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“Snow“ by David BermanWalking through a field with my little brother SethI pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow.For some reason, I told him that a troop of angelshad been shot and dissolved when they hit the ground.He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer.Then we were on the roof of the lake.The ice looked like a photograph of water.Why he asked. Why did he shoot them.I didn't know where I was going with this.They were on his property, I said.When it's snowing, the outdoors seem like a room.Today I traded hellos with my neighbor.Our voices hung close in the new acoustics.A room with the walls blasted to shreds and falling.We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence.But why were they on his property, he asked.?Eating PoetryMark Strand, 1934 - 2014 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.Fire And Ice - Poem by Robert FrostSome say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I've tasted of desireI hold with those who favor fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo say that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would sufficeThe Rose That Grew From ConcreteTupac Shakur Did you hear about the rose that grewfrom a crack in the concrete?Proving nature's law is wrong itlearned to walk with out having feet.Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,it learned to breathe fresh air.Long live the rose that grew from concretewhen no one else ever cared.Do not go gentle into that good nightDylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953Do 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,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir 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 on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind 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.A Dream Within a DreamBY EDGAR ALLAN POETake this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow —You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand —How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,While I weep — while I weep!O God! Can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOne from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?This Is Just To SayWilliam Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963 I have eatenthe plumsthat were inthe iceboxand whichyou were probablysavingfor breakfastForgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so coldDaddyBY SYLVIA PLATHYou do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time—— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You—— Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I’m finally through. The black telephone’s off at the root, The voices just can’t worm through. If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—— The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There’s a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.Time and EternityEmily DickinsonI DIED for beauty, but was scarceAdjusted in the tomb,When one who died for truth was lainIn an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed?“For beauty,” I replied.“And I for truth,—the two are one;We brethren are,” he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night,We talked between the rooms,Until the moss had reached our lips,And covered up our names.Annabel Lee BY EDGAR ALLAN POEIt was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.“Pass On,” Michael LeeWhen searching for the lost remember 8 things.1. We are vessels. We are circuit boardsswallowing the electricity of life upon birth.It wheels through us creating every moment,the pulse of a story, the soft hums of labor and love.In our last moment it will come rushing from our chests and be given back to the wind.When we die. We go everywhere.2. Newton said energy is neither created nor destroyed.In the halls of my middle school I can still hear my friend Stephen singing his favorite song. In the gymnasium I can still hear the way he dribbled that basketball like it was a mallet and the earth was a xylophone.With an ear to the Atlantic I can hearthe Titanic’s band playing her to sleep,Music. Wind. Music. Wind.3. The day my grandfather passed away there was the strongest wind,I could feel his gentle hands blowing away from me. I knew then they were off to find someone who needed them more than I did.On average 1.8 people on earth die every second.There is always a gust of wind somewhere.4. The day Stephen was murderedeverything that made us love him rushed from his knife woundsas though his chest were an auditoriumhis life an audience leaving single file.Every ounce of him has been wrapping around this world in a windstormI have been looking for him for 9 years.5.Our bodies are nothing more than hosts to a collection of brilliant things.When someone dies I do not weep over polaroids or belongings,I begin to look for the lightning that has left them,I feel out the strongest breeze and take off running.6.After 9 years I found Stephen.I passed a basketball court in Bostonthe point guard dribbled like he had a stadium roaring in his palmsWilt Chamberlain pumping in his feet,his hands flashing like x-rays,a cross-over, a wrap-aroundrewinding, turn-tables cracking open,camera-men turn flash bulbs to fireworks.Seven games and he never missed a shot,his hands were luminous.Pulsing. Pulsing.I asked him how long he’d been playing,he said nine 9 years7. The theory of six degrees of separation was never meant to show how many people we can find,it was a set of directions for how to find the people we have lost.I found your voice Stephen,found it in a young boy in Michigan who was always singing,his lungs flapping like sailsI found your smile in Australia, a young girl’s teeth shining like the opera house in your neck,I saw your one true love come to life on the asphalt of Boston.8. We are not created or destroyed,we are constantly transferred, shifted and renewed.Everything we are is given to us.Death does not come when a body is too exhausted to liveDeath comes, because the brilliance inside us can only be contained for so long.We do not die. We pass on, pass on the lightning burning through our throats.when you leave me I will not cry for youI will run into the strongest wind I can findand welcome you home. ................
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