[anyone lived in a pretty how town]
By E. E. Cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
Haikus by Classic Japanese Masters
Issa:
From the leafless tree,
A cicada’s voice alone
Penetrates the rock.
Morning dew on the leaves,
Each drop a world in itself,
Glistening in light.
Basho:
Over the winter
Forest winds howl in rage
with no leaves to blow.
An old silent pond.
Into the pond a frog jumps
Splash! Silence again.
Harlem [Version 1]
By Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like 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 sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Harlem [Version # 2]
By Langston Hughes
I’ve seen them come,
Wondering.
wide-eyed, dreaming and dark.
What happens
to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like 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 sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Pouring out of Penn Station
a new nation—
but the trains are late.
Good Morning [Version 3]
By Langston Hughes
Good morning, daddy!
I was born here, he said,
watched Harlem grow
until the colored folks
spread from river to river
across the middle of Manhattan
out of Penn Station
dark tenth of a nation,
planes from Puerto Rico,
and holds of boats, chico,
up from Cuba Haiti Jamaica,
in buses marked New York
from Georgia Florida Louisiana
to Harlem Brooklyn the Bronx
but most of all to Harlem
dusky sash across Manhattan
I've seen them come dark
wondering
wide-eyed
dreaming
out of Penn Station
but the trains are late.
The gates are open
Yet there're bars
at each gate.
What happens
to a dream deferred?
Daddy, ain't you heard?
Her Kind
By Anne Sexton
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.
I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.
I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.
homage to my hips
by Lucille Clifton
these hips are big hips.
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
I have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!
I Feel Lucky
By Mary Carpenter * & Don Schlitz
Well I woke up this morning stumbled out of my rack
I opened up the paper to the page in the back
It only took a minute for my finger to find
My daily dose of destiny, under my sign
My eyes just about popped out of my head
It said "the stars are stacked against you girl, get back in bed"
I feel lucky, I feel lucky, yeah
No Professor Doom gonna stand in my way
Mmmmm, I feel lucky today
Well I strolled down to the corner, gave my numbers to the clerk
The pot's eleven million so I called in sick to work
I bought a pack of Camels, a burrito and a Barq's
Crossed against the light, made a beeline for the park
The sky began to thunder, wind began to moan
I heard a voice above me saying, "girl, you better get back home"
But I feel lucky, oh oh oh, I feel lucky, yeah
No tropical depression gonna steal my sun away
Mmmmm, I feel lucky today
Now eleven million later, I was sitting at the bar
I'd bought the house a double, and the waitress a new car
Dwight Yoakam's in the corner, trying to catch my eye
Lyle Lovett's right beside me with his hand upon my thigh
The moral of this story, it's simple but it's true
Hey the stars might lie, but the numbers never do
I feel lucky, oh oh oh, I feel lucky, yeah
Hey Dwight, hey Lyle, boys, you don't have to fight
Hot dog, I'm feeling lucky tonight
I feel lucky, brrrrr, I feel lucky, yeah
Think I'll flip a coin, I'm a winner either way
Mmmmmm, I feel lucky today
* Lyrics to a Mary Chapin Carpenter song
I shall forget you presently, my dear
(Sonnet IV)
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And vows were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,—
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.
Phenomenal Woman (from Still I Rise)
-- Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall 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 woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They 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 woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It 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 for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Texas Trilogy: Bosque County Romance
By Steve Fomholtz
Mary Martin was a schoolgirl
Just seventeen or so
When she married Billy Archer
About fourteen years ago
Not even out of high school
Folks said it wouldn't last
But when you grow up in the country
You grow up mighty fast
They married in a hurry
In March before school was out
Folks said that she was pregnant
"Just wait and you'll find out."
It came about that winter
One gray November morn
The first of many more to come
A baby boy was born
And cattle is their game
And Archer is the name
They give to the acres that they own
If the Brazos don't run dry
And the newborn calves don't die
Another year from Mary will have flown
Another year from Mary will have flown
Now Billy kept what cattle
His father could afford
Bouncing across the cactus
In a 1950 Ford
The cows were sick and skinny
And the weed was all that grew
But Billy kept the place alive
The only thing he knew
And Mary cooked the supper
And Mary scrubbed the clothes
And Mary busted horses
And blew the baby's nose
And Mary and a shotgun
Kept the rattlesnakes away
How she kept on smiling
No one could ever say
Now the drought of '57
Was a curse upon the land
No one in Bosque county
Could give Bill a helping hand
The ground was cracked and broken
And the truck was out of gas
And cows can't feed on prickly pear
Instead of growing grass
Well the weather got the water
And a snake bite took a child
And a fire in the old barn
Took the hay that Bill had piled
The mortgage got the money
And the screw worm got the cows
The years have come for Mary
She's waiting for them now
Texas Trilogy: Daybreak
By Steve Fromholtz
Six o'clock silence of a new day beginning
Is heard in a small Texas town
Like a signal from nowhere the people who live there
Are up and moving around
’Cause there's bacon to fry
There's biscuits to bake
On the stove that the Salvation Army won’t take
You open the windows and you turn on the fan
'Cause it's hotter than hell when the sun hits the land
Walter and Fanny well they own the grocery
That sells most all that you need
They've been up and working since early this morning
They've got the whole village to feed
They put out fresh eggs, throw bad ones away
That rotted because of the heat yesterday
The store is all dark so you can't see the flies
That settle on 'round steak and last Monday's pies
Sleepy Hill’s drugstore and the cafe are open
The coffee is bubbling hot
’Cause the folks that ain't working gonna sit there ’til sundown
And talk about what they ain't got
Someone just blew a clutch in the old pickup truck
Seems like they're riding on a streak of bad luck
The doctor bills came and the well has gone dry
Seems their grown kids don't care whether they live or die
Hell I can remember when Cockrell Texas was a good place for a
man to live and raise a family
’Course that's before the cotton gin closed down, heh
It's been that long ago
You know it seems like only yesterday ole Steve Hughes lost is
arm in that infernal machine and walked all the way home
bleeding to death
'Course new highway helped some when they dammed up the
Brazos to build Lake Whitney
Brought some fishermen down from Dallas and Fort Worth
Town sure has been quiet though since they closed down the
depot and built that new trestle out west of town
You know the train just don't stop here anymore
No the train just don't stop here anymore
The Destruction of Sennacherib
By Alfred Lord Tennyson
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.