Courage
By Anne Sexton
It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
Jazz Jive Jam
By Langston Hughes
On Saturday, my mama sang
a song that sounded blue.
Then Daddy made his trumpet cry—
I guess the rent is due.
‘Round midnight came a band of neighbors
swinging soul to soul.
The landlord even cut a rug
and let the good times roll.
They all ate Mama’s waffles and
her chicken Cordon Bleu.
Then daddy passed his hat around,
because the rent is due.
Come Sunday, me and mama kneeled
while Deacon Willie prayed.
When we got home, my daddy cheered,
“Hooray, the rent’s been paid!”
Let’s talk about my underpants
By John Kenney
La Perla.
Victoria’s Secret.
Calvin Klein.
If you want skimpy, sexy lingerie
you should buy some.
And then wear them yourself.
You dog-ear the catalogues for me.
Hot, you write.
How sweet.
Do I ask you about your
Less-than-Bradley-Cooper-like boxers?
No. But I could.
Do you know who makes a great line?
Walmart.
It’s called “Big Unders.”
I like that name.
They’re white, come five to a pack.
One size fits all, it says.
You could use them as a parachute.
Or a hammock.
Or to cover your middle-aged bum.
I like to put them on in front of you and watch your face.
But … but … those look like an Indian dhoti, you say,
confused.
I know, I say, smiling,
And they’re machine washable.
Now that’s my idea of sexy.
Litany
By Billy Collins
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine …
-- Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is no way you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
Maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down the alley,
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I am not the bread and the knife.
You are the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and – somehow – the wine.
Perseverance
by Deborah Paredez
We've landed on the planet named after the god of war and the power's out all over Texas my mother's buried under her grandmother's quilt while they're looking for signs of life on the surface of the long-dried lakebed my cousins huddling around the clay pot heaters they've rigged from overturned geraniums and the candles they keep lit for the dead the heatshield reaching extreme temperatures in the final moments of descent ice-sleeved branches cleaving from their trunks and downing communication lines and lines and lines down the block for what's left of clean water in the ancient river delta the rover arriving to drill down as scientists cheer in control towers oil men feast and fatten their pockets craters across the desolate expanse early transmission from the hazard avoidance camera can't help but capture its own shadow darkening the foreground.
I Rise
By Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But 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 wells
Pumping 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 mines
Diggin' 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 surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Strange Fruit
Abel Meerpol (aka Lewis Allen)
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swingin' in the Southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin' from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant South
The bulgin' eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burnin' flesh
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather
For the wind to suck
For the sun to rot
For the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop
(Inspired by a photograph of the 1930 lynching of Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith in Marion, Indiana, and made famous as a song sung by Billie Holliday in 1939)
THE DOGDOM OF THE DEAD
by A. E. Stallings
There is no dog so loyal as the Dead,
Always with you, trotting along at your heels
Or snoring lightly and taking up most of the bed,
Their paw pads twitching and their tails a-wag.
For even in your slumber, they still tag,
Dawdling behind and charging ahead,
Sniffing a memory out like a fleeting rabbit,
But always losing the scent when it crosses the Styx.
They are creatures of habit and cannot learn new tricks.
But what you would throw away, they fetch back for you,
A game they never tire of, and what you would keep,
They bury in the ground, a hoard of bones.
If you try to sneak off without them, they sound such moans-
Wind skinning itself in the trees, the boo-hoo of trains
And then come bounding behind you, faithful as shadows.
You will come to prefer them, dumb and dogged, forgiving,
For the Living, like cats, insinuate into your arms,
And when they've licked everything clean, dictated their terms,
They stray back into the moonlight and other kitchens,
Ungrateful creatures with their own lives.
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
By Langston Hughes
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of
human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to
New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
Prose Poem: The Secret Life of Barbie and Mr. Potato Head
By Nin Andrews
It began the year Jane received her first Barbie, and Dick was given Mr. Potato Head for Christmas. Jane loved Barbie. She especially loved undressing Barbie. So did Mr. Potato Head. Soon Barbie and Mr. Potato Head were slipping off alone to dark corners. The first time it happened Jane's mother was fixing a salad for supper: cottage cheese nestled on a crisp bed of lettuce with canned pears on top. Barbie was nervously popping her head off and on. Jane, her mother called, would you please set the table? That's when Jane told her mother that Barbie was engaged to Mr. Potato Head.
Of course even Jane knew Mr. Potato Head wasn't the perfect match for Barbie. She was afraid her Barbie might be jealous of all the other Barbies in her neighborhood who had acquired handsome Ken for their husbands. But she soon realized her mother was right. Her mother always said looks aren't everything. Besides Mr. Potato Head could make Barbie laugh. And he could do a lot more things with his detachable nose and pipe and ears when her mother wasn't looking. He, unlike Ken, was the kind of man who could change himself for a woman like Barbie. No problem, Mr. Potato Head would say whenever Barbie requested yet another body part.
The Times They Are A-Changin’
By Bob Dylan
Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you is worth savin'
And you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'
Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won't come again
And don't speak too soon
For the wheel's still in spin
And there's no tellin' who
That it's namin'
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin'
Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
Don't block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
The battle outside ragin'
Will soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin'
Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is rapidly agin'
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'
The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is rapidly fadin'
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'
The Waking
By Theodore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.