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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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The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams


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so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.   This poem can be found in the volume, The Red Wheelbarrow & Other Poems. Think about how the poem made you feel. Did you find beauty in the poem’s simplicity and efficiency? Could you vividly picture the rural

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“I’m Nobody! Who Are You?” by Emily Dickinson


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I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one’s name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!   This poem can

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Slap by Melissa Stein


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I want to write my lover a poem but a very bad one. It’ll include a giant squid and some loose change   and cuff links and two blue ferries chugging headfirst on the East River at twenty-six knots and only at the last minute averting   disaster through quick thinking and sure reflexes. Also

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An End to It by David Budbill


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When I came to this mountainside almost fifty years ago it never occurred to me that there would be an end to it. I went along never thinking about the time when I would have to quit. I imagined—I guess — all this would last forever, if I imagined it at all. Now I’m in

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I Hear America Singing by Walt Whitman


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I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him

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