is the beginnings Of a prairie.I lovedThe subtle turningsOf the wordBrown,I lovedWhat a Clumsy movementCould toss up:Feathers, Survival tactics,DustSlanted by A mid-November's Light.And I could have spokenOn behalf ofThe New YorkRoof gardens in May:Small tuftsOf Spring.Near-secret outpostsTucked withinA city'sAgenda.I can't tell you whyCertain things make me Hold my tongue.I think the conversation DwindledAt that point.Nervous laughter,Then she walkedUpstairs.Why wouldn't a poetWant to broadcast Such lush noise?It was springIn Virginia,That particular yearA lovely meter.It was senseless,And when she missedThe reading,Didn't I pluck A stingy blossom?

3.The furnace wheezes like a drenched lung.
You can’t fix it.
The toilet babbles like a speed freak.
You can’t fix it.
The fuse box is a nest of rattlers.
You can’t fix it.
The screens yawn the bees through.
Your fingers are dumb against the hammer.
Your eyes can’t tell plumb from plums.
The frost heaves against the doorjambs,
The ice turns the power lines to brittle candy.
No one told you about how things pop and fizzle,
No one schooled you in spare parts.
That’s what the guy says but doesn’t say
As he tosses his lingo at your apartment-dweller ears,
A bit bemused, a touch impatient,
After the spring melt has wrecked something, stopped something,
After the hard wind has lifted something away,
After the mystery has plugged the pipes,
That rattle coughs up something sinister.
An easy fix, but not for you.
It’s different when you own it,
When it’s yours, he says as the meter runs,
Then smiles like an adult.

10. Cynthia King
1. As we grow older.
To move on is to take a different approach to life
Not capable for ones who remains,
To take on a new challenge is to sacrifice
Never be the one who stays the same.
Fear is common for any changeAnd so is a slight risk,
But fear is common for anything
which could lead to triumph and bliss!
So be afraid? I think not
For the past is what we fear
And down a new road everyday I will trot,
And every single year.
As my advice I say move on,
For bravery is a tool of the strong


2.saving us
There was a boy, a sad boy, a boy like no other. There were people, bad people, people who didn't like each other. There was a girl, a pretty girl, just as pretty as she could be, But who knew? No one knew that this pretty little girl was me! She noticed this boy, she watched his moves, she has to win, she mustn't lose. she talked to him, he talked to her. Put a stop to them? I strongly concur. He needs her, he needs her bad, she can give him what she never had. But she's not cocky she needs him to, there's no telling of what he could do. She helped him, she saved him from himself. She rescued him, she nursed hi back to health. In this case she is a hero and she is me and I will NEVER let go.

In this poem, I express a tone of compassion. Basically what I am saying is that I will never give up hope with something so strong that could turn out to be something so perfect. I believe that love is so special because its the closest thing in the "real world" that we have to magic so ofcourse we have to cherish every waking moment.

3. What's not being said
I can not hear what is not being said,
for is it my reactions that you dread?
why not come to me, adress me with respect
all of the drama, what do u think will happen next?
I no longer have the drive of a meir child
Yet and still you are in denile
Whats not being said is only hurting me
Will I have to live with this for eternitiy?
Its not like I can just speak up and say something
Anything I say is portrayed as nothing
Speak up, Speak out is what they all say
But do they know that half of the feeling in which I lay?
I can not pretend to be happy and smile,
Sorry but the fakeness? so not my style
So don't tell me what to do I only have one mother
but waist ya time saving me? don't bother

In this poem I am describing what could happen if you dont speak up! many children out here have commited suicide or something close to it (emo). Its being pushed off to the side as a show or wanting attention when actually its a cry for help. As a 1st hand person speaking I can understand how they feel when no one can understand them. Its a real tough thing to go through and for many its much more than just a phase.