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Poetry research project

Students will find three poems by the poet that cover the thematic idea of identity. You will
choose one of these poems from this booklet, and two on your own.

Students will also write three paragraphs for this assignment.
• 1 paragraph is about the poet
• 1 paragraph is about the theme connection in one of the poems
• 1 paragraph is about your experience completing this project (in-class writing, date TBA)

You will also do an individual presentation to the class (approximately 8 minutes).

With one of the poems (not the one chosen for the written analysis), students will do a
presentation to the class. Students who are doing the same poet as another student will not be
able to write about the same poem or present the same poem as each other. In other words,
everyone should have different poems from each other.

The purpose of the presentation is to introduce, encourage, and provoke class discussion on the
poet, the poem, and the poet’s collection of poetry in general.

Suggestions for the individual presentations (include some, not just one, or all):
• Brief biography of the poet
• Share your responses and connections to some of the poet’s poetry
• Read 1-2 poems aloud (or memorize if you’d like!)
• Share the poem’s significance to the class
• Explore the words/phrases/lines you particularly enjoyed and why (with quotes)
• How does the poem or poetry in general connect to the theme of identity?
• Ask your 5 open-ended questions based on your poem or poet

During the presentation, students will be taking brief notes on the poets being presented. All
students are expected to actively participate during presentations by answering and asking
questions.

Due to time limitations, no PowerPoints, Prezis, Haiku Decks, or any other types of visual
presentations will be permitted. You may have some brief notes or flashcards when you
present your project, but you should not be reading off your notes.







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Assessment

Writing
• 3 formal paragraphs
• Poems by the poet (1 from the booklet, 2 others that have been found) on separate
pages
• 5 open-ended, engaging questions you will ask the class during your presentation
• This entire project is to be completed in MLA (Modern Language Association) 8th
edition. This includes in-text citations, Works Cited page, and any other aspects of
MLA as required/instructed.
• Stapled and typed (Times New Roman, size 12 font, double spaced; as part of MLA)
• Include all drafts and notes
• Double sided printing is permitted for this project only (if this is something you choose
to do).

Presentation
• Speaking skills
• Knowledge and familiarity of poet, poem, material (comprehension)
• Connection to theme
• Questions (to class’ questions asked of you and in terms of discussion generated by
class)
• Overall presentation as an engaging, creative whole
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Alden Nowlan

Warren Pryor The Masks of Love

When every pencil meant a sacrifice I come in from a walk

his parents boarded him at school in town, With you
slaving to free him from the stony fields, And they ask me
the meager acreage that bore them down. If it is raining.

They blushed with pride when, at his graduation, I didn’t notice

they watched him picking up the slender scroll, But I’ll have to give them
his passport from the years of brutal toil The right answer
and lonely patience in a barren hole. Or they’ll think I’m crazy

When he went in the Bank their cups ran over.

They marveled how he wore a milk-white shirt
work days and jeans on Sundays. He was saved
from their thistle-strewn farm and its red dirt.

And he said nothing. Hard and serious

like a young bear inside his teller’s cage,
his axe-hewn hands upon the paper bills
aching with empty strength and throttled rage.

Billy Collins

Embrace On Turning Ten

You know the parlor trick. The whole idea of it makes me feel
wrap your arms around your own body like I'm coming down with something,
and from the back it looks like something worse than any stomach ache
someone is embracing you or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
her hands grasping your shirt a kind of measles of the spirit,
her fingernails teasing your neck a mumps of the psyche,
from the front it is another story a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
you never looked so alone
your crossed elbows and screwy grin You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
you could be waiting for a tailor but that is because you have forgotten
to fit you with a straight jacket the perfect simplicity of being one
one that would hold you really tight. and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
Litany At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
You are the bread and the knife, by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
The crystal goblet and the wine... At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
-Jacques Crickillon
But now I am mostly at the window
You are the bread and the knife, watching the late afternoon light.
the crystal goblet and the wine. Back then it never fell so solemnly
You are the dew on the morning grass against the side of my tree house,
and the burning wheel of the sun. and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
You are the white apron of the baker, as it does today,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight. all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
 4

However, you are not the wind in the orchard, This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
the plums on the counter, as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
or the house of cards. It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. time to turn the first big number.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented
air. It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, If you cut me I could shine.
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head, But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
but you are not even close I skin my knees. I bleed.
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,

speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,

the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees

and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--
the wine.

Denise Levertov

The Secret Looking-Glass

Two girls discover I slide my face along to the mirror

the secret of life sideways, to see
in a sudden line of that side-smile,
poetry. a pale look, tired
and sly. Hey,
I who don’t know the
secret wrote who is glancing there?
the line. They Shadow-me, not with
told me malice but mercurially
shot with foreknowledge of
(through a third person) dread and sweat.
they had found it
but not what it was
not even

what line it was. No doubt

by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
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the secret,

the line, the name of

the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can’t find,

and for loving me

for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that

a thousand times, till death

finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines

in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
for

assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.

Emily Dickinson

I’m Nobody! Who are you? Fame is a fickle food

I’m Nobody! Who are you? Fame is a fickle food
Are you – Nobody – too? Upon a shifting plate
Then there’s a pair of us! Whose table once a
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know! Guest but not
The second time is set.
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog – Whose crumbs the crows inspect
To tell one’s name – the livelong June – And with ironic caw
To an admiring Bog! Flap past it to the Farmer’s Corn –
Men eat of it and die.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain The Soul has Bandaged moments

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, The Soul has Bandaged moments –
And Mourners to and fro When too appalled to stir –
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed She feels some ghastly Fright come up
That Sense was breaking through – And stop to look at her –

And when they all were seated, Salute her, with long fingers –
A Service, like a Drum – Caress her freezing hair –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
My Mind was going numb – The Lover – hovered – o’er –
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
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And then I heard them lift a Box Accost a Theme – so – fair –

And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again, The soul has moments of escape –
Then Space – began to toll, When bursting all the doors –
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
As all the Heavens were a Bell, And swings opon the Hours,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race As do the Bee – delirious borne –
Wrecked, solitary, here – Long Dungeoned from his Rose –
Touch Liberty – then know no more,
And then a Plank in Reason, broke, But Noon, and Paradise –
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge, The Soul’s retaken moments –
And Finished knowing – then – When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the song,

The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue –

Gord Downie

Canada Geese Nothing but Heartache in Your Social Life

Us middle-aged men just completing When are you thinking of disappearing?

The finishing touches on a dope deal When are you falling off the map?
It's agreed we get a small piece When the unknown that you're fearing's in the
In the middle of the cornfield clearing?
When these Canada geese fly south When your world's gone flat?
We'll harvest in the dark
We can talk just to ourselves When you're waiting for your life to be depicted
Or we can talk just to the stars And feeling estrangement from escape?
When you're packaged up, beautifully scripted
Us Canada geese held a meeting Insulated with electrical tape?
In the middle of a cornfield
When the famous are getting airborne?
It's agreed we leave in small vees When the evacuation's under way
And meet up again in the real world And not for all the pot in Rosedale
Like middle-aged men smoke dope Could you possibly get them to stay?
And talk just to their cars
We can talk just to ourselves When a blind eye turns to duty?
Or we can talk just to the stars When I'm standing there holding the door
We can talk just to ourselves Saying things like "After you, wit before beauty"
Or we can talk just to the stars And, "Okay, maybe there's room for just one more?"

When technology fails, forever changes
And hardcore shadows are gone?
Boy Bruised by Butterfly Chase When what the average age rearranges
Is forever certain? Forever wrong?
Someone was laughing at me
Without shoes When new adventures in electronics
But the grass felt so good and the And signals are pleasing to the ear?
Day was so blue When tubes cooking up distortion
Mean the end of suffering is near?
Must have tripped, I don't know
Do I remember falling away When the podium's sprouting weeds
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Nothing that I hold on to Rendered ridiculous by the times?

And not being afraid? When people have different needs
And time smiles on disciplined minds?
Down, down, down
Falling down, down, down When you're getting king-sized satisfaction
It's like I was born never touching the ground In the turnstiles of the night
From the shaky pale transactions
Someone was crying while I Of all the heartache in your social life?
Lay in the dirt
I could hear their hearts breaking but I When are you thinking of disappearing?
Wasn't even hurt When there's nothing but heartache in your social life?

Down, down, down When are you thinking of disappearing?

Falling, down, down, down When are you thinking of disappearing?
It was like I was born never touching the ground
Ground
Ground
It was like I was born never touching the ground

Joni Mitchell

Be Cool

If there's one rule to this game Don't get jealous
Everybody's gonna name Don't get over-zealous
It's be cool Keep your cool
If you're worried or uncertain Don't whine
If your feelings are hurtin' Kiss off that flaky valentine
You're a fool if you can't keep cool You're nobody's fool
Charm 'em Be cool fool
Don't alarm 'em Be cool
Keep things light (Lots of other fish in the sea)
Keep your worries out of sight
And play it cool Play it cool
Play it cool Play it cool
Fifty-fifty Fifty-fifty
Fire and ice Fire and ice

If your heart is on the floor So if there's one rule to this game
Cause you've just seen your lover Everybody's gonna name
Comin' through the door with a new fool It's--be cool
Be cool If you're worried or uncertain
Don't get riled If your feelings are hurtin'
Smile-keep it light You're a fool if you can't keep cool
Be your own best friend tonight They want you to
And play it cool Charm 'em
Play it cool Don't alarm 'em
Fifty-fifty Keep things light
Fire and ice Keep your worries out of sight
And play it cool
Play it cool
Fifty-fifty
Fire and ice

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The Fish Bowl

The fish bowl is a world diverse
where fishermen with hooks that dangle
from the bottom reel up their catch
on gilded bait without a fight.
Pike, pickerel, bass, the common fish
ogle through distorting glass
see only glitter, glamour, gaiety
and weep for fortune lost.
Envy the goldfish? Why?
His bubbles are breaking ’round the rim
while silly fishes faint for him.”

Joy Kogawa

Offerings If Your Mirror Breaks

what you offer us — if when you are holding a

a soap bubble hand mirror when you are
a glass thread — sitting in the front seat of a car
what you place and the mirror breaks
in open hands — you must stop everything quickly
one branch step on the brakes
of one snow fleck leap from the car
a sliver
of smoke if when you are holding in
your arms a mirror and you
and if and if feel the glass sudden in your veins
the offering bursts if your throat bleeds with
breaks brittle words and
melts you hear in the distance the
if the smoke ambulance siren
is swallowed in the night
if your mirror breaks into
we lift a tittering sound of tinkling glass
the barricades and you see the highway stretch
we take the edges into a million staring splinters
of our transience you must stop everything gently
we bury the ashes wait for seven long years
of our wording under a sky of whirling wheels
and sift
the silences if your mirror breaks
oh if your mirror breaks


Lawrence Ferlinghetti (for another poem, Google “A Vast Confusion”)

Don’t Let That Horse…
Don’t let that horse
eat that violin

cried Chagall’s mother

But he
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kept right on
painting

And became famous

And kept on painting

The Horse With Violin In Mouth

And when he finally finished it

he jumped up upon the horse
and rode away
waving the violin

And then with a low bow gave it

to the first naked nude he ran across

And there were no strings

attached


Leonard Cohen

Poem 50 (“I lost my way, I forgot…”)

I lost my way, I forgot to call on your name. The raw heart beat against the world, and the tears were for my lost
victory. But you are here. You have always been here. The world is all forgetting, and the heart is a rage of
directions, but your name unifies the heart, and the world is lifted into its place. Blessed is the one who waits in
the traveller's heart for his turning

The Genius

For you For you
I will be a ghetto jew I will be a Broadway jew
and dance and cry in theatres
and put white stockings for my mother
on my twisted limbs and sell bargain goods
and poison wells beneath the counter
across the town
For you
For you I will be a doctor jew
I will be an apostate jew and search
and tell the Spanish priest in all the garbage cans for foreskins
of the blood vow to sew back again
in the Talmud
and where the bones For you
of the child are hid I will be a Dachau jew
and lie down in lime
For you with twisted limbs
I will be a banker jew and bloated pain
and bring to ruin no mind can understand
a proud old hunting king
and end his line
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Marilyn Dumont

Letter To Sir John A. Macdonald

Dear John: I’m still here and halfbreed,

after all these years
you’re dead, funny thing,
that railway you wanted so badly,
there was talk a year ago
of shutting it down
and part of it was shut down,
the dayliner at least,
‘from sea to shining sea,’
and you know, John,
after all that shuffling us around to suit the settlers,
we’re still here and Metis.

We’re still here

after Meech Lake and
one no-good-for-nothing-Indian
holdin-up-the-train,
stalling the ‘Cabin syllables / Nouns of settlement,
/…steel syntax [and] / The long sentence of its exploitation’
and John, that goddamned railroad never made this a great nation,
cause the railway shut down
and this country is still quarreling over unity,
and Riel is dead
but he just keeps coming back
in all the Bill Wilsons yet to speak out of turn or favour
because you know as well as I
that we were railroaded
by some steel tracks that didn’t last
and some settlers who wouldn’t settle
and it’s funny we’re still here and callin ourselves halfbreed.

Not Just a Platform for My Dance
this land is not
just a place to set my house my car my fence

this land is not

just a plot to bury my dead my seed

this land is
my tongue my eyes my mouth

this headstrong grass and relenting willow

these flat-footed fields and applauding leaves
these frank winds and electric sky lines

are my prayer
they are my medicine
and they become my song

this land is not

just a platform for my dance



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Mark Strand

Keeping Things Whole Black Maps
In a field Not the attendance of stones,
I am the absence nor the applauding wind,
of field. shall let you know
This is you have arrived,
always the case.
Wherever I am nor the sea that celebrates
I am what is missing. only departures,
nor the mountains,
When I walk nor the dying cities.
I part the air
and always Nothing will tell you
the air moves in where you are.
to fill the spaces Each moment is a place
where my body’s been. you’ve never been.

We all have reasons You can walk

for moving. believing you cast
I move a light around you.
to keep things whole. But how will you know?

No Words Can Describe It The present is always dark.
How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather Its maps are black,
worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a rising from nothing,
trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long describing,
ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives
in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and in their slow ascent
longs for the past? And what does it matter when light enters the into themselves,
room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her their own voyage,
eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she its emptiness,
cannot name?
the bleak, temperate
Coming to This necessity of its completion.
As they rise into being
We have done what we wanted. they are like breath.
We have discarded dreams, preferring the heavy industry
of each other, and we have welcomed grief And if they are studied at all
and called ruin the impossible habit to break. it is only to find,
too late, what you thought
And now we are here. were concerns of yours
The dinner is ready and we cannot eat.
The meat sits in the white lake of its dish. do not exist.
The wine waits. Your house is not marked
on any of them,
Coming to this nor are your friends,
has its rewards: nothing is promised, nothing is taken away.
We have no heart or saving grace, waiting for you to appear,
no place to go, no reason to remain. nor are your enemies,
listing your faults.
Only you are there,

saying hello
to what you will be,
and the black grass
is holding up the black stars.
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Maya Angelou

Still I Rise Alone

You may write me down in history Lying, thinking
With your bitter, twisted lies, Last night
You may trod me in the very dirt How to find my soul a home
But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
Does my sassiness upset you? I came up with one thing
Why are you beset with gloom? And I don’t believe I’m wrong
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells That nobody,
Pumping in my living room. But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides, Alone, all alone
Just like hopes springing high, Nobody, but nobody
Still I’ll rise. Can make it out here alone.

Did you want to see me broken? There are some millionaires
Bowed head and lowered eyes? With money they can’t use
Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Their wives run round like banshees
Weakened by my soulful cries? Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
Does my haughtiness offend you? To cure their hearts of stone.
Don’t you take it awful hard But nobody
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines No, nobody
Diggin’ in my own backyard. Can make it out here alone.

You may shoot me with your words, Alone, all alone
You may cut me with your eyes, Nobody, but nobody
You may kill me with your hatefulness, Can make it out here alone.
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Now if you listen closely
Does my sexiness upset you? I’ll tell you what I know
Does it come as a surprise Storm clouds are gathering
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds The wind is gonna blow
At the meeting of my thighs? The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
Out of the huts of history’s shame ‘Cause nobody,
I rise But nobody
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain Can make it out here alone.
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, Alone, all alone
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
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Neil Young

Rigor Mortis Only Love Can Break Your Heart

The earth, played out, seems forged with fear, When you were young and on your own
It bristles, stiffens, slowly fades How did it feel to be alone?
With introspection. Through the blear, I was always thinking of games that I was playing.
In our unease we move, bowed heads; Trying to make the best of my time.
Eyes dare not catch the eyes in crowds.
But only love can break your heart
Our long-filled faces, burrowed in Try to be sure right from the start
This stolid world of silence, ache. Yes only love can break your heart
A momentary smile may break, What if your world should fall apart?
So awkward, brief, merely polite,
When failing to avert our sight. I have a friend I've never seen
He hides his head inside a dream
Mouths mime their cold songs. Drawing breath, Someone should call him and see if he can come
Lips scarcely move, then freeze to death out.
Again, as days assimilate Try to lose the down that he's found.
Our disbelief in any hope;
The obvolute, irresolute. But only love can break your heart
Try to be sure right from the start
Born from inherent ignorance, Yes only love can break your heart
Preoccupied and paranoid, What if your world should fall apart?
Who eavesdrops far beyond the void?
Suspicions shall remain unhindered I have a friend I've never seen
As long the earth remains bewildered, He hides his head inside a dream
Yes, only love can break your heart
Listening for nothing... Yes, only love can break your heart
Withdrawing to nothing...



A Box of Photographs

Sifting through these photographs,

Faint years fall into disarray.
Shuffling half-remembered faces,
Glued to half-forgotten places,
I learn too late; their many griefs,
Like water, find their levelled way
To me through silent cracks in Time.
Reconstituting feelings trapped
Within, they charm or curse; those whom
I look for, those I don't; each steeped
With irresolvable conclusion.
My simple task, one of collation
Reads like an epitaph to lives
Estranged, or spent. Now in these archives
I have found false starts, lost friends,
Ex-lovers, relatives deceased.
What I've begun, recalls their ends…
What have I carelessly released?
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Raymond Carver

Fear Late Fragment

Fear of seeing a police car pull into the And did you get what
drive. you wanted from this life, even so?
Fear of falling asleep at night. I did.
Fear of not falling asleep. And what did you want?
Fear of the past rising up. To call myself beloved, to feel myself
Fear of the present taking flight. beloved on the earth.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead
of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
The Current
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot
on her cheek!
These fish have no eyes
Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite.
these silver fish that come to me in
Fear of anxiety!
dreams,
Fear of having to identify the body of a
scattering their roe and milt
dead friend.
in the pockets of my brain.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will
But there's one that comes--
not believe this.
heavy, scarred, silent like the rest,
Fear of psychological profiles.
that simply holds against the current,
Fear of being late and fear of arriving
before anyone else.
closing its dark mouth against
Fear of my children's handwriting on
the current, closing and opening
envelopes.
as it holds to the current.
Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel
guilty.

Fear of having to live with my mother in her
old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving
enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to
those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.

I've said that.

 15

Rupi Kaur

trying to convince myself

i am allowed
to take up space
is like writing
with my left hand
when i was born
to use my right
- the idea of shrinking is hereditary

 16

Sylvia Plath

Mirror Morning Song

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. cry
I am not cruel, only truthful ‚ Took its place among the elements.
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long statue.
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers. In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as
walls.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is. I’m no more your mother
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its
moon. own slow
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. Effacement at the wind’s hand.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of
hands. All night your moth-breath
I am important to her. She comes and goes. Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
Each morning it is her face that replaces the A far sea moves in my ear.
darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and
old woman floral
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window
square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you

try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

Tom Wayman

Routines Did I Miss Anything?

After a while the body doesn't want to work. Nothing. When we realized you weren't here
When the alarm clock rings in the morning we sat with our hands folded on our desks
the body refuses to get up. "You go to work if you're so in silence, for the full two hours
keen,"
it says. "Me, I'm going back to sleep." Everything. I gave an exam worth
I have to nudge it in the ribs to get it out of bed. 40 per cent of the grade for this term
If I had my way I'd just leave you here, I tell it and assigned some reading due today
as it stands blinking. But I need you to carry your end of on which I'm about to hand out a quiz
the load. worth 50 per cent

I take the body into the bathroom Nothing. None of the content of this course
intending to start the day as usual with a healthy dump. has value or meaning
But the body refuses to perform. Take as many days off as you like:
Come on, come on, I say between my teeth. any activities we undertake as a class
Produce, damn you. It's getting late. I assure you will not matter either to you or me
"Listen, this is all your idea," the body says. and are without purpose
"If you want some turds so badly you provide 'em.
 17

I'd just as soon be back in bed." Everything. A few minutes after we began last time
I give up, flush, wash and go make breakfast. a shaft of light descended and an angel
Pretty soon I'm at work. All goes smoothly enough or other heavenly being appeared
until the first break. I open my lunchpail and revealed to us what each woman or man must
and start to munch on some cookies and milk. do
"Cut that out," the body says, burping loudly. to attain divine wisdom in this life and
"It's only a couple of hours since breakfast. the hereafter
And two hours from this will be lunch, and two hours This is the last time the class will meet
after before we disperse to bring this good news to all
that people
will be the afternoon break. I'm not a machine on earth
you can force-feed every two hours.
And it was the same yesterday, too...." Nothing. When you are not present
I hurriedly stuff an apple in its mouth to shut it up. how could something significant occur?

By four o'clock the body is tired Everything. Contained in this classroom

and even more surly. It will hardly speak to me is a microcosm of human existence
as I drive home. I bathe it, let it lounge around. assembled for you to query and examine and
After supper it regains some of its good spirits. ponder
But as soon as I get ready for bed it starts to make This is not the only place such an opportunity has
trouble. been
Look, I tell it, I've explained this over and over. gathered
I know it's only ten o'clock but we have to be up in eight
hours. but it was one place
If you don't get enough rest, you'll be dragging around
all And you weren't here
day
tomorrow again, cranky and irritable.
"I don't care," the body says. "It's too early.
When do I get to have any fun? If you want to sleep
go right ahead. I'm going to lie here wide awake
until I feel good and ready to pass out."

It is hours before I manage to convince it to fall asleep.

And only a few hours after that the alarm clock sounds
again.
"Must be for you," the body murmurs. "You answer it."
The body rolls over. Furious, and without saying a
word,
I grab one of its feet and begin to yank it toward the
edge
of
the bed.

Walt Whitman

O Me! O Life!

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

 18

"Are you the new person drawn toward me?"

Are you the new person drawn toward me?

To begin with, take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy’d satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this façade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?

Song of Myself (Epic, 52 poems total, you may choose any of the 52)

1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.