Month: September 2018

I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger


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I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.   It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my

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Garden of Eden by Tracy Smith


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What a profound longing I feel, just this very instant, For the Garden of Eden On Montague Street Where I seldom shopped, Usually only after therapy Elbow sore at the crook From a handbasket filled To capacity. The glossy pastries! Pomegranate, persimmon, quince! Once, a bag of black beluga Lentils spilt a trail behind me

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost


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Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.   My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the

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A New National Anthem by Ada Limon


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The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets red glare” and then there are the bombs. (Always, always, there is war and bombs.) Once, I sang it at homecoming and threw even the tenacious

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Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas


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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, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the

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How did you meet your wife? by Richard Jones


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Swimming the English Channel, struggling to make it to Calais, I swam into Laura halfway across. My body oiled for warmth, black rubber cap on my head, eyes hidden behind goggles, I was exhausted, ready to drown, when I saw her coming toward me, bobbing up and down between waves, effortlessly doing a breaststroke, headed

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Calm Day by Ghassan Zaqtan


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No dead on the streets today is a calm day, traffic is normal, there’s ample room for the procession of yesterday’s dead, room to add a dream, an idea, a little boy, an extra push for the beloved boat, a nom de guerre for the cell, a rose for a new love, a hand to

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Harlem by Langston Hughes


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What happens to a dream deferred?   Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?   Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.   Or does it explode?  

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Trees by Joyce Kilmer


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I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;

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