31 Oct: "Making a Fist" by Naomi Shihab Nye

We forget that we are all dead men conversing with dead men.

                                                                  —Jorge Luis Borges

For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,

I felt the life sliding out of me,

a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.

I was seven, I lay in the car

watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.

My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

“How do you know if you are going to die?”

I begged my mother.

We had been traveling for days.

With strange confidence she answered,

“When you can no longer make a fist.”

Years later I smile to think of that journey,

the borders we must cross separately,

stamped with our unanswerable woes.

I who did not die, who am still living,

still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,

clenching and opening one small hand.

30 Oct: "Sonnet" by James Weldon Johnson

My heart be brave, and do not falter so,   

Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail.   

Thy way is very dark and drear I know,   

But do not let thy strength and courage fail;   

For certain as the raven-winged night

Is followed by the bright and blushing morn,   

Thy coming morrow will be clear and bright;   

’Tis darkest when the night is furthest worn.   

Look up, and out, beyond, surrounding clouds,   

And do not in thine own gross darkness grope,   

Rise up, and casting off thy hind’ring shrouds,   

Cling thou to this, and ever inspiring hope:

   Tho’ thick the battle and tho’ fierce the fight,

   There is a power making for the right.

29 Oct: "Where the Sidewalk Ends" by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.     

28 Oct: "Learning to Read" by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Very soon the Yankee teachers

   Came down and set up school;

But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,—

   It was agin’ their rule.

Our masters always tried to hide

   Book learning from our eyes;

Knowledge did’nt agree with slavery—

   ’Twould make us all too wise.

But some of us would try to steal

   A little from the book.

And put the words together,

   And learn by hook or crook.

I remember Uncle Caldwell,

   Who took pot liquor fat

And greased the pages of his book,

   And hid it in his hat.

And had his master ever seen

   The leaves upon his head,

He’d have thought them greasy papers,

   But nothing to be read.

And there was Mr. Turner’s Ben,

   Who heard the children spell,

And picked the words right up by heart,

   And learned to read ’em well.

Well, the Northern folks kept sending

   The Yankee teachers down;

And they stood right up and helped us,

   Though Rebs did sneer and frown.

And I longed to read my Bible,

   For precious words it said;

But when I begun to learn it,

   Folks just shook their heads,

And said there is no use trying,

   Oh! Chloe, you’re too late;

But as I was rising sixty,

   I had no time to wait.

So I got a pair of glasses,

   And straight to work I went,

And never stopped till I could read

   The hymns and Testament.

Then I got a little cabin

   A place to call my own—

And I felt independent

   As the queen upon her throne.

27 Oct: "At the Edge of the World"

26 Oct: "Morning Song"

25 Oct: "What the Living Do" by Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days,
some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the
crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the
everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the
sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high
in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the
street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday,
hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee
down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush:
This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you
called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the
winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and
more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of
myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a
cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat
that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

24 Oct: "Kindness" by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

23 Oct: "How To Eat a Poem" by Eve Merriam

Don't be polite.
Bite in.
Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that
           may run down your chin.
It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.

You do not need a knife or fork or spoon
or plate or napkin or tablecloth.

For there is no core
or stem
or rind
or pit
or seed
or skin
to throw away.


-Eve Merriam

22 Oct: "I Am Offering This Poem" by Jimmy Santiago Baca

I am offering this poem to you,

since I have nothing else to give.

Keep it like a warm coat

when winter comes to cover you,

or like a pair of thick socks

the cold cannot bite through,

                         I love you,

I have nothing else to give you,

so it is a pot full of yellow corn

to warm your belly in winter,

it is a scarf for your head, to wear

over your hair, to tie up around your face,

                         I love you,

Keep it, treasure this as you would

if you were lost, needing direction,

in the wilderness life becomes when mature;

and in the corner of your drawer,

tucked away like a cabin or hogan

in dense trees, come knocking,

and I will answer, give you directions,

and let you warm yourself by this fire,

rest by this fire, and make you feel safe

                         I love you,

It’s all I have to give,

and all anyone needs to live,

and to go on living inside,

when the world outside

no longer cares if you live or die;

remember,

                         I love you.

21 Oct: "Naming Myself" by Barbara Kingsolver

I have guarded my name as people in other times kept their own clipped hair, believing the soul could be scattered if they were careless. I knew my first ancestor. His legend. I have touched his boots and moustache, the grandfather whose people owned slaves and cotton. He was restless in Virginia among the gentleman brothers, until one peppered, flaming autumn he stole a horse, rode over the mountains to marry a leaf-eyed Cherokee. The theft was forgiven but never the Indian blood. He lost his family’s name and invented mine, gave it fruit and seeds. I never knew the grandmother. Her photograph has ink-thin braids and buttoned clothes, and nothing that she was called. I could shed my name in the middle of life, the ordinary thing, and it would flee along with childhood and dead grandmothers to that Limbo for discontinued maiden names. But it would grow restless there. I know this. It would ride over leaf smoke mountains and steal horses.

20 Oct: "Ego-Tripping (there may be a reason)"

"Ego-Tripping" (there may be a reason) by Nikki Giovanni

I was born in the Congo
I walked to the Fertile Crescent and built
The Sphinx
I designed a pyramid so tough that a star
That only glows every one hundred years falls
Into the center giving divine perfect light
I am bad

I sat on the throne
Drinking nectar with Allah
I got hot and sent an ice age to Europe
To cool my thirst
My oldest daughter is Nefertiti
The tears from my birth pains
Created the Nile
I am a beautiful woman

I gazed on the forest and burned
Out the Sahara desert
With a packet of goat's meat
And a change of clothes
I crossed it in two hours
I am a gazelle so swift
So swift you can't catch me

For a birthday present when he was three
I gave my son Hannibal an elephant
He gave me Rome for mother's day
My strength flows ever on

My son Noah built New/Ark and
I stood proudly at the helm
As we sailed on a soft summer day
I turned myself into myself and was
Jesus
Men intone my loving name
All praises All praises
I am the one who would save

I sowed diamonds in my back yard
My bowels deliver uranium
The filings from my fingernails are
Semi-precious jewels
On a trip north
I caught a cold and blew
My nose giving oil to the Arab world
I am so hip even my errors are correct
I sailed west to reach east and had to round off
The earth as I went
The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid
Across three continents

I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
I cannot be comprehended except by my permission

I mean...I...can fly
Like a bird in the sky

19 Oct: "Abuelito Who" by Sandra Cisneros

Abuelito who throws coins like rain

and asks who loves him

who is dough and feathers

who is a watch and glass of water

whose hair is made of fur

is too sad to come downstairs today

who tells me in Spanish you are my diamond

who tells me in English you are my sky

whose little eyes are string

can't come out to play

sleeps in his little room all night and day

who used to laugh like the letter k

is sick

is a doorknob tied to a sour stick

is tired shut the door

doesn't live here anymore

is hiding underneath the bed

who talks to me inside my head

is blankets and spoons and big brown shoes

who snores up and down up and down up and down again

is the rain on the room that falls like coins

asking who loves him

who loves him who?

―Sandra Cisneros

18 Oct: "Love That Boy" by Walter Dean Myers

 

Love that boy,
like a rabbit loves to run
I said I love that boy
like a rabbit loves to run
Love to call him in the morning
love to call him
'Hey there, son!'

He walk like his Grandpa,
Grins like his Uncle Ben.
I said he walk like his Grandpa,
And grins like his Uncle Ben.
Grins when he's happy,
When he sad, he grins again.

His mama like to hold him,
Like to feed him cherry pie.
I said his mama like to hold him.
Like to feed him that cherry pie.
She can have him now,
I'll get him by and by

He got long roads to walk down
Before the setting sun.
I said he got a long, long road to walk down
Before the setting sun.
He'll be a long stride walker,
And a good man before he done.

Walter Dean Myers

17 Oct:"There is no frigate like a book"

"There is no frigate like a book"

by Emily Dickinson

 

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away,

Nor any Coursers like a

Page Of prancing Poetry – 

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll – 

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears a Human soul.

16 Oct: "Women" by Alice Walker

"Women" by Alice Walker

They were women then

My mama's generation

Husky of voice- Stout of
Step
With fists as well as
Hands
How they battered down
Doors
And ironed
Starched white
Shirts
How they led
Armies
Headdragged Generals
Across mined
Fields
Booby-trapped
Ditches
To discover books
Desks
A place for us
How they knew what we
Must know
Without knowing a page
Of it
Themselves.

15 Oct: "The Body" by Jimmy Santigo Baca

For some back ground knowledge on the poet: Jimmy Santiago Baca, From Prison To Poetry.

The Body

Feeling the bars,
Running my fingers over them,
Smeared with blood, bugs,
And bits of dried food.
A forest of bars . . .
The flesh must toughen to the cold,
Must callous to the rock,
I must learn to heal my own wounds,
Clack the rocks of my heart together
To bring fire,
And bleed the poisons from my body
In the fields where I sweat,
Walking quiet not to disturb
The great apes and tigers,
Walking carefully around traps
With sharp little bamboo shanks,
Camouflaged in socks and cloth shirts
Of the hunters and the hunted.

14 Oct: The Elephant by Hilaire Belloc

When people call this beast to mind,
They marvel more and more
At such a little tail behind,
So large a trunk before.

http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/public/poetrycompetition/article3229083.ece

13 Oct: How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and 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.

12 Oct: Poor Old Lady by Anon

Poor old lady, she swallowed a dog.
Poor old lady, she swallowed a fly.
I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she’ll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a spider.
It squirmed and wriggled and turned inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she’ll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a bird.
How absurd! She swallowed a bird.
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider,
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she’ll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a cat.
Think of that! She swallowed a cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird.
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she’ll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a dog.
She went the whole hog when she swallowed the dog.
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird.
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she’ll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a cow.
I don’t know how she swallowed a cow.
She swallowed the cow to catch the dog.
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird.
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she’ll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a horse.
She died, of course.

http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/public/poetrycompetition/article3228937.ece

11 Oct: "And You Calling Me Colored?"

When I born, I black.
When I grow up, I black.
When I go in sun, I black.
When I scared, I black.
When I sick, I black.
And when I die, I still black.

And you white people.
When you born, you pink.
When you grow up, you white.
When you go in sun, you red.
When you cold, you blue.
When you scared, you yellow.
When you sick, you green
And when you die, you grey…

And you calling me colored??

"Variously attributed to Josh White, “an African child”, Malcolm X, the Oglala Lakota, and an anonymous pupil of King Edward VI School, Birmingham, UK; but most likely one of various renditions into English from the French of a poem by Senegalese poet and first president of Senegal Léopold Sédar Senghor (1906-2001)."

10 Oct: "The Hollow Men" (again)

I recommend listening to Marlon Brando read the entire poem. Maybe add the Apocalypse Now interpretation into the poem?




"The Hollow Men" by T. S. Eliot

Mistah Kurtz-he dead
            A penny for the Old Guy


                       I

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar
    
    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
    
    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us-if at all-not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

    
                              II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.
    
    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer-
    
    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom

    
                   III

    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.
    
    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.

    
                     IV

    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
    
    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    And avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
    
    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.

    
                           V

    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.
    
    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
    
    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
                                   Life is very long
    
    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
    
    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the
    
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.

9 Oct: “Charms”

“Charms” by Georgia Heard

Soldiers stuck the ace of spades into helmet bands,

lugged Bibles through jungles in backpacks,

cradled Mezuzahs, locks of hair, crumpled photos

of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, the Pope,

The Beatles, in camouflage pockets.  Crosses,

St. Christophers dangled from strong necks,

resting against fearful hearts.

They slept with creased snapshots of families, 

wives, kids, dogs, clutched tightly in their fists.

One soldier even carried a homemade oatmeal cookie

his entire tour of Vietnam, swaddled in tin foil.

When he was homesick

          he unwrapped it,

                   held it up to his nose,

                             to smell

                                      what home  

                                                was like.

8 Oct: Abecedarian from Keeping the Night Watch

Abecedarian from Keeping the Night Watch by Hope Anita Smith

All of the family got one,

Byron, Mama, Daddy, Grandmomma, and me.  Our names

Carefully penned in Crayola Candy Apple Red.          
Daddy cried the hardest, and that’s to be          
Expected.          

Fathers, who leave, keep paying even when they come back.         

Grandmomma sits sagelike,          

Holding the letter to her chest,          

Imitating the Virgin Mary, as if the Baby were          

Jesus,          

King of Kings.          

“Lord, have          

Mercy” were the only words she spoke.  The letter said:          

Now that Daddy’s back, let’s not be scared,          

Okay?

Parents are good when there are two.

Quiet houses are

Really

Scary.

Time to love each other again.

Until forever.  And that means a

Very long time.

With 

XXXs and OOOs

Yours, 

Zuri



http://ktm1231poetry.blogspot.com/2014/01/african-american-poetry.html

7 Oct: "There's a moon out tonight" by Capris

"There's a moon out tonight" By Capris

There's a (moon out tonight) whoa-oh-oh ooh
Let's go strollin'
There's a (girl in my heart) whoa-oh-oh ooh
Whose heart I've stolen
There's a moon out tonight (whoa-oh-oh ooh)
Let's go strollin' through the park (ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh)

There's a (glow in my heart) whoa-oh-oh ooh
I never felt before
There's a (girl at my side) whoa-oh-oh ooh
That I adore
There's a glow in my heart I never felt before (ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh)

Oh darlin'
Where have you been?
I've been longin' for you all my life

Whoa-uh-oh baby I never felt this way before
I guess it's because there's a moon out tonight

There's a (glow in my heart) whoa-oh-oh ooh
I never felt before
There's a (girl at my side) whoa-oh-oh ooh
That I adore
There's glow in my heart
I guess it's because

There's a moon out tonight
Moon out tonight
Moon out tonight
Moon out tonight
There's a moon out tonight

6 Oct: "Ode: The Capris"

Ode: The Capris

by Mark Halliday

How do I feel about "There's a Moon Out Tonight" 

by the Capris?

I thought you'd never ask

Marcia Koomen lived across Cherry Lane

getting tall, taller than me in fifth grade

and smiling behind her glasses, she knew something.

The summer nights in Raleigh were thick

with something bright in the dark; you could ride

bikes under the moon and in and out of

lampshine at the corner of Wade and Dogwood,

not caring about touching a girl, or, later,

not caring much still but happy to be a boy

who could some day "have" a girl, and be conscious of

a shivering beauty caught in the word girl

There's a girl at my side 

that I adore

-the Capris knew something all together

and it called for this new verb, to adore;

something out there ahead of my bicycle in the dark;

I cared a loy about Paladin on "Have Gun - Will Travel"

but did I adore him? Scotty Koomen, years older,

got sort of pae and brittle when he went to visit

a certain girl in his class, he seemed to have trouble

breathing...

There's a glow in my heart

I never felt before

- not exactly in my heart yet but it was

what would be there if I rode just maybe deeper down

Dogwood Lane in the busy dark.

Across Dogwood lived Ann Dailey

who had freckles and an awesome kind of largeness,

not fat but big and this made my eyes feel hot and burny;

she moved slowly doing chores in her yard,

her long tanning thighs seemed sarcastic

as if she knew soon her freckled beauty must positively

carry her somehow out, out and away...And

Shelby Wilson one night kissed her on the lips.

I saw it happen - on the sofa in the basement - 

her folks weren't home. Right on the lips!

Amazing lips are in your future, boy. That's

what the Capris were telling me; the North Carolinia moon

is natural and it can find you anywhere;

you have t let the moon paint you and your bike

and the picture of Elvis in your pocket

and it shines down on Marcia's hair

and on the thought of the green eyes of Ann Dailey.

Ride and wait, wait and watch;

you laugh, you shiver in the summer - cool - dark.

You speak of the Yankees and the Pirates but

cut a side glance at Marcia's tall shape

but when she says anything serious exasperate her

yelling Little Richard's wop bop alu bop

but this dodging, dodging will end -

somewhere - 

the Capris being on Marcia's side.

Baby, I never felt this way before

I guess it's because there's a moon out tonight

and once that shining starts

no amount of irony will ever quite ride the Capris out of town.

I picture a deep pool with yellow flowers drifting

on the surface. The song pours up

out of that pool.

Poem 008, Poetry  180 

(note: Poem 007 was a repeat from website)