Post by 4/13: Your "Found Poem" and Prompt!/ Your Original Poems by 4/21
Please post your found poem and your original prompt by 4/13. This will ensure that your peers have plenty of time to craft a response to your prompt or to one of your colleagues, so please be punctual.
Refer to the Koch chapters and also to the sample poem and prompt I distributed to you on 4/9 to help you along. Have fun, poem scavengers and prompt-writers!
BY 4/21: Post your original poem written in response to one of the prompts. Be sure to title your poem and to thank the person who supplied the prompt that you used for inspiration.
posted by Bucky C. @ 8:12 AM
34 comments
34 Comments:
Monsieur Pierre Est Mort
By: Daniel Gutstein
My seventh grade French teacher, Mademoiselle Torrosian, kept a pet rock, Pierre, who looked like an average potato. She made occasional mention of him, basking in his round holder on her desk, if it meant including him as an example for that day’s lesson. “Monsieur Pierre voudrais du bifteck et les pommes frites” if we were learning to order a steak and fries. Or “Monsieur Pierre aime Juillet mais pas Janvier” if we were learning to distinguish between the months. Mademoiselle Torrosian dressed as a tablecloth, wearing a checkered yellow top above her dull brown pant legs. She had short hair and wide glasses, though I once caught her stepping out of Kramer Gifts, a shop at the mall where you could buy dirty decks of cards and fuzzy dice. A neighbor of mine, Kev Wilson, cooked up the plan to kidnap Monsieur Pierre, out of boredom, maybe, but it was easily accomplished: I slid the rock off its pedestal into my bookbag during the confusing crush at the end of class, and we had him. I’m not sure that Mademoiselle ever let on that Monsieur Pierre had gone missing, until we left her the first of our many ransom notes. Kev and I had cut the alphabet out of numerous magazines, the way we saw in the movies, and glued odd-shaped letters to construction paper, saying, in terrible French, “Nous avons Monsieur Pierre” for “We have Monsieur Pierre,” and if she’d like him back unharmed, she’d give everyone in the class an “A.” Mademoiselle Torrosian took to reading the notes out loud, correcting our French as she went, and then would utter pleas for his return. She would say, in earnest, “Monsieur Pierre est mon bebe, mon petit oiseau bleu, mon chanson et mon danse” or something like that, and the class would stare ahead without much sympathy. We, in turn, would write more and more perverse ransom notes, describing that we were cutting off Monsieur Pierre’s ears, or putting out his “oeil” or breaking his nose. Mademoiselle Torrosian’s brow would darken each time she entered the classroom and saw a new note lying on her chair. It was a small class; fifteen or twenty kids, and she probably guessed it was me and Kev, but then again, there was always that dickwad Marvin DeLeo, that girl, Angie, who always pronounced “besoin” as “boz-wan” and was always peeved when Mademoiselle corrected her, and Overman, too, that big, crazy, silent loon of a timebomb just waiting to throw someone out the window. Meantime, Monsieur Pierre resided in my backyard, in a regular area where many other rocks lived, and sometimes Kev and I would have a hard time distinguishing him from your typical shale, or quartzite, or whatever we were learning in earth science. One time, I put him in the oven, after my mother had begun baking a load of potatoes and she freaked when she tried to stab him with her big fork, scratching him mightily. Kev and I used him as a hammer once, when we were trying to build a wooden ladder in the backyard, and there we chipped him, but the coup de grace came when we were tossing Monsieur Pierre back and forth in a game of “you’re it” and he fell onto the patio and cracked in half, perfectly. We vowed to superglue him back together, a clear thin line of paste at the fissure, and soon afterwards, I snuck him back into position, on his little round holder beside Mademoiselle Torrosian’s grade book, even as Mademoiselle erased the blackboard. “Oh la la,” she said, turning around a minute later. She held him up to the light, smiling, at first, then dropped him into the empty metal trashcan, where he landed with a good boom. “Monsieur Pierre est mort—dead,” she said, then barked: “Ecoutez!”
This poem appears in “The Best American Poetry 2006”
Billy Collins editor, David Lehman series editor
Prompt:
Write a prose poem that describes a mischievous antic that you or somebody you know pulled in your class when you were younger. Describe the teacher’s and your classmates’ reactions to the stunt. Use a lot of describing words and be thorough. 300 Words Minimum
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Diana Tannehill's Found Poem
"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"
by: Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it onits way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, Rage against the dying of the light.
Prompt: Dylan Thomas wrote this poem to convey to his father to fight against death, to make a sound and not to sit by and let it happen. In everyday life people sit idlely by and let things happen when they could react to make a difference. Write a poem to inspire people to react and make a difference in their own lives, community, country, or world. Attempt to stay true to the villanelle form.
“Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep a Gun in the House”
By: Billy Collins
The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking.
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking.
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
In the poem “Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep a Gun in the House” the narrator communicates his frustration with his neighbors’ dog. Collins uses simple sentence structure and repetition to illustrate the dogs incessant barking. Surely we can all relate to the narrators predicament. Can you think of something, or someone, that you find particularly annoying? Using Billy Collins’ poem as inspiration, not as strict guidelines, create a poem of your own to share a nuisance/the reason you don't keep a gun in your life.
Shannon Price’s Found Poem…
“What Grandma Taught Her”
Melissa A. Stephenson
She hates to be
somewhere without
something to do.
They are off petting
the animals that don’t
have a real home.
When she gets like this
her hands and feet fidget
her mind wanders as far
as it can in all directions
and keeps looking back.
Give her a pen and paper
so she can quiet her mind
like her grandmother
would do during
church service.
She would write her name
over and over.
Grandma taught her this
when she was eight years old
right after her mother died.
Prompt:
In “What Grandma Taught Her” Melissa A. Stephenson describes a young girl who has been raised by her grandmother. The young girl appears to have a hyper disorder of some sort because she is always fidgeting and always needing something to do. Her grandmother would giver her pen and paper to help her feel more relaxed. Her grandmother taught her this procedure after the young girl’s mother died. I really like this poem and I think that there are many ways to express yourself after losing a loved one. Better yet, after you lose anything or anyone special to you, such as: pets, family members, or even an ex-lover. Pick something or someone that you have lost and write your story through poetry, just like Melissa A. Stephenson did. You may even want to write about a way that helps comfort you when you are down. Your emotions can be expressed through writing a poem about something or someone you have lost. Just let all of your feelings out in your writing. You may want to start your poem with the line: I am ___________ and I ____________....
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Revised Prompt for "Acquainted with the Night"
Some might say this poem is about loneliness and despair. That certainly seems to be Frost's intent. He seems to be tired of his solitude, but solitude isn't always bad. I found this poem by browsing through one of my college textbooks, The Bedford Introduction to Literature. Frost wrote it in 1945. Even though this poem appears to be about sadness, you may not feel like writing a sad poem now. Since Frost is well acquainted with "the night", I'm going to ask you to pick something that you are well acqainted with, whether it be an object, a season, an emotion, whatever you wish. You might start out, "I have been one acquainted with _________." Try to convey to me the feelings your subject invokes in you. Keep Frost's rhythm in mind, but an exact adherence to it is not necessary. Happy writing!
Jenna Rentrop’s found Poem…
“The Road Not Taken”
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
PROMPT:
In “The Road Not Taken” the speaker comes to a forked road, and must choose to take one or
the other. He chooses one, telling himself that he will leave the other for another day. He really knows he will probably never take the other road. Both seem about the same, but one road seems to “want wear.” This poem can be interpreted many ways. One can
read this poem as a simple poem of nature, or one can see the poem as a difficult life choice. The importance is that the speaker chose one road, and not the other.
Assume that life IS, in fact, a road. Write a poem about “your road” so far.
Some things you may
want to consider while writing are the texture of your road, what your road looks like so far, and what ight lie ahead?
If you don’t travel
I always marvel
Whenever I travel
Because if you don’t travel
And extensively explore
How can you open those awaiting doors?
Mysteries always lie waiting to be unraveled
I travel with my eyes
Watching those silently cry
Asking themselves the question why
Someone left them without saying goodbye
I travel with my thoughts
Abundant knowledge I have found and sought
I travel with my pen
To write about children, women and men
I travel with my voice
Speaking sensibly refusing to induce confusing noise
I travel with hope
Believing something new will spring into my horoscope
Whether in Africa or whether in Europe
There is always room, there is always scope
I travel to many places
Mix with different culture and races
Identify tribes by their faces
Everyone I always embrace
I travel with or without money
So please listen to my testimony
Every experience is worth lifes journey
I travel with intensive faith
Lavishing love rather than being defensive with hate
Because if you don’t travel
How can you grow?
How can you know,
What is beneath the dust and below the gravel?
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
Sylvia Chidi
Found on http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-you-don-t-travel/
Prompt:
We always hear the cliché saying, “life is a journey.” Sylvia Chidi put this in real context by using her stanzas to emphasize the literal experience of a journey while alluding to life as a whole. Her rhyming scheme occurs with the last words on the first and last lines of each stanza. I point out that the relevant theme in this particular piece how ones earthy travels and experiences links them with their faith. It is as if ones understanding of their earthly existence dictates their view of death or “below the gravel.” I would like to propose to questions in response to this poem. How has a particular journey or vacation helped you understand yourself? Can it relate to the journey of your own life? Please respond to these question in the form of a poem.
Aunt Jennifer's Tigers
Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen,
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
They do not fear the men beneath the tree;
They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.
Aunt Jennifer's finger fluttering through her wool
Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band
Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand.
When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie
Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
The tigers in the panel that she made
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.
Adrienne Rich
Prompt:
The tigers in “Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers” are not real; they are only pictures of tigers woven into a cloth panel. The tigers, however, are personified in the first stanza as “not fear[ing] the men” and “sleek” and “chivalric,” more or less brave and strong. Jennifer, who makes the screen, is depicted in the second stanza as frail. The tigers are a metaphor—or implied comparison—for Aunt Jennifer, describing how she wants to be (strong and brave) by contrasting her with the tigers. The final stanza brings the two, the tigers and Aunt Jennifer, together, saying that once Aunt Jennifer is gone her tigers will remain, “proud and unafraid.” Create your own metaphor by writing a three-stanza poem that describes something about yourself that contrasts with something that represents how you would like to be. (For example, I could point out that I am quiet, and compare myself to a bird that loves to sing, showing that I want to sing for all to hear.) Think of these questions as you compare yourself to the item: What do you have in common with the item? How are you different? What does comparing yourself to the item suggest about you (for instance, comparing Aunt Jennifer to tigers suggests she wants to be strong, or her will is strong, even though she is not physically strong.)? You may want to introduce the item of comparison in the first stanza, yourself in the second, and bring the two together in the last. Your poem does not have to rhyme.
Good job on posting these, folks. I know we're still wating on a few more, but these give us something to work with. I still think the prompts that somehow offer a means of "entry" into the writing, via suggesting a first line or a strong sensory image/s to consider, are getting closest to the the ideal prompts. But, I can see a lot of work and effort here, and I love the variety of poems and ideas at play! Monday should be a fun class as we read our creative efforts! :)
"From a Railway Carriage"
Author: Robert Louis Stevenson
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches,
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daises!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river
Each a glimpse and gone forever!
PROMPT:
In "From a Railway Carriage" Robert Louis Stevenson describes sights seen through a window of a railway car as it travels down the tracks upon its journey to somewhere. I chose this particular poem because I like the rhythm of it as it is read aloud. The rhythm makes the reader feel as if he is riding in the railway carriage. Write a poem using descriptive adjectives about a trip you have been on. It may have been in a car, truck, airplane, horseback, etc. Just have fun recalling the many sights you seen along your way!
“I Carry Your Heart with Me”
By: E.E. Cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
Prompt:
In “ I Carry Your Heart with ME” E.E. Cummings does not refer to two people becoming one, but more like a part of you is now a part of me, and so matter where you go or I go I will always keep a part of you with me in my heart.
Write a poem that describes something or someone that no matter where they go you will always keep them in your heart. Describe in the poem how this certain thing or person makes you feel and why you want to keep it so close to you.
The Fun Poem
By: Robert Hann
It's more fun livin' when you're having fun
It's more funn golfing when you hole in one
It's more fun dreamin' when your dreams come true
It's more fun winnin' at whatever you do
It's more fun shoppin' if your getting good deals
It's more fun eatin' eatin home cooked meals
It's more fun singing when you have a nice voice
It's more fun choosing if you ave a good choice
It's more fun sharing with the people you love
It's more fun livin' with some help from above
It's more fun wishin' when you get your wish
It's more fun fishin' when you catch some fish
PROMPT:
write a poem talking about what is fun or exciting to you when you do a certain task or not just something exciting it could be sad or show any kind of emotion. Be creative.
Footprints In The Sand
By: Mary Stevenson
One night a man had a dream. He dreamed
he was walking along the beach with the LORD.
Across the sky flashed scenes from his life.
For each scene he noticed two sets of
footprints in the sand: one belonging
to him, and the other to the LORD.
When the last scene of his life flashed before him,
he looked back at the footprints in the sand.
He noticed that many times along the path of
his life there was only one set of footprints.
He also noticed that it happened at the very
lowest and saddest times in his life.
This really bothered him and he
questioned the LORD about it:
"LORD, you said that once I decided to follow
you, you'd walk with me all the way.
But I have noticed that during the most
troublesome times in my life,
there is only one set of footprints.
I don't understand why when
I needed you most you would leave me."
The LORD replied:
"My son, my precious child,
I love you and I would never leave you.
During your times of trial and suffering,
when you see only one set of footprints,
it was then that I carried you."
Prompt: Mary Stevenson writes this poem to encourage and inspire people when they feel like they are at their lowest point, alone and helpless. She conveys her message by showing us a man's trouble through a dream. I myself have gone through hard times when I felt very alone. But, when I looked back on the situation I could see how God was working and that he did carry me through. Think of a time when you felt alone or were in a difficult situation. What carried you through? Was it a best friend? A mother? A grandfather? A brother or uncle? How did they help you realize that you were not alone? You could write it about yourself and put it in third person as Mary Stevenson has done or any other way you choose to convey your feelings. Be creative. Perhaps you could end your poem with, ...it was then that ___________ carried me.
“I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud”
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
i found this poem online @ http://www.bartleby.com/145/ww260.html
but it can also be found in many textbooks.
Revised Prompt:
William Wordsworth is known to have written numerous poems speaking about nature. However this poem has a deeper meaning. On the surface it is speaking about him strolling along and then seeing a field of flowers. When you read a little bit deeper you notice that the flowers have human characteristics. Wordsworth loved the out of doors and was considered hermit like in the eyes of London society. This poem is his response to London society parties and other social gatherings.
Write a poem, in the style of wordsworth, reflecting on your own experiences of nature versus society. If these two, nature/society, does not inspire your poem change the characters. As long as the poem includes a power struggle between two different parties it will be accepted (it could be mom/dad, nature/machines, black/white; use your imagination). This poem must be at least 4 stanzas long. If you have trouble starting out you are more than welcome to follow Wordsworth's example and start
"I ________(verb)_________ (adverrb) as a ________ (noun)..."
Here is my original poem. Thanks to Rachel S for the great prompt!
"I Have Read as Stealthily as a Predator"
I have read as stealthily as a predator
That has coiled itself under grassy cover,
The ever-anxious, patient monitor,
The text-hunter, the word-lover.
Waiting to devour every line written
To consume that with which I am smitten.
In constant stream the lines reveal
What I hope I am the first to see,
With thoughts of a succulent meal,
I prepare to dine via literacy:
No table set or frilly cloths,
But as I wait my mouth surely froths.
And there it comes, the big meaning,
The one meant to be revealed only to me:
A meat-heavy boar in the paragraph’s waning,
‘Caused others to starve but I’ll not go hungry:
I gazed – and gazed – all the while heavy in thought,
What a banquet of feeding my patience had wrought!
For as the concept crept off the page,
And surely the author felt another would famish,
I pounced like the tiger with the skill of the sage,
Tackled the theme and took joy in my ravish:
But I did not consume it completely, my dish,
For when one eats of an undiscovered literary idea,
One must first make sure to publish.
Here is my original poem. Thanks to Erin B. for the prompt!
Little Brother
Everywhere I go,
Everything I do,
Someone follows,
Three guesses who.
His incessant questiong and investigation into
What I am doing
Sometimes annoy til I'm blue.
When he's not allowed in on it he replies with a sigh.
Or sometimes to my horror, he begins to cry.
Ore else begs the question, why, why, why?
What do I have to show for the kindness I try?
Not much, plenty of broken action figures and scratched videogames around my bedroom lie.
I did pull a gun on him once, I, with a sigh!
It was water pistol, for stupid you think I?
These memories make me laugh,
Which does suggest,
Though often with him I may poke fun or jest,
Any bully he meets will never find rest.
For pest (only sometimes) though he is, he's the one I like best.
I chose to write a poem based on Erin's prompt of "Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House" by Billy Collins, so thank you Erin.
"Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House"
My fat roommate will not stop eating my food.
Eating, eating, eating always eating.
TV blaring, chain smoking, non bill paying old lady.
She won't stop eating my food, my friend's food, or anybody's food.
Old lady would eat roommate #2's food if she brought any into the house.
Oh,wow! Enlightenment! Roommate #2 quit buying food because she didn't get to eat any of it.
Eating, eating, eating!
I can see my fat roommate now,
sitting in the frig like it's a buffet for one.
"Welcome to Barnhill's, table for one?
If she dives into my Diet Coke like it is going to save her waistline I will pull her out of the frig by that dyed red hair!
Two hundred dollars in groceries gone, gone, gone.
2 weeks time that's all it took her
TV blaring, chain smoking, non-bill paying old lady.
Oh well, I bet by week 8 I'll be skinny!
Thank you Erin B. for this poem prompt!
The Main Reason There is No Gun in My Glove Box
I leave my house twenty minutes too late, late for the third time this week- and it is only Wednesday! Oh the day is off to a good start,as I spill my coffee in my lap. I must change my pants! I will just have to rush even more!!
I guess I must be lucky!
He pulls out in front of me and drives 30 mph.That’s funny…the speed limit sign says 55!Of course Grandpa here wants to snail his way down the Highway!As my death grip on the wheel gets even tighter, I wonder WHY oh WHY did this idiot pull out in front of me!?
I guess I must be Lucky!
Finally past Mr. Should-Keep-It-In the Right lane, things are going smooth. I’m coming up on Ms. Fancy Pants in her Bright Blue Mercedes.
Is putting on makeup in the rearview mirror absolutely necessary?! She is going SO SLOW, I want to give her a push.
I want to see her smear that bright red lipstick all over her pretty face. We’re coming up on a light, she goes through it just fast enough to catch it on the end of yellow…Of course I GET RED!
I guess I must be lucky!
After the red light, I am going insane. I am ten feet from my exit. I do the right thing and turn on my right blinker,
moving into the turning lane.
Like a bat-outta-hell comes a teenage Punk, who appoints himself “King of the Road” with no apparent turning signal laws for him. I grit my teeth, and stomp my brake, just missing his back end by a hair!
I guess I must be lucky!
I pull up at work only an HOUR late. I am sure my boss will really tear me a new one this time.
I pull into my parking spot, next to the “beginning construction” site, and get many whistles from the workers. I bite my tongue, and enter the building.
I guess I must be lucky !
This is my original poem. Thanks to Jenna rentrop for her prompt!!
"What Would You Do?"
I was innocent and in much pain,
All I could do was scream.
My body went numb
Through my hips to my toes.
All I know is I did nothing wrong
He came from behind and ripped my clothes,
He thrust himself on me
And did very bad things.
A month and a half later, I am pregnant.
I don't know what to do,
I am tired of crying every night.
What should I do?
The doctor says I must decide soon,
Or I will have to keep, but I am undecided.
What should I do?
What would you do?
My original poem. Thanks to Mandy N. for her prompt.
Travels
I have marveled at the travels
And journeys that have taken
Others down unknown paths
Paths that have been trodden
by many.
Travelers whose destinies
Have taken them lifetimes
to complete.
Travelers whose fates
Are differently mapped.
Mapped to take them to uncertain futures;
Good and bad.
I have watched others
In their travels
Each one marvls me
With their chances taken
and choices made.
And I have begun to understand
That I ave watched too long.
I have not traveled as I should.
For life is a journey,
A journey that should not stop
No matter how sharp the stones
Thrown in the path.
Shannon McCraw’s Found Poem
Sympathy (1899)
By Paul Dunbar
Sympathy
I know what the caged bird feels.
Ah, me, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes,
When the wind blows soft through the springing grass
And the river floats like a sheet of glass,
When the first bird sings and the first bud ops,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals.
I know what the caged bird feels.
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Til its blood is red on the cruel bars,
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bow aswing.
And the blood still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting.
I know why he beats his wing.
I know why the caged bird sings.
Ah, me, when its wings are bruised and its bossom sore.
It beats its bars and would be free.
It’s not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that it sends from its heart’s deep core,
A plea that upward to heaven it flings.
I know why the caged bird sings.
Prompt:
I found this poem when going through and Anthology of African-American Literature. Since I discovered it, I have always thought I identified with what the speaker is saying.
Paul Laurence Dunbar speaks of a caged bird which gives the reader an impression of being controlled, confined, and restrained from the liberties of freedom. This poem was written many years after the Civil War ended, but the freedoms of the African-American race were not as liberating as they had thought they would be. In the first stanza, Dunbar describes the beauty around the caged bird: birds singing, flowers blooming, the perfumed air. But in the second stanza he begins to show the reader that with all this beauty around, this one caged bird is beating himself against the cage to join that beauty. Concluding the piteous scene in the third stanza, he shows the resolution of the bird; that the bird realizes he cannot break free alone, but must rely on others and the prayers he sends in song. Dunbar could quite easily be describing the struggles of his race during this era, but stop and think about the writer himself. Dunbar was thought to have written much of his literature only to please his white audience. His words were cautious and carefully written to not upset his readers. Can you perceive his frustrations within the poem in that context? Have you ever felt so frustrated at a helpless situation? Use your own experiences and describe them in a poem as Dunbar has. Reserve true hatred in your words and try to describe your feelings carefully, using metaphors as did Dunbar. Rhyme and meter are not necessary, only the words you feel and write are important.
Response to Robert Frost’s Poem “The Road Not Taken”
Highway 49
The road of my life should be familiar
The road of my life is green with pine
However is not the best in particular
If caught speeding there will be a fine
The road of my life can be beautiful on a Sunny day
Or terrifying during a stormy night
Though the hills are not high, they are not smooth clay
Going over potholes can give me a fright
Sometimes I am alone
Or traveling with a mate
Talking on the phone
I even turn on the radio late
The road is not long
Only twenty years repaved
It is time for a new road and song
Although my memories of Highway 49 will be saved.
**I would like to thank Jenna for providing me with this prompt!
Here is my original poem, thanks to Mandy for the prompt!
Bahamas
Calypso music in the distance
Sunny beaches with soft white sand
Crystal clear water full of
Rainbow life
Paradise...
At the market
Lilting musical accents
Try to sell baskets, jewelry, seashells, get your
Hair braided
Business...
With the ocean above my head
Awkward duck feet and big glasses
Breathing out of a metal cylinder
I finally realized I'm
Home...
I'm sure Mandy thanks Jenna for the prompt, right Mandy? :)
You're Always with Me
By: Megan Thompson
I carry u with me everyday,
We are always together, you guiding the way.
We have been close for a long time,
I don't know what I would do without around.
We laugh, play and fight,
But always stay in sight
No matter what happens in the future,
You are always apart of my heart.
You brighten up my day,
In your own special way.
I thank GOD for giving me you,
HE helps us see it through.
You are my king,
And I'm your queen.
Together we an conquer all things
Through this journey we call life
You're always with me
I carry you in my heart!!
I thank Margaret for the prompt!!!
My original poem thanks to Shannon P.
Broken
She never knew what she had until the day it was gone.
People have always told her not to take anything for granted.
The day he left was the day she thought she would never love again.
She tried to tell herself that he was gone,
She would open her heart up but only to find that it was still torn.
She just wants to be happy and able to love again, but the heart he has broken has left her like it is never going to heal
She has been told that she should take a chance and move on.
In the back of her mind she was afraid that if she took a chance with someone else would they leave her the same way.
She sometimes closes her eyes to make this all disappear and pray to God that he would heal her from the pain that she is suffering.
She knows God as someone else for her, but only if she could just get over the one she felt she truly loved.
Here is my original poem. Thank you Megan for the poem and prompt.
SAD
It's so sad when all around me is sad.
It's so sad when my life is so bad;
It's so sad when I feel so all alone.
It's so sad when I am chilled to the bone.
It's so sad when I feel so helpless.
It's so sad when my life is a big mess.
It's so sad when the sun does not shine.
It's so sad when things are not fine.
It's so sad, but it will get better.
It's so sad, but sad does not go on forever.
Thank you "Jenimichele" for the Gutstein prompt, and sorry this poem is so long =)...
"Dear Substitute"
Eighth grade is pretty boring, full of rocks formed from magma, history that I'll never remember, keyboarding class, and grammar, grammar, grammar. Everything is so dull. The only escape I had from the same ol', same ol' was seventh period Quest. Quest was the class from Heaven for "gifted and talented" students where we did logic problems, fed our creativity, and created projects that were thematic and fun. I even liked the teacher Ms. Seal. There were rumors that she was a lesbian (and the super-short geometric/mushroom atomic-red haircut didn't help), but she has never made me uncomfortable, so I didn't mind either way. My friend Andrea and I, that year, had to get to school at the ungodly hour of 6:45 because both of our parents had to be at work at 7. We would always seek refuge in Ms. Seal's room. She allowed this, even though she was never at school yet. One morning as we escaped the freezing weather outside by entering the room we found a yellow piece of paper. "Dear Substitute," it began, "My lesson plans are in the box on the right. The rules are posted on the wall. Have a good day, and don't let the students move the chairs." No sooner had we read the last words then we were putting chairs in corners, laying the sideways, upside-down, back-to-back, and on top of tables. We worked quickly, quietly, and determinedly until every chair was in a position that no one in their right mind would configure. We felt it in our best interest to leave before the sub arrived. At lunch Andrea and I described our deed to our friends and chuckled, snickered, and guffawed. Finally, the sixth period bell rang and I headed to the annex for my favorite class, Quest. Much to my surprise--and amusement--the chairs still sat unmoved, two back-to-back, one on the table, and even one upside-down! And the sub made us sit in them as they were! Odd as it was, no one seemed to mind. The next day we confessed our prank to Ms. Seal who just laughed and said, "I bet that sub thinks I'm insane!" Did we get in trouble? Of course not! How can you punish a Quest student for being creative?
"Things My Mother Taught Me"
By: Amanda Russell, thanks to Megan!
Never brush your teeth before drinking orange juice.
Don't tie a string around a tooth that's too loose.
Never expect anything in return.
Don't play with matches, the fire will burn!
Never call boys on the telephone.
Don't cut off the tags before you try it on!
Never cut your hair,it's so pretty long.
Don't argue with your daddy, even if he's wrong.
Never pick on others less fortunate than you.
Don't pick out the carrots in your grandmother's stew.
Never wear black lipstick or red polish on your nails.
Don't drink and drive or you'll end up in jail.
Never make the first move when you're out on a date.
Don't let him either, it's better to wait!
Never shoot too low, but raise the bar high.
Don't give up on your dreams, reach for the sky.
Never say Never. Just do your best. Don't give up hope when you're put to the test.
Never take for granted a mother's love & Don't forget to give thanks to the Lord up above.
Thank you “Jenimichele” for the Prompt
I have written poems in many different styles but never a prose poem so I decided to try this one.
Write a prose poem that describes a mischievous antic that you or somebody you know pulled in your class when you were younger. Describe the teacher’s and your classmates’ reactions to the stunt. Use a lot of describing words and be thorough. 300 Words Minimum
The Stapler Caper.
Just before my senior year in school, some friends and I were bored. We knew that senioritis would hit. Every year before this we plodded through school and classes; till summer came again. I made a pact with those three friends that entertainment would find us. Little did I know what path it would take. When classes began my teacher, Mrs. Miller, handed out our weekly schedules and I noticed her plain brown stapler on her desk. As first period let out, I swiped it! At lunch that day I showed my friends my stapling bounty. And a plot began to boil in my brain. From then on, everyday, each of us swiped a stapler from some random teacher. As word spread among the student body more and more seniors became involved, it became an epidemic. Starting at about the beginning of the second six week period we started to hear announcements on the loud speakers, the teacher’s union were begging for their paper combiners’ return. We laughed inside as our growing pile of staplers glared at us. Eventually we started to call the epidemic of stapler thefts the Stapler Caper. About the same time the teachers were running out of staplers, our constant thefts had left them bereft; they started to buy more out of necessity, and locking them in their desks. Many seniors became experts at picking locks that year. Our senior class in that year was about 1000 students. By the last week of classes we had stolen 998 staplers of every shape, color and size. As each student walked across stage that week we each presented the Dean with a single stapler, in shades of brown, black, and blue. After we walked, they tried to give us detention. We told them that they cannot do that; that we already have our diplomas.
thanks jenimichele for the prompt-
smile.
i took your teeth.
that faceless smile.
the pearly whites floating in water.
they were smiling at me.
hiding in a glass behind the tiny plant in the bathroom.
its hard to hide a smile like that.
i scooped them out with a fork and watched them clatter onto the tile floor.
the teeth were perfect, like a movie star's.
i wonder if all movie stars keep magical teeth in a glass.
i took your teeth.
they were perfect and shiny, like chicklets or piano keys. they were smiling at me through the glass and so i smiled back.
this is not the first time.
i hope you don't mind.
i watch you take them out everyday before your favorite soap airs on the television.
i wait as the world goes round and your eyes close in daydream.
you thought i was napping too.
but i'm fishing your teeth out,
making them snap together in unison with mine.
sometimes we whisper the pledge of allegiance.
sometimes we just smile at eachother in the mirror.
your's are always prettier.
i have gaps in mine, and sometimes a piece of lettuce is crammed between the front two.
today i heard your footsteps approach the bathroom door as the teeth and i were giving a toothy rendition of "Bah Bah Black-Sheep."
i tried to slip the teeth back to their watery cage quietly.
they were slippery.
anyway, i couldn't find the missing front tooth.
perhaps you won't notice.
they are still beautiful and perfect.
i hope you won't mind.
i know they weren't mine.
but i took your teeth.
Erin your poem CRACKS ME UP! Good Stuff Girl!
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