We had some great selections read at our coffee house. Please post the poem you performed to share with others.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
My Blog List
-
-
Final Assessment for The Things They Carried14 years ago
-
The Things They Carried Final Essay14 years ago
-
TTTC Final Assessment14 years ago
-
TTTC Final Assessment/ Choice 2 Big Fish14 years ago
-
The Things They Carried 1-3014 years ago
-
-
-
English Articles for Candide15 years ago
-
-
-
-
-
Challenges to a Young Poet
ReplyDeleteby Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Invent a new language anyone can understand.
Climb the Statue of Liberty.
Reach for the unattainable.Kiss the mirror and write what you see and hear.
Dance with wolves and count the stars, including the unseen.
Be naive, innocent, non-cynical, as if you had just landed on earth (as indeed you have, as indeed we all have), astonished by what you have fallen upon.
Write living newspapers. Be a reporter from outer space, filing dispatches to some supreme managing editor who believes in full disclosure and has a low tolerance level for hot air.Write an endless poem about your life on earth or elsewhere.
Read between the lines of human discourse.
Avoid the provincial, go for the universal.
Think subjectively, write objectively.Think long thoughts in short sentences.
Don't attend poetry workshops, but if you do, don't go to learn 'how to" but to learn "what" (What's important to write about).Don't bow down to critics who have not themselves written great masterpieces.
Resist much, obey less.
Secretly liberate any being you see in a cage.
Write short poems in the voice of birds. Make your lyrics truly lyrical.
Birdsong is not made by machines. Give your poems wings to fly to the treetops.
The much-quoted dictum from William Carlos Williams, "No ideas but in things," is OK for prose, but it lays a dead hand on lyricism, since "things" are dead.
Don't contemplate your navel in poetry and think the rest of the world is going to think it's important.
Remember everything, forget nothing.
Work on a frontier, if you can find one.
Go to sea, or work near water, and paddle your own boat.
Associate with thinking poets. They're hard to find.
Cultivate dissidence and critical thinking. "First thought, best thought" may not make for the greatest poetry. First thought may be worst thought.
What's on your mind? What do you have in mind? Open your mouth and stop mumbling.Don't be so open-minded that your brains fall out.
Question everything and everyone.
Be subversive, constantly questioning reality and the status quo.
Be a poet, not a huckster. Don't cater, don't pander, especially not to possible audiences, readers, editors, or publishers.
Come out of your closet. It's dark in there.
Raise the blinds, throw open your shuttered windows, raise the roof, unscrew the locks from the doors, but don't throw away the screws.
Be committed to something outside yourself. Be militant about it. Or ecstatic.
To be a poet at sixteen is to be sixteen, to be a poet at 40 is to be a poet. Be both.
Wake up and pee, the world's on fire.
Have a nice day.
First read at the Seventeenth Annual San Francisco High School Poetry Festival, February 3, 2001
The world is a beautiful place
ReplyDeleteto be born into
if you don't mind happiness
not always being
so very much fun
if you don't mind a touch of hell
now and then
just when everything is fine
because even in heaven
they don't sing
all the time
The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind some people dying
all the time
or maybe only starving
some of the time
which isn't half bad
if it isn't you
Oh the world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't much mind
a few dead minds
in the higher places
or a bomb or two
now and then
in your upturned faces
or such other improprieties
as our Name Brand society
is prey to
with its men of distinction
and its men of extinction
and its priests
and other patrolmen
and its various segregations
and congressional investigations
and other constipations
that our fool flesh
is heir to
Yes the world is the best place of all
for a lot of such things as
making the fun scene
and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
and singing low songs and having inspirations
and walking around
looking at everything
and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
and even thinking
and kissing people and
making babies and wearing pants
and waving hats and
dancing
and going swimming in rivers
on picnics
in the middle of the summer
and just generally
'living it up'
Yes
but then right in the middle of it
comes the smiling
mortician
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Trippers and askers surround me,
ReplyDeletePeople I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.
Walt Whitman
"An Eastern Ballad"
ReplyDeleteI speak of love that comes to mind:
The moon is faithful, although blind;
She moves in thought she cannot speak.
Perfect care has made her bleak.
I never dreamed the sea so deep,
The earth so dark; so long my sleep,
I have become another child.
I wake to see the world go wild.
~Allen Ginsberg
Homework
ReplyDeleteby Allen Gingsberg
If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my dirty Iran
I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap,
scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in
the jungle,
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly
Cesium out of Love Canal
Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain the Sludge
out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little
Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie
Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood &
Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out
the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an
Aeon till it came out clean
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
ReplyDeleteThe free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hill for the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Untitled
ReplyDeleteHere you go, eat some life. It's a blue thing Yeah, blue is the answer questions sometimes flow laughing why when i become what was.
Grounded can't fly
but flight grounds itself.
Jealous of each we eat what the other has.
Hungry, we starve.
Starving we feast.
Full, we hunger.
Drink a drop or two of death here.
tick tock waiting for the dirt to fall off. But the dark never does fall.
Questions don't answer
as Answers don't question instead, a whole story is told when both are present. Here, and otherwise.
Unknown
My Very First Time
ReplyDeleteMy very first time
the sky was dark
the moon was high
all alone just she and i
her hair was soft
her legs so fine
i ran my finger down herspine
i didint know how
but i tried my best
i started bwy placing
my hand on her breast
i remmber my fear
my fast beating heart
but slowly she spread
her legs apart
and when i did it
i felt no shame
all at once
the white stuff came
at last its finished
its all over now
my first time ever
at milking a cow
-Unknown
Arm all the children
ReplyDeleteand give tanks to da teachers
and score cards to the adults, with those little pencils
Let the children fight the wars they are so fond of playin'
Let the parents continue to spend their time makin' little soldiers
The teachers with their walkie talkies, walkin' and talkin'
While the kids are arming themsleves to the teeth,
kill, kill, kill!
Bayonnets in the bassonets
Merry-go-Rounds
Atomic Fireballs spit from the mouths of babes
who look you right in the eyes like darling yaa
Who's gonna protect the Innocents?
The Innocents, Us,
Us who had the sense not ta have babies, Ba-bies!
I always knew they were killer-drillers
All that googoo gaagaa secret code
dirty diaper dy-no-mite
Makin ya carry them around like little time-bombs
Tickin tickin tickin
Tockin mockin babblin bobbin
biding their time; it's time
Arm ALL the children
and then leave the planet.
I do what Iwant
ReplyDeleteBy RajIshmael
Stop me before I sweep you off your feet,
And that will be your treat,
You will come to love me for who I really am,
And not knowing what I'm really about,
You will be willing to sacrifice everything for me,
And not be able to have really touched me,
I'm the type that likes to quit,
And not even think about how you feel,
I'm a jerk,
And that's my treat
Let It Enfold You by Charles Bukowski
ReplyDeletePart 1
either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you
when I was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing.
I was hard as granite, I
leered at the
sun.
I trusted no man and
especially no
woman.
I was living a hell in
small rooms, I broke
things, smashed things,
walked through glass,
cursed.
I challenged everything,
was continually being
evicted, jailed,in and
out of fights, in and out
of my mind.
women were something
to screw and rail
at, I had no male
freinds,
I changed jobs and
cities, I hated holidays,
babies, history,
newspapers, museums,
grandmothers,
marriage, movies,
spiders, garbagemen,
english accents,spain,
france,italy,walnuts and
the color
orange.
algebra angred me,
opera sickened me,
charlie chaplin was a
fake
and flowers were for
pansies.
peace an happiness to me
were signs of
inferiority,
tenants of the weak
an
addled
mind.
but as I went on with
my alley fights,
my suicidal years,
my passage through
any number of
women-it gradually
began to occur to
me
that I wasn't different
from the
others, I was the same,
they were all fulsome
with hatred,
glossed over with petty
greivances,
the men I fought in
alleys had hearts of stone.
everybody was nudging,
inching, cheating for
some insignificant
advantage,
the lie was the
weapon and the
plot was
empty,
darkness was the
dictator.
cautiously, I allowed
myself to feel good
at times.
I found moments of
peace in cheap
rooms
just staring at the
knobs of some
dresser
or listening to the
rain in the
dark.
the less I needed
the better I
felt.
maybe the other life had worn me
down.
I no longer found
glamour
in topping somebody
in conversation.
or in mounting the
body of some poor
drunken female
whose life had
slipped away into
sorrow.
I could never accept
life as it was,
i could never gobble
down all its
poisons
but there were parts,
tenous magic parts
open for the
asking.
I re formulated
I don't know when,
date, time, all
that
but the change
occured.
something in me
relaxed, smoothed
out.
i no longer had to
prove that I was a
man,
I did'nt have to prove
anything.
I began to see things:
coffee cups lined up
behind a counter in a
cafe.
or a dog walking along
a sidewalk.
or the way the mouse
on my dresser top
stopped there
with its body,
its ears,
its nose,
it was fixed,
a bit of life
caught within itself
and its eyes looked
at me
and they were
beautiful.
then- it was
gone.
Part 2
ReplyDeleteI began to feel good,
I began to feel good
in the worst situations
and there were plenty
of those.
like say, the boss
behind his desk,
he is going to have
to fire me.
I've missed too many
days.
he is dressed in a
suit, necktie, glasses,
he says, "I am going
to have to let you go"
"it's all right" I tell
him.
He must do what he
must do, he has a
wife, a house, children.
expenses, most probably
a girlfreind.
I am sorry for him
he is caught.
I walk onto the blazing
sunshine.
the whole day is
mine
temporailiy,
anyhow.
(the whole world is at the
throat of the world,
everybody feels angry,
short-changed, cheated,
everybody is despondent,
dissillusioned)
I welcomed shots of
peace, tattered shards of
happiness.
I embraced that stuff
like the hottest number,
like high heels, breasts,
singing,the
works.
(dont get me wrong,
there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism
that overlooks all
basic problems just for
the sake of
itself-
this is a shield and a
sickness.)
The knife got near my
throat again,
I almost turned on the
gas
again
but when the good
moments arrived
again
I did'nt fight them off
like an alley
adversary.
I let them take me,
i luxuriated in them,
I bade them welcome
home.
I even looked into
the mirror
once having thought
myself to be
ugly,
I now liked what
I saw,almost
handsome, yes,
a bit ripped and
ragged,
scares, lumps,
odd turns,
but all in all,
not too bad,
almost handsome,
better at least than
some of those movie
star faces
like the cheeks of
a baby's
butt.
and finally I discovered
real feelings of
others,
unheralded,
like lately,
like this morning,
as I was leaving,
for the track,
i saw my wife in bed,
just the
shape of
her head there
(not forgetting
centuries of the living
and the dead and
the dying,
the pyramids,
Mozart dead
but his music still
there in the
room, weeds growing,
the earth turning,
the toteboard waiting for
me)
I saw the shape of my
wife's head,
she so still,
I ached for her life,
just being there
under the
covers.
I kissed her in the,
forehead,
got down the stairway,
got outside,
got into my marvelous
car,
fixed the seatbelt,
backed out the
drive.
feeling warm to
the fingertips,
down to my
foot on the gas
pedal,
I entered the world
once
more,
drove down the
hill
past the houses
full and empty
of
people,
I saw the mailman,
honked,
he waved
back
at me.
Bongo Bango
ReplyDeleteDo a tango
In the light fandango
With a mango
A map atap a
A mouth a rapa
Rapa tapa
Tango ringo Bingo banga
Mango mingus
Aero lingus
Lingo langa
Tanga tingle
Mingle mangle
Dangel dingel
Bingell baangle
Bango bonga
Conga Kango
Cappa frappa
Flappa dappa
Gangsta rappa
Beat da bappa
Bango tappa
Tingo bongo
A Gongo banga
A Bango bonga
O Bongo Rappa
O Rappa tappa
O dango fango
A Mango Tango
O Bongo Bango
Whatif by Shel Silverstein.
ReplyDeleteLast night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow talle?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again.