Farewell Poem

My final farewell to my fantastic poetry club students was the poem "Dreams" by Langston Hughes. Every student got a handwritten copy from me. It was pretty tough to say good-bye to such an amazing group of students. I really, really wish I could come back to EMS next semester!

Montage of a Dream Deferred

To mark the end of our poetry club, I decided to share some poems from my most favorite work of poetry, Montage of a Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes. Published in 1951, Montage is a send-up of everything beautiful and terrible in Black culture in post-war Harlem. One of the strongest themes in the book is the representation music in the poems.

I decided to put together a mini-folio of Mr. Hughes's "jazz poems" for us to read over the last two days of the poetry club. Since most of these poems are not available online, I used my copy of The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes as a source for the mini-folio. Where before I had handed out slips of paper containing each poem that the students kept afterward, for our Montage days I passed out a full page of poetry and took it back up so that they would be sure to have it on our final Montage day. Students were free to keep the handout after the last reading.

You can click here to see a PDF of the mini-folio that I passed out to students.

I was very glad that my send-off to my awesome students could be some of my most favorite poems. I hope that they will carry these poems around with them for years to come.

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

The tenth poem in our series is "The Negro Speaks of Rivers" by Langston Hughes. We read this poem in class on Monday, November 8. In addition to having two students read this poem aloud as we usually do, a third student read the poem while Ms. Miller showed the class E.B. Lewis's illustrated version of the poem. This was a big hit with the class!

You can read Mr. Hughes's biography on poets.org by clicking here. You can also visit the poem on poets.org by clicking on the poem title (below) and even listen to Mr. Hughes read the poem!

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

by Langston Hughes

I've known rivers:

I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the

flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln

went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy

bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:

Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

We borrowed this illustrated edition of the poem from the Belser-Parton Literacy Center at the University of Alabama. The BPLC is a community lending library that is open to everyone. They have lots of great resources for educators, including classroom sets of young adult novels that can be borrowed.

You can purchase a copy of this book on amazon.com.

9.

The ninth poem in our series is "9." by E.E. Cummings. We read this poem in class on Thursday, November 4.

Click here to read Mr. Cumming's biography on poets.org. You can click on the poem title (below) to visit the poem on poets.org.

9.

by e.e. cummings

there are so many tictoc

clocks everywhere telling people

what toctic time it is for

tictic instance five toc minutes toc

past six tic

Spring is not regulated and does

not get out of order nor do

its hands a little jerking move

over numbers slowly

we do not

wind it up it has no weights

springs wheels inside of

its slender self no indeed dear

nothing of the kind.

(So,when kiss Spring comes

we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss

lips because tic clocks toc don't make

a toctic difference

to kisskiss you and to

kiss me)

The Emperor of Ice Cream

The eighth poem in our series is "The Emperor of Ice Cream" by Wallace Stevens. This is one of my most favorite poems! We read this poem in class on Monday, November 1.

Click here to read Mr. Stevens's biography on poets.org. You can read the poem on poets.org by clicking on the title (below).

The Emperor of Ice-Cream

by Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars,

The muscular one, and bid him whip

In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.

Let the wenches dawdle in such dress

As they are used to wear, and let the boys

Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.

Let be be finale of seem.

The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,

Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet

On which she embroidered fantails once

And spread it so as to cover her face.

If her horny feet protrude, they come

To show how cold she is, and dumb.

Let the lamp affix its beam.

The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

About "The Emperor of Ice-Cream":

This poem is apparently "set" in Key West, a place that inspired much of Stevens's work, and where it was a tradition to have ice cream at funerals.

Watching the Mayan Women

The seventh poem in our collection is "Watching the Mayan Women" by Luisa Villani. We talked about this poem in class on Thursday, October 28.

Ms. Villani does not have a biography available on poets.org. You can visit the poem at Poetry180 by clicking on the poem title (below). It is poem #67.

Watching the Mayan Women

by Luisa Villani

I hang the window inside out

like a shirt drying in a breeze

and the arms that are missing come to me

Yes, it's a song, one I don't quite comprehend

although I do understand the laundry.

White ash and rain water, a method

my aunt taught me, but I'll never know

how she learned it in Brooklyn. Her mind

has gone to seed, blown by a stroke,

and that dandelion puff called memory

has flown far from her eyes. Some things remain.

Procedures. Methods. If you burn

a fire all day, feeding it snapped

branches and newspapers—

the faces pressed against the print

fading into flames-you end up

with a barrel of white ash. If

you take that same barrel and fill it

with rain, let it sit for a day,

you will have water

that can bring brightness to anything.

If you take that water,

and in it soak your husband's shirts,

he'll pause at dawn when he puts one on,

its softness like a haunting afterthought.

And if he works all day in the selva,

he'll divine his way home

in shirtsleeves aglow with torchlight.

Spring in New Hampshire

The sixth poem in our collection is "Spring in New Hampshire" by Claude McKay. We talked about this poem in class on Monday, October 25.

Click here to read Mr. McKay's biography on poets.org. You can visit the poem on poets.org by clicking on its title (below).

Spring in New Hampshire

by Claude McKay

Too green the springing April grass,

Too blue the silver-speckled sky,

For me to linger here, alas,

While happy winds go laughing by,

Wasting the golden hours indoors,

Washing windows and scrubbing floors.

Too wonderful the April night,

Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,

The stars too gloriously bright,

For me to spend the evening hours,

When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,

Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.

Still I Rise

The fifth poem in our collection is "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou. We talked about this poem in class on Thursday, October 21. KW requested that we read this poem, and KS, KW, and DW read the poem to our class.

Click here to read Ms. Angelou's biography on poets.org. You can visit the poem on poets.org by clicking on the title (below).

Still I Rise

by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you best with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries,

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

From And Still I Rise, by Maya Angelou. Copyright 1978 by Maya Angelou. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc.

We listened to Ben Harper's interpretation of Ms. Angelou's poem in class. His song, entitled "I'll Rise," is from his first album Welcome to the Cruel World. You can listen to the song by clicking play on the video (below).

Butterfly, Butterfly

The poem "Butterfly, Butterfly" was written by Sharon Adamson. This poem was brought to class by DG and can be found online by clicking on the poem title (below).

We discussed "Butterfly, Butterfly" in class on Tuesday, October 19.

Butterfly, Butterfly

Sharon Adamson

Hoping to catch your eye

Circling around you, oh my

Butterfly, butterfly, come into the light

Oh, what a beautiful sight

Flying so gracefully

Into the sky, the butterfly

Trying to catch a butterfly

Fly, fly, fly, butterfly

There he sets upon the mums

I'm having so much fun

Here's another on the sill

Your standing so still

You go to touch him

There he goes, the butterfly

I hear a tapping on the window

It's the butterfly, fly, fly, fly

There he goes into the sky

Flying so high, the butterfly

I'll see you another day

Butterfly, butterfly, away

The third poem in our poetry club is "Who burns for the perfection of paper" by Martín Espada. We talked about this poem in class on Thursday, October 14.

Click here to read Mr. Espada's biography on poets.org. You can visit the poem on Poetry 180 by clicking on the title (below). It is poem #136.

Who Burns for the Perfection of Paper

Martín Espada

At sixteen, I worked after high school hours
at a printing plant
that manufactured legal pads:
Yellow paper
stacked seven feet high
and leaning
as I slipped cardboard
between the pages,
then brushed red glue
up and down the stack.
No gloves: fingertips required
for the perfection of paper,
smoothing the exact rectangle.
Sluggish by 9 PM, the hands
would slide along suddenly sharp paper,
and gather slits thinner than the crevices
of the skin, hidden.
The glue would sting,
hands oozing
till both palms burned
at the punch clock.

Ten years later, in law school,
I knew that every legal pad
was glued with the sting of hidden cuts,
that every open law book
was a pair of hands
upturned and burning.

from City of Coughing and Dead Radiators, 1993. W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY.

Copyright 1993 by Martín Espada. All rights reserved.

cutting greens

The second poem in our poetry club is "cutting greens" by Lucille Clifton. We talked about this poem in class on Monday, October 11.

Click here to read Ms. Clifton's poem on poets.org. You can visit the poem on poets.org by clicking on the title (below).

cutting greens

by Lucille Clifton curling them around i hold their bodies in obscene embrace thinking of everything but kinship. collards and kale strain against each strange other away from my kissmaking hand and the iron bedpot. the pot is black. the cutting board is black, my hand, and just for a minute the greens roll black under the knife, and the kitchen twists dark on its spine and i taste in my natural appetite the bond of live things everywhere. From An Ordinary Woman by Lucille Clifton published by Random House. Copyright © 1974 Lucille Clifton. Used with permission.

My First Memory (of Librarians)

Our first poem in the EMS Poetry Club is "My First Memory (of Librarians)" by Nikki Giovanni. We talked about this poem in class on Monday, October 4, 2010.

Click here to read Ms. Giovanni's biography on poets.org. You can visit the poem on poets.org by clicking on the title (below).

My First Memory (of Librarians) by Nikki Giovanni This is my first memory: A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky wood floor A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply too short For me to sit in and read So my first book was always big In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presided To the left side the card catalogue On the right newspapers draped over what looked like a quilt rack Magazines face out from the wall The welcoming smile of my librarian The anticipation in my heart All those books—another world—just waiting At my fingertips. From Acolytes by Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 2007 by Nikki Giovanni. Published by arrangement with William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

Poetry @ EMS

Welcome to the EMS poetry blog! We will use this blog to chronicle the poems read in Ms. R's class. We will share poems that can be found on www.poets.org, http://www.poetryfoundation.org/, and http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/.

In addition to sharing the poems that are read in class, we'll also use this blog to share our ideas and thoughts about each poem. Thanks for stopping by!

Ms. Miller

EMS student teacher