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Name_______________________________ 12th Grade Literature Poetry Packet

"The Rose that Grew from Concrete" by Tupac Amaru Shakur Did u hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete Proving nature's law is wrong it learned 2 walk with out having feet Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams, it learned 2 breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else even cared. "In the Event of My Demise" by Tupac Amaru Shakur In the event of my Demise when my heart can beat no more I Hope I Die For A Principle or A Belief that I had Lived 4 I will die Before My Time Because I feel the shadow's Depth so much I wanted 2 accomplish before I reached my Death I have come 2 grips with the possibility and wiped the last tear from My eyes I Loved All who were Positive In the event of my Demise "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. ---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

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"If" by Rudyard Kipling If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you But make allowance for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream--and not make dreams your master, If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much, If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son! "Maybe Dats Your Pwoblem Too" by James W. Hall All my pwoblems who knows, maybe evwybody's pwoblems is due to da fact, due to da awful twuth dat I am SPIDERMAN. I know. I know. All da dumb jokes: No flies on you, ha ha, and da ones about what do I do wit all doze extwa legs in bed. Well, dat's funny yeah. But you twy being SPIDERMAN for a month or two. Go ahead. You get doze cwazy calls fwom da Gubbener askin you to twap some booglar who's only twying to wip off color T.V. sets. Now, what do I cawre about T.V. sets? But I pull on da suit, da stinkin suit, wit da sucker cups on da fingers, and get my wopes and wittle bundle of equipment and den I go flying like cwazy acwoss da town fwom woof top to woof top. Till der he is. Some poor dumb color T.V. slob and I fall on him and we westle a widdle until I get him all woped. So big deal. You tink when you SPIDERMAN der's sometin big going to happen to you. Well, I tell you what. It don't happen dat way. Nuttin happens. Gubbener calls, I go. Bwing him to powice, Gubbener calls again, like dat over and over. I tink I twy sometin diffunt. I tink I twy sometin excitin like wacing cawrs. Sometin to make my heart beat at a difwent wate. But den you just can't quit being sometin like SPIDERMAN. You SPIDERMAN for life. Fowever. I can't even buin my suit. It won't buin. It's fwame wesistent. So maybe dat's youwr pwoblem too, who knows. Maybe dat's da whole pwoblem wif evwytin. Nobody can buin der suits, dey all fwame wesistent. Who knows?

12th Poetry Unit

"No Scar?" by Amy Carmichael Hast thou no scar? No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand? I hear thee sung as mighty in the land; I hear them hail thy bright, ascendant star. Hast thou no scar? Hast thou no wound? Yet I was wounded by the archers; spent, Leaned Me against a tree to die; and rent By ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swooned. Hast thou no wound? No wound? No scar? Yet, as the Master shall the servant be, And piercd are the feet that follow Me. But thine are whole; can he have followed far Who hast no wound or scar?

"The Chameleon" by Judith Otiz Cofer I caught a chameleon in my backyard, and to amuse myself moved him from a green leaf to a tree's brown bark, then to my yellow porch where he froze as himself his eyes on me as if waiting for me to change But I stayed the same. I stayed the same, and kept him behind a screen until he had shown me his rainbow, until he had given me every color he possessed. Then I opened the door, but he wouldn't move. He just kept his eyes on me as if waiting for me to change.

12th Poetry Unit

"The Weary Blues" by Langston Hughes Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other night By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway . . . He did a lazy sway . . . To the tune o' those Weary Blues. With his ebony hands on each ivory key He made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues! Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues! Coming from a black man's soul. O Blues! In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan-"Ain't got nobody in all this world, Ain't got nobody but ma self. I's gwine to quit ma frownin' And put ma troubles on the shelf." Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. He played a few chords then he sang some more-"I got the Weary Blues And I can't be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can't be satisfied-I ain't happy no mo' And I wish that I had died." And far into the night he crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. The singer stopped playing and went to bed While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

"Booker T. and W.E.B." By Dudley Randall "It seems to me," said Booker T., "It shows a mighty lot of cheek To study chemistry and Greek When Mister Charlie needs a hand To hoe the cotton on his land, And when Miss Ann looks for a cook, Why stick your nose inside a book?" "I don't agree," said W.E.B. "If I should have the drive to seek Knowledge of chemistry or Greek, I'll do it. Charles and Miss can look Another place for hand or cook, Some men rejoice in skill of hand, And some in cultivating land, But there are others who maintain The right to cultivate the brain." "It seems to me," said Booker T., "That all you folks have missed the boat Who shout about the right to vote, And spend vain days and sleepless nights In uproar over civil rights. Just keep your mouths shut, do not grouse, But work, and save, and buy a house." "I don't agree," said W.E.B. "For what can property avail If dignity and justice fail? Unless you help to make the laws, They'll steal your house with trumped-up clause. A rope's as tight, a fire as hot, No matter how much cash you've got. Speak soft, and try your little plan, But as for me, I'll be a man." "It seems to me," said Booker T.-"I don't agree," Said W.E.B.

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"No, Thank You, John." by Christina Rossetti I never said I loved you, John: Why will you teaze me day by day, And wax a weariness to think upon With always "do" and "pray"? You know I never loved you, John; No fault of mine made me your toast: Why will you haunt me with a face as wan As shows an hour-old ghost? I dare say Meg or Moll would take Pity upon you, if you'd ask: And pray don't remain single for my sake Who can't perform that task. I have no heart?-Perhaps I have not; But then you're mad to take offence That I don't give you what I have not got: Use your own common sense. Let bygones be bygones: Don't call me false, who owed not to be true: I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns Than answer "Yes" to you. Let's mar our pleasant days no more, Song-birds of passage, days of youth: Catch at today, forget the days before: I'll wink at your untruth. Let us strike hands as hearty friends; No more, no less; and friendship's good: Only don't keep in view ulterior ends, And points not understood In open treaty. Rise above Quibbles and shuffling off and on: Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,No, thank you, John. so you're hunting for ann well i'm looking for will by e.e. cummings "so you're hunting for ann well i'm looking for will" "did you look for him down by the old swimminghole" "i'd be worse than a fool to have never looked there" "it seems like i just heard your annabel screech have you hunted her down by the rasberry patch" i have hunted her low i have hunted her high and that pretty pink pinafore'd knock out your eye" "well maybe she's up to some tricks with my bill as long as there's haymows you never can tell" "as long as there's ladies my annie is one nor she wouldn't be seen with the likes of your son" "and who but your daughter i'm asking yes who but that sly little bitch could have showed billy how" "your bastard boy must have learned what he knows from his slut of a mother i rather suppose" "will's dad never gave me one cent in his life but he fell for a whore when he married his wife and here is a riddle for you red says it aint his daughter her father lays" "black hell upon you and all filthy men come annabel darling come annie come ann" "she's coming right now in the rasberry patch and 'twas me that she asked would it hurt too much and 'twas me that looked up at my willy and you in the newmown hay and he telling you no" "then look you down through the old swimminghole there'll be slime in his eyes and a stone on his soul"

12th Poetry Unit

"Lone Dog" by Louis Rutherford McLeod I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep. I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate. Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

"The secretary chant" by Marge Piercy My hips are a desk. From my ears hang chains of paper clips. Rubber bands form my hair. My breasts are wells of mimeograph ink. My feet bear casters. Buzz. Click. My head is a badly organized file. My head is a switchboard where crossed lines crackle. My head is a wastebasket of worn ideas. Press my fingers and in my eyes appear credit and debit. Zing. Tinkle. My naval is a reject button. From my mouth issue canceled reams. Swollen, heavy, rectangular I am about to be delivered of a baby xerox machine. File me under W because I wonce was a woman.

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"The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door; Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,. For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, Nameless here forevermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;--Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before, "Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice. Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. " 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door. Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door, Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

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Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered; Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before; On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,--Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never---nevermore." But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

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"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore: Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore--Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore? Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted---nevermore!

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12th Poetry Unit 11