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April is National Poetry Month!
Help us celebrate by participating in March (and April) Madness.
Be a part of deciding what it takes to be a good poem.
From a pool of 32 student-selected poems,
one will make it through the sweet sixteen,
the great eight,
the final four,
and the championship round to become
the 2011 Shaker poem of the year.
All Shaker High School students, faculty, and staff can vote for their favorites.
If your class is participating, you can read and vote in class; otherwise, you can vote
in the library. For each poetry match-up, a winner will be selected to move on to the
next round. Voting will take place as listed below – the votes will be counted at the
end of the school day on each of the dates.
2
1.
Only
a
Dad
by
Edgar
Guest
Only
a
dad
with
a
tired
face,
Coming
home
from
the
daily
race,
Bringing
little
of
gold
or
fame,
To
show
how
well
he
has
played
the
game,
But
glad
in
his
heart
that
his
own
rejoice
To
see
him
come
and
to
hear
his
voice.
3
3.
Kubla
Khan
by
Samuel
Taylor
Coleridge
IN
Xanadu
did
Kubla
Khan
A
stately
pleasure-‐dome
decree:
Where
Alph,
the
sacred
river,
ran
Through
caverns
measureless
to
man
Down
to
a
sunless
sea.
5
So
twice
five
miles
of
fertile
ground
With
walls
and
towers
were
girdled
round:
And
there
were
gardens
bright
with
sinuous
rills
Where
blossom'd
many
an
incense-‐bearing
tree;
And
here
were
forests
ancient
as
the
hills,
10
Enfolding
sunny
spots
of
greenery.
But
O,
that
deep
romantic
chasm
which
slanted
Down
the
green
hill
athwart
a
cedarn
cover!
A
savage
place!
as
holy
and
enchanted
As
e'er
beneath
a
waning
moon
was
haunted
15
By
woman
wailing
for
her
demon-‐lover!
And
from
this
chasm,
with
ceaseless
turmoil
seething,
As
if
this
earth
in
fast
thick
pants
were
breathing,
A
mighty
fountain
momently
was
forced;
Amid
whose
swift
half-‐intermitted
burst
20
Huge
fragments
vaulted
like
rebounding
hail,
Or
chaffy
grain
beneath
the
thresher's
flail:
And
'mid
these
dancing
rocks
at
once
and
ever
It
flung
up
momently
the
sacred
river.
Five
miles
meandering
with
a
mazy
motion
25
Through
wood
and
dale
the
sacred
river
ran,
Then
reach'd
the
caverns
measureless
to
man,
And
sank
in
tumult
to
a
lifeless
ocean:
And
'mid
this
tumult
Kubla
heard
from
far
Ancestral
voices
prophesying
war!
30
The
shadow
of
the
dome
of
pleasure
Floated
midway
on
the
waves;
Where
was
heard
the
mingled
measure
From
the
fountain
and
the
caves.
It
was
a
miracle
of
rare
device,
35
A
sunny
pleasure-‐dome
with
caves
of
ice!
A
damsel
with
a
dulcimer
In
a
vision
once
I
saw:
It
was
an
Abyssinian
maid,
And
on
her
dulcimer
she
play'd,
40
Singing
of
Mount
Abora.
Could
I
revive
within
me,
Her
symphony
and
song,
To
such
a
deep
delight
'twould
win
me,
4
That
with
music
loud
and
long,
45
I
would
build
that
dome
in
air,
That
sunny
dome!
those
caves
of
ice!
And
all
who
heard
should
see
them
there,
And
all
should
cry,
Beware!
Beware!
His
flashing
eyes,
his
floating
hair!
50
Weave
a
circle
round
him
thrice,
And
close
your
eyes
with
holy
dread,
For
he
on
honey-‐dew
hath
fed,
And
drunk
the
milk
of
Paradise.
4.
Ozymandias
by
P.B.
Shelley
I
MET
a
traveller
from
an
antique
land
Who
said:—Two
vast
and
trunkless
legs
of
stone
Stand
in
the
desert.
Near
them
on
the
sand,
Half
sunk,
a
shatter'd
visage
lies,
whose
frown
And
wrinkled
lip
and
sneer
of
cold
command
5
Tell
that
its
sculptor
well
those
passions
read
Which
yet
survive,
stamp'd
on
these
lifeless
things,
The
hand
that
mock'd
them
and
the
heart
that
fed.
And
on
the
pedestal
these
words
appear:
"My
name
is
Ozymandias,
king
of
kings:
10
Look
on
my
works,
ye
mighty,
and
despair!"
Nothing
beside
remains:
round
the
decay
Of
that
colossal
wreck,
boundless
and
bare,
The
lone
and
level
sands
stretch
far
away.
5.
You
Begin
by
Margaret
Atwood
You
begin
this
way:
this
is
your
hand,
this
is
your
eye,
that
is
a
fish,
blue
and
flat
on
the
paper,
almost
the
shape
of
an
eye.
This
is
your
mouth,
this
is
an
O
or
a
moon,
whichever
you
like.
This
is
yellow.
Outside
the
window
is
the
rain,
green
because
it
is
summer,
and
beyond
that
the
trees
and
then
the
world,
which
is
round
and
has
only
the
colors
of
these
nine
crayons.
5
This
is
the
world,
which
is
fuller
and
more
difficult
to
learn
than
I
have
said.
You
are
right
to
smudge
it
that
way
with
the
red
and
then
the
orange:
the
world
burns.
Once
you
have
learned
these
words
you
will
learn
that
there
are
more
words
than
you
can
ever
learn.
The
word
hand
floats
above
your
hand
like
a
small
cloud
over
a
lake.
The
word
hand
anchors
your
hand
to
this
table,
your
hand
is
a
warm
stone
I
hold
between
two
words.
This
is
your
hand,
these
are
my
hands,
this
is
the
world,
which
is
round
but
not
flat
and
has
more
colors
than
we
can
see.
It
begins,
it
has
an
end,
this
is
what
you
will
come
back
to,
this
is
your
hand.
6.
Mrs.
Kessler
by
Edgar
Lee
Masters
MR.
KESSLER,
you
know,
was
in
the
army,
And
he
drew
six
dollars
a
month
as
a
pension,
And
stood
on
the
corner
talking
politics,
Or
sat
at
home
reading
Grant’s
Memoirs;
And
I
supported
the
family
by
washing,
5
Learning
the
secrets
of
all
the
people
From
their
curtains,
counterpanes,
shirts
and
skirts.
For
things
that
are
new
grow
old
at
length,
They’re
replaced
with
better
or
none
at
all:
People
are
prospering
or
falling
back.
10
And
rents
and
patches
widen
with
time;
No
thread
or
needle
can
pace
decay,
And
there
are
stains
that
baffle
soap,
And
there
are
colors
that
run
in
spite
of
you,
Blamed
though
you
are
for
spoiling
a
dress.
15
Handkerchiefs,
napery,
have
their
secrets—
The
laundress,
Life,
knows
all
about
it.
And
I,
who
went
to
all
the
funerals
Held
in
Spoon
River,
swear
I
never
Saw
a
dead
face
without
thinking
it
looked
20
Like
something
washed
and
ironed.
6
7.
Dead
Horse
in
Field
by
Robert
Penn
Warren
In
the
last,
far
field,
half-‐buried
In
barberry
bushes
red-‐fruited,
the
thoroughbred
Lies
dead,
left
foreleg
shattered
below
knee,
A
.30-‐30
in
heart.
In
distance,
I
now
see
gorged
crows
rise
ragged
in
wind.
The
day
After
death
I
had
gone
for
farewell,
and
the
eyes
Were
already
gone—that
The
beneficent
work
of
crows.
Eyes
gone,
The
two-‐year-‐old
could,
of
course,
more
readily
see
Down
the
track
of
pure
and
eternal
darkness.
A
week
later
I
couldn’t
get
close.
The
sweet
stink
Had
begun.
That
damned
wagon
mudhole
Hidden
by
leaves
as
we
galloped—I
found
it.
Spat
on
it.
As
a
child
would.
Next
day
The
buzzards.
How
beautiful
in
air!—carving
The
slow,
concentric,
downward
pattern
of
vortex,
wing-‐glint
On
wing-‐glint.
From
the
house,
Now
with
glasses,
I
see
The
squabble
and
pushing,
the
waggle
of
wattle-‐red
heads.
At
evening
I
watch
the
buzzards,
the
crows,
Arise.
They
swing
black
in
nature’s
flow
and
perfection,
High
in
sad
carmine
of
sunset.
Forgiveness
Is
not
indicated.
It
is
superfluous.
They
are
What
they
are.
How
long
before
I
go
back
to
see
That
intricate
piece
of
Modern
sculpture,
white
now,
Assuming
in
stasis
New
beauty!
Then,
A
year
later,
I’ll
see
The
green
twine
of
vine,
each
leaf
Heart-‐shaped,
soft
as
velvet,
beginning
Its
benediction.
It
thinks
it
is
God.
Can
you
think
of
some
ground
on
which
that
may
be
gainsaid?
7
8.
In
the
Basement
of
the
Goodwill
Store
by
Ted
Kooser
In
musty
light,
in
the
thin
brown
air
of
damp
carpet,
doll
heads
and
rust,
beneath
long
rows
of
sharp
footfalls
like
nails
in
a
lid,
an
old
man
stands
trying
on
glasses,
lifting
each
pair
from
the
box
like
a
glittering
fish
and
holding
it
up
to
the
light
of
a
dirty
bulb.
Near
him,
a
heap
of
enameled
pans
as
white
as
skulls
looms
in
the
catacomb
shadows,
and
old
toilets
with
dry
red
throats
cough
up
bouquets
of
curtain
rods.
You’ve
seen
him
somewhere
before.
He’s
wearing
the
green
leisure
suit
you
threw
out
with
the
garbage,
and
the
Christmas
tie
you
hated,
and
the
ventilated
wingtip
shoes
you
found
in
your
father’s
closet
and
wore
as
a
joke.
And
the
glasses
which
finally
fit
him,
through
which
he
looks
to
see
you
looking
back—
two
mirrors
which
flash
and
glance—
are
those
through
which
one
day
you
too
will
look
down
over
the
years,
when
you
have
grown
old
and
thin
and
no
longer
particular,
and
the
things
you
once
thought
you
were
rid
of
forever
have
taken
you
back
in
their
arms.
9.
A
Noiseless
Patient
Spider
by
Walt
Whitman
A
NOISELESS,
patient
spider,
I
mark’d,
where,
on
a
little
promontory,
it
stood,
isolated;
Mark’d
how,
to
explore
the
vacant,
vast
surrounding,
It
launch’d
forth
filament,
filament,
filament,
out
of
itself;
Ever
unreeling
them—ever
tirelessly
speeding
them.
And
you,
O
my
Soul,
where
you
stand,
Surrounded,
surrounded,
in
measureless
oceans
of
space,
Ceaselessly
musing,
venturing,
throwing,—seeking
the
spheres,
to
connect
them;
Till
the
bridge
you
will
need,
be
form’d—till
the
ductile
anchor
hold;
Till
the
gossamer
thread
you
fling,
catch
somewhere,
O
my
Soul.
10
8
10.
Chord
by
Stuart
Dybek
A
man
steps
out
of
sunlight,
sunlight
that
streams
like
grace,
still
gaping
at
blue
sky
staked
across
the
emptiness
of
space,
into
a
history
where
shadows
assume
a
human
face.
A
man
slips
into
silence
that
began
as
a
cry,
still
trailing
music
although
reduced
to
the
sigh
of
an
accordion
as
it
folds
into
its
case.
11.
Alone
by
Edgar
Allan
Poe
From
childhood’s
hour
I
have
not
been
As
others
were—I
have
not
seen
As
others
saw—I
could
not
bring
My
passions
from
a
common
spring—
From
the
same
source
I
have
not
taken
My
sorrow—I
could
not
awaken
My
heart
to
joy
at
the
same
tone—
And
all
I
lov’d—I
lov’d
alone—
Then—in
my
childhood—in
the
dawn
Of
a
most
stormy
life—was
drawn
From
ev’ry
depth
of
good
and
ill
The
mystery
which
binds
me
still—
From
the
torrent,
or
the
fountain—
From
the
red
cliff
of
the
mountain—
From
the
sun
that
’round
me
roll’d
In
its
autumn
tint
of
gold—
From
the
lightning
in
the
sky
As
it
pass’d
me
flying
by—
From
the
thunder,
and
the
storm—
And
the
cloud
that
took
the
form
(When
the
rest
of
Heaven
was
blue)
Of
a
demon
in
my
view—
9
12.
Forgotten
Language
by
Shel
Silverstein
Once
I
spoke
the
language
of
the
flowers,
Once
I
understood
each
word
the
caterpillar
said,
Once
I
smiled
in
secret
at
the
gossip
of
the
starlings,
And
shared
a
conversation
with
the
housefly
in
my
bed.
Once
I
heard
and
answered
all
the
questions
of
the
crickets,
And
joined
the
crying
of
each
falling
dying
flake
of
snow,
Once
I
spoke
the
language
of
the
flowers.
.
.
.
How
did
it
go?
How
did
it
go?
13.
Eating
Poetry
by
Mark
Strand
Ink
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
sad
and
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.
10
14.
If
You
Forget
Me
by
Pablo
Neruda
I
want
you
to
know
one
thing.
You
know
how
this
is:
if
I
look
at
the
crystal
moon,
at
the
red
branch
of
the
slow
autumn
at
my
window,
if
I
touch
near
the
fire
the
impalpable
ash
or
the
wrinkled
body
of
the
log,
everything
carries
me
to
you,
as
if
everything
that
exists,
aromas,
light,
metals,
were
little
boats
that
sail
toward
those
isles
of
yours
that
wait
for
me.
Well,
now,
if
little
by
little
you
stop
loving
me
I
shall
stop
loving
you
little
by
little.
If
suddenly
you
forget
me
do
not
look
for
me,
for
I
shall
already
have
forgotten
you.
If
you
think
it
long
and
mad,
the
wind
of
banners
that
passes
through
my
life,
and
you
decide
to
leave
me
at
the
shore
of
the
heart
where
I
have
roots,
remember
that
on
that
day,
at
that
hour,
I
shall
lift
my
arms
and
my
roots
will
set
off
to
seek
another
land.
But
if
each
day,
each
hour,
you
feel
that
you
are
destined
for
me
with
implacable
sweetness,
if
each
day
a
flower
climbs
up
to
your
lips
to
seek
me,
ah
my
love,
ah
my
own,
11
in
me
all
that
fire
is
repeated,
in
me
nothing
is
extinguished
or
forgotten,
my
love
feeds
on
your
love,
beloved,
and
as
long
as
you
live
it
will
be
in
your
arms
without
leaving
mine.
15.
Dancers
Exercising
by
Amy
Clampitt
Frame
within
frame,
the
evolving
conversation
is
dancelike,
as
though
two
could
play
at
improvising
snowflakes’
six-‐feather-‐vaned
evanescence,
no
two
ever
alike.
All
process
and
no
arrival:
the
happier
we
are,
the
less
there
is
for
memory
to
take
hold
of,
or—memory
being
so
largely
a
predilection
for
the
exceptional—come
to
a
halt
in
front
of.
But
finding,
one
evening
on
a
street
not
quite
familiar,
inside
a
gated
November-‐sodden
garden,
a
building
of
uncertain
provenance,
peering
into
whose
vestibule
we
were
arrested—a
frame
within
a
frame,
a
lozenge
of
impeccable
clarity—
by
the
reflection,
no,
not
of
our
two
selves,
but
of
dancers
exercising
in
a
mirror,
at
the
center
of
that
clarity,
what
we
saw
was
not
stillness
but
movement:
the
perfection
of
memory
consisting,
it
would
seem,
in
the
never-‐to-‐be-‐completed.
We
saw
them
mirroring
themselves,
never
guessing
the
vestibule
that
defined
them,
frame
within
frame,
contained
two
other
mirrors.
12
16.
It
would
be
neat
if
with
the
New
Year
by
Jimmy
Santiago
Baca
for
Miguel
It
would
be
neat
if
with
the
New
Year
I
could
leave
my
loneliness
behind
with
the
old
year.
My
leathery
loneliness
an
old
pair
of
work
boots
my
dog
vigorously
head-‐shakes
back
and
forth
in
its
jaws,
chews
on
for
hours
every
day
in
my
front
yard—
rain,
sun,
snow,
or
wind
in
bare
feet,
pondering
my
poem,
I’d
look
out
my
window
and
see
that
dirty
pair
of
boots
in
the
yard.
But
my
happiness
depends
so
much
on
wearing
those
boots.
At
the
end
of
my
day
while
I’m
in
a
chair
listening
to
a
Mexican
corrido
I
stare
at
my
boots
appreciating:
all
the
wrong
roads
we’ve
taken,
all
the
drug
and
whiskey
houses
we’ve
visited,
and
as
the
Mexican
singer
wails
his
pain,
I
smile
at
my
boots,
understanding
every
note
in
his
voice,
and
strangers,
when
they
see
my
boots
rocking
back
and
forth
on
my
feet
keeping
beat
to
the
song,
see
how
my
boots
are
scuffed,
tooth-‐marked,
worn-‐soled.
I
keep
wearing
them
because
they
fit
so
good
and
I
need
them,
especially
when
I
love
so
hard,
where
I
go
up
those
boulder
strewn
trails,
where
flowers
crack
rocks
in
their
defiant
love
for
the
light.
17.
The
Sun
Rising
by
John
Donne
Busy
old
fool,
unruly
sun,
Why
dost
thou
thus,
Through
windows,
and
through
curtains
call
on
us?
Must
to
thy
motions
lovers'
seasons
run?
Saucy
pedantic
wretch,
go
chide
Late
school
boys
and
sour
prentices,
Go
tell
court
huntsmen
that
the
king
will
ride,
Call
country
ants
to
harvest
offices,
Love,
all
alike,
no
season
knows
nor
clime,
Nor
hours,
days,
months,
which
are
the
rags
of
time.
Thy
beams,
so
reverend
and
strong
Why
shouldst
thou
think?
I
could
eclipse
and
cloud
them
with
a
wink,
But
that
I
would
not
lose
her
sight
so
long;
13
If
her
eyes
have
not
blinded
thine,
Look,
and
tomorrow
late,
tell
me,
Whether
both
th'
Indias
of
spice
and
mine
Be
where
thou
leftst
them,
or
lie
here
with
me.
Ask
for
those
kings
whom
thou
saw'st
yesterday,
And
thou
shalt
hear,
All
here
in
one
bed
lay.
She's
all
states,
and
all
princes,
I,
Nothing
else
is.
Princes
do
but
play
us;
compared
to
this,
All
honor's
mimic,
all
wealth
alchemy.
Thou,
sun,
art
half
as
happy
as
we,
In
that
the
world's
contracted
thus.
Thine
age
asks
ease,
and
since
thy
duties
be
To
warm
the
world,
that's
done
in
warming
us.
Shine
here
to
us,
and
thou
art
everywhere;
This
bed
thy
center
is,
these
walls,
thy
sphere.
18.
A
True
Account
Of
Talking
To
The
Sun
At
Fire
Island
by
Frank
O'Hara
The
Sun
woke
me
this
morning
loud
and
clear,
saying
"Hey!
I've
been
trying
to
wake
you
up
for
fifteen
minutes.
Don't
be
so
rude,
you
are
only
the
second
poet
I've
ever
chosen
to
speak
to
personally
so
why
aren't
you
more
attentive?
If
I
could
burn
you
through
the
window
I
would
to
wake
you
up.
I
can't
hang
around
here
all
day."
"Sorry,
Sun,
I
stayed
up
late
last
night
talking
to
Hal."
"When
I
woke
up
Mayakovsky
he
was
a
lot
more
prompt"
the
Sun
said
petulantly.
"Most
people
are
up
already
waiting
to
see
if
I'm
going
to
put
in
an
appearance."
I
tried
to
apologize
"I
missed
you
yesterday."
"That's
better"
he
said.
"I
didn't
know
you'd
come
out."
"You
may
be
wondering
why
I've
come
so
close?"
"Yes"
I
said
beginning
to
feel
hot
and
wondering
if
maybe
he
wasn't
burning
me
anyway.
"Frankly
I
wanted
to
tell
you
I
like
your
poetry.
I
see
a
lot
14
on
my
rounds
and
you're
okay.
You
may
not
be
the
greatest
thing
on
earth,
but
you're
different.
Now,
I've
heard
some
say
you're
crazy,
they
being
excessively
calm
themselves
to
my
mind,
and
other
crazy
poets
think
that
you're
a
boring
reactionary.
Not
me.
Just
keep
on
like
I
do
and
pay
no
attention.
You'll
find
that
some
people
always
will
complain
about
the
atmosphere,
either
too
hot
or
too
cold
too
bright
or
too
dark,
days
too
short
or
too
long.
If
you
don't
appear
at
all
one
day
they
think
you're
lazy
or
dead.
Just
keep
right
on,
I
like
it.
And
don't
worry
about
your
lineage
poetic
or
natural.
The
Sun
shines
on
the
jungle,
you
know,
on
the
tundra
the
sea,
the
ghetto.
Wherever
you
were
I
knew
it
and
saw
you
moving.
I
was
waiting
for
you
to
get
to
work.
And
now
that
you
are
making
your
own
days,
so
to
speak,
even
if
no
one
reads
you
but
me
you
won't
be
depressed.
Not
everyone
can
look
up,
even
at
me.
It
hurts
their
eyes."
"Oh
Sun,
I'm
so
grateful
to
you!"
"Thanks
and
remember
I'm
watching.
It's
easier
for
me
to
speak
to
you
out
here.
I
don't
have
to
slide
down
between
buildings
to
get
your
ear.
I
know
you
love
Manhattan,
but
you
ought
to
look
up
more
often.
And
always
embrace
things,
people
earth
sky
stars,
as
I
do,
freely
and
with
the
appropriate
sense
of
space.
That
is
your
inclination,
known
in
the
heavens
and
you
should
follow
it
to
hell,
if
15
necessary,
which
I
doubt.
Maybe
we'll
speak
again
in
Africa,
of
which
I
too
am
specially
fond.
Go
back
to
sleep
now
Frank,
and
I
may
leave
a
tiny
poem
in
that
brain
of
yours
as
my
farewell."
"Sun,
don't
go!"
I
was
awake
at
last.
"No,
go
I
must,
they're
calling
me."
"Who
are
they?"
Rising
he
said
"Some
day
you'll
know.
They're
calling
to
you
too."
Darkly
he
rose,
and
then
I
slept.
19.
The
Best
Time
Of
The
Day
by
Raymond
Carver
Cool
summer
nights.
Windows
open.
Lamps
burning.
Fruit
in
the
bowl.
And
your
head
on
my
shoulder.
These
the
happiest
moments
in
the
day.
Next
to
the
early
morning
hours,
of
course.
And
the
time
just
before
lunch.
And
the
afternoon,
and
early
evening
hours.
But
I
do
love
these
summer
nights.
Even
more,
I
think,
than
those
other
times.
The
work
finished
for
the
day.
And
no
one
who
can
reach
us
now.
Or
ever.
16
20.
Tuesday
9:00AM
by
Denver
Butson
A
man
standing
at
the
bus
stop
reading
the
newspaper
is
on
fire
Flames
are
peeking
out
from
beneath
his
collar
and
cuffs
His
shoes
have
begun
to
melt
The
woman
next
to
him
wants
to
mention
it
to
him
that
he
is
burning
but
she
is
drowning
Water
is
everywhere
in
her
mouth
and
ears
in
her
eyes
A
stream
of
water
runs
steadily
from
her
blouse
Another
woman
stands
at
the
bus
stop
freezing
to
death
She
tries
to
stand
near
the
man
who
is
on
fire
to
try
to
melt
the
icicles
that
have
formed
on
her
eyelashes
and
on
her
nostrils
to
stop
her
teeth
long
enough
from
chattering
to
say
something
to
the
woman
who
is
drowning
but
the
woman
who
is
freezing
to
death
has
trouble
moving
with
blocks
of
ice
on
her
feet
It
takes
the
three
some
time
to
board
the
bus
what
with
the
flames
and
water
and
ice
But
when
they
finally
climb
the
stairs
and
take
their
seats
the
driver
doesn't
even
notice
that
none
of
them
has
paid
because
he
is
tortured
by
visions
and
is
wondering
if
the
man
who
got
off
at
the
last
stop
was
really
being
mauled
to
death
by
wild
dogs.
17
21.
Here
by
Joshua
Mehigan
Nothing
has
changed.
They
have
a
welcome
sign,
a
hill
with
cows
and
a
white
house
on
top,
a
mall
and
grocery
store
where
people
shop,
a
diner
where
some
people
go
to
dine.
It
is
the
same
no
matter
where
you
go,
and
downtown
you
will
find
no
big
surprises.
Each
fall
the
dew
point
falls
until
it
rises.
White
snow,
green
buds,
green
lawn,
red
leaves,
white
snow.
This
is
all
right.
This
is
their
hope.
And
yet,
though
what
you
see
is
never
what
you
get,
it
does
feel
somehow
changed
from
what
it
was.
Is
it
the
people?
Houses?
Fields?
The
weather?
Is
it
the
streets?
Is
it
these
things
together?
Nothing
here
ever
changes,
till
it
does.
22.
Wildpeace
by
Yehuda
Amichai
Not
the
peace
of
a
cease-‐fire
not
even
the
vision
of
the
wolf
and
the
lamb,
but
rather
as
in
the
heart
when
the
excitement
is
over
and
you
can
talk
only
about
a
great
weariness.
I
know
that
I
know
how
to
kill,
that
makes
me
an
adult.
And
my
son
plays
with
a
toy
gun
that
knows
how
to
open
and
close
its
eyes
and
say
Mama.
A
peace
without
the
big
noise
of
beating
swords
into
ploughshares,
without
words,
without
the
thud
of
the
heavy
rubber
stamp:
let
it
be
light,
floating,
like
lazy
white
foam.
A
little
rest
for
the
wounds
-‐
who
speaks
of
healing?
(And
the
howl
of
the
orphans
is
passed
from
one
generation
to
the
next,
as
in
a
relay
race:
the
baton
never
falls.)
Let
it
come
like
wildflowers,
suddenly,
because
the
field
must
have
it:
wildpeace.
18
23.
May
by
Sara
Teasdale
The
wind
is
tossing
the
lilacs,
The
new
leaves
laugh
in
the
sun,
And
the
petals
fall
on
the
orchard
wall,
But
for
me
the
spring
is
done.
Beneath
the
apple
blossoms
I
go
a
wintry
way,
For
love
that
smiled
in
April
Is
false
to
me
in
May.
24.
Sonnet
VXIII
by
William
Shakespeare
Shall
I
compare
thee
to
a
summer's
day?
Thou
art
more
lovely
and
more
temperate:
Rough
winds
do
shake
the
darling
buds
of
May,
And
summer's
lease
hath
all
too
short
a
date:
Sometime
too
hot
the
eye
of
heaven
shines,
And
often
is
his
gold
complexion
dimm'd;
And
every
fair
from
fair
sometime
declines,
By
chance
or
nature's
changing
course
untrimm'd;
But
thy
eternal
summer
shall
not
fade
Nor
lose
possession
of
that
fair
thou
owest;
Nor
shall
Death
brag
thou
wander'st
in
his
shade,
When
in
eternal
lines
to
time
thou
growest:
So
long
as
men
can
breathe
or
eyes
can
see,
So
long
lives
this
and
this
gives
life
to
thee.
25.
Choose
Something
Like
a
Star
by
Robert
Frost
O
Star
(the
fairest
one
in
sight),
We
grant
your
loftiness
the
right
To
some
obscurity
of
cloud—
It
will
not
do
to
say
of
night,
Since
dark
is
what
brings
out
your
light.
Some
mystery
becomes
the
proud.
But
to
be
wholly
taciturn
In
your
reserve
is
not
allowed.
Say
something
to
us
we
can
learn
By
heart
and
when
alone
repeat.
Say
something!
And
it
says,
'I
burn.'
But
say
with
what
degree
of
heat.
Talk
Fahrenheit,
talk
Centigrade.
Use
language
we
can
comprehend.
Tell
us
what
elements
you
blend.
It
gives
us
strangely
little
aid,
19
But
does
tell
something
in
the
end.
And
steadfast
as
Keats'
Eremite,
Not
even
stooping
from
its
sphere,
It
asks
a
little
of
us
here.
It
asks
of
us
a
certain
height,
So
when
at
times
the
mob
is
swayed
To
carry
praise
or
blame
too
far,
We
may
choose
something
like
a
star
To
stay
our
minds
on
and
be
staid.
26.
MY
UMBRELLA
By
Albert
Raplh
In
the
midst
of
falling
rain,
I
find
I’m
not
falling.
Cats
and
dogs
don’t
hound
me.
Rain
clouds
roll
by.
Storm
clouds
piled
high.
My
umbrella,
keeps
the
falling
rain
from
drowning
me.
Hold
me
close!
See
me
flying!
Red
skies,
do
not
mourn
for
me.
Sailors
worry,
Jailors
scurry.
But
my
umbrella
keeps
the
falling
rain
from
washing
me
away.
It’s
been
said
to
me,
That
a
smile
should
be
your
umbrella.
Well
I
suppose
that
it
may
be
true,
But
it
goes
much
deeper
than
that.
Because
a
smile
is
just
another
coat
you
wear,
But
the
rain
chills
to
the
bone.
So
from
now
on
I’ll
be
wearing
my
smile,
Right
next
to
my
heart.
Because
a
broken
heart
can
cause
a
lot
of
pain,
But
a
broken
smile
is
a
smile
all
the
same.
And
broken
dreams
can
drive
a
man
insane,
But
a
broken
umbrella
still
holds
out
some
rain.
Rain
oh
rain
cloud,
Pass
away
now.
Come
on
back
another
day,
Cause
my
umbrella
wants
to
play.
In
the
midst
of
all
my
pain,
I
find,
I’m
not
hurting.
No
longer
all
wrapped
up.
A
new
wind
stirs
now.
My
mind
it
clears
now.
Nows
the
time
to
catch
the
sun
before
it
flies
away.
Hold
me
close!
Let’s
go
flying!
Blue
skikes
soaring
in
your
eyes!
20
Take
my
hand
now.
No
need
to
land
now.
Sailing,
drifting,
wings
of
love
can
carry
you
and
I
away.
It’s
been
said
to
me,
that
a
smile
should
be
your
umbrella.
27.
America
by
Claude
McKay
Although
she
feeds
me
bread
of
bitterness,
And
sinks
into
my
throat
her
tiger's
tooth,
Stealing
my
breath
of
life,
I
will
confess
I
love
this
cultured
hell
that
tests
my
youth.
Her
vigor
flows
like
tides
into
my
blood,
Giving
me
strength
erect
against
her
hate,
Her
bigness
sweeps
my
being
like
a
flood.
Yet,
as
a
rebel
fronts
a
king
in
state,
I
stand
within
her
walls
with
not
a
shred
Of
terror,
malice,
not
a
word
of
jeer.
Darkly
I
gaze
into
the
days
ahead,
And
see
her
might
and
granite
wonders
there,
Beneath
the
touch
of
Time's
unerring
hand,
Like
priceless
treasures
sinking
in
the
sand.
28.
Invictus
by
William
Ernest
Henley
Out
of
the
night
that
covers
me,
Black
as
the
Pit
from
pole
to
pole,
I
thank
whatever
gods
may
be
For
my
unconquerable
soul.
In
the
fell
clutch
of
circumstance
I
have
not
winced
nor
cried
aloud.
Under
the
bludgeonings
of
chance
My
head
is
bloody,
but
unbowed.
Beyond
this
place
of
wrath
and
tears
Looms
but
the
Horror
of
the
shade,
And
yet
the
menace
of
the
years
Finds,
and
shall
find,
me
unafraid.
It
matters
not
how
strait
the
gate,
How
charged
with
punishments
the
scroll.
I
am
the
master
of
my
fate:
I
am
the
captain
of
my
soul.
21
29.
Marginalia
by
Billy
Collins
Sometimes
the
notes
are
ferocious,
skirmishes
against
the
author
raging
along
the
borders
of
every
page
in
tiny
black
script.
If
I
could
just
get
my
hands
on
you,
Kierkegaard,
or
Conor
Cruise
O'Brien,
they
seem
to
say,
I
would
bolt
the
door
and
beat
some
logic
into
your
head.
Other
comments
are
more
offhand,
dismissive
-‐
"Nonsense."
"Please!"
"HA!!"
-‐
that
kind
of
thing.
I
remember
once
looking
up
from
my
reading,
my
thumb
as
a
bookmark,
trying
to
imagine
what
the
person
must
look
like
why
wrote
"Don't
be
a
ninny"
alongside
a
paragraph
in
The
Life
of
Emily
Dickinson.
Students
are
more
modest
needing
to
leave
only
their
splayed
footprints
along
the
shore
of
the
page.
One
scrawls
"Metaphor"
next
to
a
stanza
of
Eliot's.
Another
notes
the
presence
of
"Irony"
fifty
times
outside
the
paragraphs
of
A
Modest
Proposal.
Or
they
are
fans
who
cheer
from
the
empty
bleachers,
Hands
cupped
around
their
mouths.
"Absolutely,"
they
shout
to
Duns
Scotus
and
James
Baldwin.
"Yes."
"Bull's-‐eye."
"My
man!"
Check
marks,
asterisks,
and
exclamation
points
rain
down
along
the
sidelines.
And
if
you
have
managed
to
graduate
from
college
without
ever
having
written
"Man
vs.
Nature"
in
a
margin,
perhaps
now
is
the
time
to
take
one
step
forward.
We
have
all
seized
the
white
perimeter
as
our
own
and
reached
for
a
pen
if
only
to
show
we
did
not
just
laze
in
an
armchair
turning
pages;
we
pressed
a
thought
into
the
wayside,
planted
an
impression
along
the
verge.
Even
Irish
monks
in
their
cold
scriptoria
jotted
along
the
borders
of
the
Gospels
brief
asides
about
the
pains
of
copying,
a
bird
signing
near
their
window,
22
or
the
sunlight
that
illuminated
their
page-‐
anonymous
men
catching
a
ride
into
the
future
on
a
vessel
more
lasting
than
themselves.
And
you
have
not
read
Joshua
Reynolds,
they
say,
until
you
have
read
him
enwreathed
with
Blake's
furious
scribbling.
Yet
the
one
I
think
of
most
often,
the
one
that
dangles
from
me
like
a
locket,
was
written
in
the
copy
of
Catcher
in
the
Rye
I
borrowed
from
the
local
library
one
slow,
hot
summer.
I
was
just
beginning
high
school
then,
reading
books
on
a
davenport
in
my
parents'
living
room,
and
I
cannot
tell
you
how
vastly
my
loneliness
was
deepened,
how
poignant
and
amplified
the
world
before
me
seemed,
when
I
found
on
one
page
A
few
greasy
looking
smears
and
next
to
them,
written
in
soft
pencil-‐
by
a
beautiful
girl,
I
could
tell,
whom
I
would
never
meet-‐
"Pardon
the
egg
salad
stains,
but
I'm
in
love."
30.
Life
is
Fine
by
Langston
Hughes
I
went
down
to
the
river,
I
set
down
on
the
bank.
I
tried
to
think
but
couldn't,
So
I
jumped
in
and
sank.
I
came
up
once
and
hollered!
I
came
up
twice
and
cried!
If
that
water
hadn't
a-‐been
so
cold
I
might've
sunk
and
died.
But
it
was
Cold
in
that
water!
It
was
cold!
I
took
the
elevator
Sixteen
floors
above
the
ground.
I
thought
about
my
baby
And
thought
I
would
jump
down.
I
stood
there
and
I
hollered!
I
stood
there
and
I
cried!
If
it
hadn't
a-‐been
so
high
I
might've
jumped
and
died.
23
But
it
was
High
up
there!
It
was
high!
So
since
I'm
still
here
livin',
I
guess
I
will
live
on.
I
could've
died
for
love-‐-‐
But
for
livin'
I
was
born
Though
you
may
hear
me
holler,
And
you
may
see
me
cry-‐-‐
I'll
be
dogged,
sweet
baby,
If
you
gonna
see
me
die.
Life
is
fine!
Fine
as
wine!
Life
is
fine!
31.
Entirely
by
Louis
MacNeice
If
we
could
get
the
hang
of
it
entirely
It
would
take
too
long;
All
we
know
is
the
splash
of
words
in
passing
And
falling
twigs
of
song,
And
when
we
try
to
eavesdrop
on
the
great
Presences
it
is
rarely
That
by
a
stroke
of
luck
we
can
appropriate
Even
a
phrase
entirely.
If
we
could
find
our
happiness
entirely
In
somebody
else’s
arms
We
should
not
fear
the
spears
of
the
spring
nor
the
city’s
Yammering
fire
alarms
But,
as
it
is,
the
spears
each
year
go
through
Our
flesh
and
almost
hourly
Bell
or
siren
banishes
the
blue
Eyes
of
Love
entirely.
And
if
the
world
were
black
or
white
entirely
And
all
the
charts
were
plain
Instead
of
a
mad
weir
of
tigerish
waters,
A
prism
of
delight
and
pain,
We
might
be
surer
where
we
wished
to
go
Or
again
we
might
be
merely
Bored
but
in
brute
reality
there
is
no
Road
that
is
right
entirely.
24
32.
Danse
Russe
by
William
Carlos
Williams
If
when
my
wife
is
sleeping
and
the
baby
and
Kathleen
are
sleeping
and
the
sun
is
a
flame-‐white
disc
in
silken
mists
above
shining
trees,-‐
if
I
in
my
north
room
dance
naked,
grotesquely
before
my
mirror
waving
my
shirt
round
my
head
and
singing
softly
to
myself:
"I
am
lonely,
lonely,
I
was
born
to
be
lonely,
I
am
best
so!"
If
I
admire
my
arms,
my
face,
my
shoulders,
flanks,
buttocks
against
the
yellow
drawn
shades,-‐
Who
shall
say
I
am
not
the
happy
genius
of
my
household?
25