The War Works Hardby Dunya Mikhailtranslated by Elizabeth WinslowHow magnificent the war is!How eagerand efficient!Early in the morningit wakes up the sirensand dispatches ambulancesto various placesswings corpses through the airrolls stretchers to the woundedsummons rainfrom the eyes of mothersdigs into the earthdislodging many thingsfrom under the ruins...Some are lifeless and glisteningothers are pale and still throbbing...It produces the most questionsin the minds of childrenentertains the godsby shooting fireworks and missilesinto the skysows mines in the fieldsand reaps punctures and blistersurges families to emigratestands beside the clergymenas they curse the devil(poor devil, he remainswith one hand in the searing fire)...The war continues working, day and night.It inspires tyrantsto deliver long speechesawards medals to generalsand themes to poetsit contributes to the industryof artificial limbsprovides food for fliesadds pages to the history booksachieves equalitybetween killer and killedteaches lovers to write lettersaccustoms young women to waitingfills the newspapers

with articles and picturesbuilds new housesfor the orphansinvigorates the coffin makersgives grave diggersa pat on the backand paints a smile on the leader's face.It works with unparalleled diligence!Yet no one gives ita word of praise.Freedom’s Kissby George Pappas(written in 2011 in response to the protests in Egypt.)Dictators can silence nothing.The truth speaks in its own cadenceWords are weapons traveling across borders,countries, and even universes.Smug politicians talk about “balanced” dictatorships.What’s balanced about a boot on one’s throatchoking off another plea for freedom?Yet the flame is lit.It rises higher with each passing dayafter burning silently for decades inthe hearts & souls of the oppressedin the land of the Pharaohs.Now this tortured ache hasfinally been unleashed in a desirefor freedom’s kiss.This freedom tospeak,think,love,dream,hope has nothing to dowith politics or ideology.It smolders deeply in each of uswaitingfor the moment to be set free.1I, too, sing Americaby Langston HughesI, too, sing America.I am the darker brother.They send me to eat in the kitchenWhen company comes,

But I laugh,And eat well,And grow strong.Tomorrow,I'll be at the tableWhen company comes.Nobody'll dareSay to me,"Eat in the kitchen,"Then.Besides,They'll see how beautiful I amAnd be ashamed--I, too, am America.Liberty Needs Glassesby Tupac Shakurexcuse me but lady liberty needs glassesand so does mrs justice by her sideboth the broads r blind as batsstumbling thru the systemjustice bumped into mutulu andtrippin on geronimo prattbut stepped right over oliverand his crooked partner ronniejustice stubbed her big toe on mandelaand liberty was misquoted by the indiansslavery was a learning phaseforgotten with out a verdictwhile justice is on a rampage4 endangered surviving black malesi mean really if anyone really valued lifeand cared about the massesthey’d take em both 2 pen opticaland get 2 pair of glassesA Recited Truthby Mollie H., Argyle, NYI pledge allegianceTo the flagOf the United States of AmericaAnd to the controversial culture for which it standsOne nation, under whatever deity you choose,Indivisible since 1965,With liberty and justice for all who can afford adecent lawyer.

Sura-Min-Ra’a*By Nedhal Abbas(translated from the original Arabic)On Friday morningIn Sura-Min-Ra’aA young man lays in piecesTorn apart by sniper’s fireA womanIn Black A’bayaPasses byHolding her toddler by the hand.The childStares at the remains,At a hand opened to the sky.He reaches for a touch,WonderingCould it be his father’s?________________________________* Sura-Min-Ra’a means “a delight to the seer” in Arabic. It isalso the traditional name for the modern city of Samarra,which stands on the east bank of the Tigris, 125 km north ofBaghdad and is famous for its Great Mosque with its uniquespiral minaret built in 847.In October 2004, The US occupation forces led an assault onSamarra. Hundreds of people were killed. Bodies were left inthe streets and could not be collected for fear of Americansnipers.2Freedom CarolBy Nedhal Abbas(translated from the original Arabic)AhI’ll say it again:There are few thingsOn which we all agree;Sooner or laterYou’ll be free.Democracy is new for youBut never mindWe will teach youMarines;Move forwardGo onThis is what you trained forYou are the hunterYou are the predatorFreedom is beautiful

Do you hear?Soldiers march,On native’s bodiesBattling a stenchThey chantFreedom is beautifulBy tanksBy warplanes,Apache, Kiowa, marine cobra.Smoke grenadesBy Sniper shotsWe‘ll end your plightThey deliver.Wrapped in democracy,Colored in freedom,Packages ofUn-named mutilated naked burnedBlown apart un-counted bodiesWe receive137,000Men women and childrenMohamed, Ali, Omar, JawadSelma, Nadia, Fatima, SuhadHussein, Ahmed, Salam, AzadAysha, Amal, Maysoon, NuhadFaisal, Raad, Zaid, WidadNuha, Haifaa, Kifah, SouadFrom a distanceChorus of freedom recite:AhWe’ll say it again;Can’t you understand?It’s our missionTo put an endTo your plightExcerpt from The Buried Lifeby Matthew ArnoldAlas! is even love too weakTo unlock the heart, and let it speak?Are even lovers powerless to revealTo one another what indeed they feel?I knew the mass of men conceal'dTheir thoughts, for fear that if reveal'dThey would by other men be metWith blank indifference, or with blame reprov'd;I knew they liv'd and mov'dTrick'd in disguises, alien to the restOf men, and alien to themselves—and yet

The same heart beats in every human breast.But we, my love—does a like spell benumbOur hearts—our voices?—must we too be dumb?Ah, well for us, if even we,Even for a moment, can get freeOur heart, and have our lips unchain'd;For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!3The Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunksby Pablo NerudaAll those men were there inside,when she came in totally naked.They had been drinking: they began to spit.Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.She was a mermaid who had lost her way.The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarettestubs,and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.She did not speak because she had no speech.Her eyes were the colour of distant love,her twin arms were made of white topaz.Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,and suddenly she went out by that door.Entering the river she was cleaned,shining like a white stone in the rain,and without looking back she swam againswam towards emptiness, swam towards deathFábula De La Sirena Y Los Borrachos(in spanish)Todos estos señores estaban dentrocuando ella entró completamente desnudaellos habían bebido y comenzaron a escupirlaella no entendía nada recién salía del rioera una sirena que se había extraviadolos insultos corrían sobre su carne lisala inmundicia cubrió sus pechos de oroella no sabía llorar por eso no llorabano sabía vestirse por eso no se vestíala tatuaron con cigarrillos y con corchos quemadosy reían hasta caer al suelo de la tabernaella no hablaba porque no sabía hablarsus ojos eran color de amor distante

sus brazos construídos de topacios gemelossus labios se cortaron en la luz del coraly de pronto salió por esa puertaapenas entro al rio quedó limpiarelució como una piedra blanca en la lluviay sin mirar atrás nadó de nuevonadó hacia nunca más hacia morir.4“Mediterranean Landscape,” by Pablo Picasso#387 (The Moon is distant from the Sea)by Emily DickinsonTheMoon is distant from the Sea --And yet, with Amber Hands --She leads Him -- docile as a Boy --Along appointed Sands -He never misses a Degree --Obedient to Her EyeHe comes just so far -- toward the Town --Just so far -- goes away --Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand --And mine -- the distant Sea --Obedient to the least commandThine eye impose on me --A Poison Treeby William BlakeI was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow.And I watered it in fearsNight and morning with my tears,And I sunned it with smilesAnd with soft deceitful wiles.And it grew both day and night,Till it bore an apple bright,And my foe beheld it shine,And he knew that it was mine,--And into my garden stoleWhen the night had veiled the pole;In the morning, glad, I seeMy foe outstretched beneath the tree.#952 (A Man may make a Remark)by Emily DickinsonA Man may make a Remark -In itself - a quiet thing

That may furnish the Fuse unto a SparkIn dormant nature - lain -Let us divide - with skill -Let us discourse - with care -Powder exists in Charcoal -Before it exists in Fire -LiarBy Alison G., Kensington, CAin your mouthyou fold your paper-thin words uplike origami and grin when they take flightas paper craneshope swelling in the beating of their fragile wingsfilling the spaces between usand bursting in front of my eyesleavingdrops of happiness trickling downforming puddles by my feet.5“The Scream,” by Edvard MunchThe Talking Back of MissValentine Jones: Poem # oneby June Jordanwell I wanted to braid my hairbathe and bedeck myself so fineso fully aforethought foryour pleasuresee:I wanted to travel and readand runaround fantasticinto war and peace:I wanted tosurfdiveflyclimbconquerand be conqueredTHENI wanted to pickup the phoneand find you asking meif I might possibly be alonesome night(so I could answer cool

as the jewels I would wearon bareskin for youdigmedaddy delectation:)"WHENyou comin ova?"But I had to remember to write downmargarine on the listand shoepolish and a can ofsliced pineapple in casea companyand a quarta skim milk cause Teresa'sgaining weight and don' nobody groove onthat muchgirland next I hadta sort for darks and lights beforethe laundry hit the water which I hadto kinda keep an eye on becauseif the big hose jumps the sink again thatMrs. Thompson gointa come upstairsand brain me with a mop don' smell toonice even though she hangit headfirst out the windaand I had to checkon William like toburn hisself to death with feverboy so thin becallin all day "Momma! Sing to me?""Ma! Am I gone die?" and me notwake enough to sit beside him longer thanto wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/his shirt and feed him orangejuice before I fall out of sleep andSweet My Jesus ain but one canleftand we not thru the afternoonand nowyou (temporarily) shownup with a thingyou says' a poem and youcall it"Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?"guilty po' mouthabout duty beauties of myheadragboozeup doozies aboutnever mindcause love is blindwell

I can't use itand the very next bodacious Blackmancall me queenbecause my life ain shitbecause (in any case) he ain been here to share itwith me(dish for dish and do for do anddream for dream)I'm gone scream him out my housebecausewhat I wanted wasto braid my hair/bathe and bedeck myself so fully becausewhat I wanted wasyour lovenot pitybecausewhat I wanted wasyour loveyour love6Tonight I can write the saddest linesby Pablo NerudaTonightI can write the saddestlines.Write, for example,'The night is shatteredand the blue stars shiver in the distance.'The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.Tonight I can write the saddest lines.I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.Through nights like this one I held her in my armsI kissed her again and again under the endless sky.She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.How could one not have loved her great still eyes.Tonight I can write the saddest lines.To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.What does it matter that my love could not keep her.The night is shattered and she is not with me.This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.My sight searches for her as though to go to her.My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.The same night whitening the same trees.We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.Love is so short, forgetting is so long.Because through nights like this one I held her in my armsmy sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.Though this be the last pain that she makes me sufferand these the last verses that I write for her.Puedo Escribir los Versos masTristes Esta Noche(in spanish)Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche esta estrellada,y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.Yo la quise, y a veces ella tambien me quiso.En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.La bese tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.Ella me quiso, a veces yo tambien la queria.Como no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.Oir la noche inmensa, mas inmensa sin ella.Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocio.Que importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.La noche esta estrellada y ella no esta conmigo.Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.Mi corazon la busca, y ella no esta conmigo.La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos arboles.Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuanto la quise.Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oido.De otro. Sera de otro. Como antes de mis besos.Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo.Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.7A Dream Within a Dream

by Edgar Allan PoeTake this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow:You are not wrong who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand--How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,While I weep--while I weep!O God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOne from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?Dream Deferredby Langston HughesWhat happens to a dream deferred?Does it dry upLike a raisin in the sun?Or fester like a sore--And then run?Does it stink like rotten meat?Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sagslike a heavy load.Or does it explode?Dreamsby Langston HughesHold fast to dreamsFor if dreams dieLife is a broken-winged birdThat cannot fly.Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams goLife is a barren fieldFrozen with snow.As I Grew Olderby Langston HughesIt was a long time ago.I have almost forgotten my dream.But it was there then,In front of me,Bright like a sun—My dream.And then the wall rose,Rose slowly,Slowly,Between me and my dream.Rose until it touched the sky—The wall.Shadow.I am black.I lie down in the shadow.No longer the light of my dream before me,Above me.Only the thick wall.Only the shadow.My hands!My dark hands!Break through the wall!Find my dream!Help me to shatter this darkness,To smash this night,To break this shadowInto a thousand lights of sun,Into a thousand whirling dreamsOf sun!8The Cityby C. P. Cavafytranslated by Edmund KeeleyYou said: "I'll go to another country. go to anothershore,find another city better than this one.Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrongand my heart lies buried like something dead.How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?Wherever I turn, wherever I look,

I see the black ruins of my life, here,where I've spent so many years, wasted them,destroyed them totally."You won't find a new country, won't find anothershore.This city will always pursue you.You'll walk the same streets, grow oldin the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these samehouses.You'll always end up in this city. Don't hope forthings elsewhere:there's no ship for you, there's no road.Now that you've wasted your life here, in this smallcorner,you've destroyed it everywhere in the world.Lilly of the Valleyby Alicia KeysLilly of the ValleyPale as the moonSomething in your eyesIs torturedSomething is wrongAnd it's hurting me.LillySo soft and beautifulSo pure yet paintedBy the evils of the world.LillyPlease don't let themCrush your petalsAnd throw you to the windLilly, please love yourselfFrom the roots deep within.Lilly of the ValleyDon't dance for the evil oneWho cares nothingFor how precious you areOr how tenderly you need to be picked.LillyYou are specialYou are beautifulAnd only should be treated gentlyLike the breeze that blowsLike the spring sun.Lilly

Please don't let themCrush your petalsAnd throw them to the windScatteredLeaving the residue of worthlessness on your lipsForever lostFrom what once was within.9Phenomenal Womanby Maya AngleouPretty 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.Can You See thePride in the Pantherby Tupac ShakurCan You See the Pride In the PantherAs he grows in splendor and graceTopling obstacles placed in the way,of the progression of his race.Can You See the Pride In the Pantheras she nurtures her young all aloneThe seed must grow regardlessof the fact that it is planted in stone.Can You See the Pride In the Panthersas they unify as one.The flower blooms with brilliance,and outshines the rays of the sun.10Celebration (1993)by Mari EvansI will bring you a whole personand you will bring me a whole personand we will have us twice as muchof love and everythingI be bringing a whole heartand while it do have nicks anddents and scars,

that only make me lay it downmore careful-likeAn; you be bringing a whole hearta little chipped and rusty an'sometime skip a beat butstill an' all you bringing polish tooand look like you intendto make it shineAnd we be bringing, each of usthe music of ourselves to wrapthe other inForgiving claritiesSoft as a choir's lastlingering note ourpersonal blendI will be bringing you someone wholeand you will be bringing me someone wholeand we be twice as strongand we be twice as trueand we will have twice as muchof loveand everythingO Captain! My Captain!by Walt WhitmanO Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship hasweather'd every rack,the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear,the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim anddaring; But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captainlies, Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise upforyou the flag is flung- foryou the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shoresa-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager facesturning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck,You've fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closedand done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bells!But I with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.11“Starry Night,” by Vincent Van GoghStill I Riseby Maya AngelouYou 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 backyard.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.How Do I Love Thee?(Sonnet 43)by Elizabeth Barrett BrowningHow do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of being and ideal grace.I love thee to the level of every day'sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for right.I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.I love thee with the passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith 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“Aspiration,” by Aaron DouglasWater Pictureby May SwensonIn the pond in the parkall things are doubled:Long buildings hang andwriggle gently. Chimneysare bent legs bouncingon clouds below. A flagwags like a fishhookdown there in the sky.The arched stone bridgeis an eye, with underlidin the water. In its lensdip crinkled heads with hatsthat don't fall off. Dogs go by,barking on their backs.A baby, taken to feed theducks, dangles upside-down,a pink balloon for a buoy.Treetops deploy a haze ofcherry bloom for roots,where birds coast belly-up

in the glass bowl of a hill;from its bottom a bunchof peanut-munching childrenis suspended by theirsneakers, waveringly.A swan, with twin necksforming the figure 3,steers between two dimpledtowers doubled. Fondlyhissing, she kisses herself,and all the scene is troubled:water-windows splinter,tree-limbs tangle, the bridgefolds like a fan.My mistress' eyes arenothing like the sun(Sonnet 130)by William ShakespeareMy mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips' red;If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have seen roses damasked, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;I grant I never saw a goddess go;My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rareAs any she belied with false compare.13“Water lilies,” by Claude MonetAnnabel Leeby Edgar Allan PoeIt was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of Annabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.I was a child and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea:

But we loved with a love that was more than love--I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee;So that her highborn kinsman cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me--Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud by night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we--Of many far wiser than we--And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee:For the moon never beams, without bringing medreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,In her sepulchre there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea.somewhere i have nevertravelled, gladly beyondby E. E. Cummingssomewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyondany experience,your eyes have their silence:in your most frail gesture are things which encloseme,or which i cannot touch because they are too nearyour slightest look easily will unclose methough i have closed myself as fingers,you open always petal by petal myself as Spring

opens(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first roseor if your wish be to close me, i andmy life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,as when the heart of this flower imaginesthe snow carefully everywhere descending;nothing which we are to perceive in this worldequalsthe power of your intense fragility:whose texturecompels me with the color of its countries,rendering death and forever with each breathing(i do not know what it is about you that closesand opens;only something in me understandsthe voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands14The Rose that Grewfrom Concreteby Tupac ShakurDid you hear about the rose that grewfrom a crack in the concrete?Proving nature's law is wrong itlearned to walk with out having feet.Funny it seems, but by keeping itsdreams,it learned to breathe fresh air.Long live the rose that grew fromconcretewhen no one else ever cared.Familyby Kelsey M., Barrington, ILMomWrinkled skin, such apparent loneliness, but a slight glowstill in her eye.Her work unseen, she scrubs and toils voluntarily.Striving for others’ happiness.DadPressed pants with sleek button-up shirt, a constantimage.A man with wanting eyes.Touch of his skin is cold.He bleeds account numbers and constant projects.BrotherMilitary-style hair with athletic soccer build.Glides through life a magnet for ribbons and trophies.

Carries a look that screams, “Don’t stand in my way!”Perfection is stamped on his forehead.MeGiven everything, but my eyes are black and cold, lost in agaze.Empty heart, that doesn’t want or strive.Confused on my path, but not seeking for the right one.Just putting one foot in front of the other.Where I'm FromI am from clothespins,from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.I am from the dirt under the back porch.(Black, glistening,it tasted like beets.)I am from the forsythia bushthe Dutch elmwhose long-gone limbs I rememberas if they were my own.I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,from Imogene and Alafair.I'm from the know-it-allsand the pass-it-ons,from Perk up! and Pipe down!I'm from He restoreth my soulwith a cottonball lamband ten verses I can say myself.I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,fried corn and strong coffee.From the finger my grandfather lostto the auger,the eye my father shut to keep his sight.Under my bed was a dress boxspilling old pictures,a sift of lost facesto drift beneath my dreams.I am from those moments—snapped before I budded —leaf-fall from the family tree.15“Family in Georgia,” Photo by Dorothea LangeEating Poetryby Mark StrandInk runs from the corners of my mouth.There is no happiness like mine.I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.Her eyes are sadand she walks with her hands in her dress.The poems are gone.The light is dim.The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.Their eyeballs roll,their blond legs burn like brush.The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.She does not understand.When I get on my knees and lick her hand,she screams.I am a new man.I snarl at her and bark.I romp with joy in the bookish dark.Treesby Joyce KilmerI THINK that I shall never seeA poem lovely as a tree.A tree whose hungry mouth is prestAgainst the sweet earth's flowing breast;A tree that looks at God all day,And lifts her leafy arms to pray;A tree that may in summer wearA nest of robins in her hair;Upon whose bosom snow has lain;Who intimately lives with rain.Poems are made by fools like me,But only God can make a tree.9.by E. E. Cummingsthere are so many tictocclocks everywhere telling peoplewhat toctic time it is fortictic instance five toc minutes tocpast six ticSpring is not regulated and doesnot get out of order nor doits hands a little jerking moveover numbers slowlywe do notwind it up it has no weightssprings wheels inside ofits slender self no indeed dearnothing of the kind.

(So,when kiss Spring comeswe'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kisslips because tic clocks toc don't makea toctic differenceto kisskiss you and tokiss me)16“Grey Tree,” Painting by Piet MondrianTears of a Teenage Motherby Tupac ShakurHe’s bragging about his new Jordansthe Baby just ran out of milkHe’s buying gold every 2 weeksthe Baby just ran out of PampersHe’s buying clothes for his new girl& the Baby just ran out of medicineu ask for money for the Babyand Daddy just ran out the DoorLife Through My Eyesby Tupac ShakurLife through my bloodshot eyeswould scare a square 2 deathpoverty, murder, violenceand never a moment 2 restFun and games R fewbut treasured like gold 2 mecuz I realize that I must return2 my spot in povertyBut mock my words when I saymy heart will not existunless my destiny comes throughand puts an end 2 all this|I Am!by John ClareI am! yet what I am none cares or knows,My friends forsake me like a memory lost;I am the self-consumer of my woes,They rise and vanish in oblivious host,Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;And yet I am! and live with shadows tostInto the nothingness of scorn and noise,Into the living sea of waking dreams,Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;

And e'en the dearest—that I loved the best—Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest.I long for scenes where man has never trod;A place where woman never smil'd or wept;There to abide with my creator, God,And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;The grass below—above the vaulted sky.17“Number 14 Grey,” Painting by Jackson Pollock