Each week, approximately, students will be learning a new poem. Students will copy each poem into their Poetry Tome (spiral notebook) and attempt to memorize the passage for an optional oral reading at week's end. Students will learn to appreciate and understand poetry, its facets, uses, and implementation in society. Students will understand assonance, consonance, dissonance, and alliteration, and will decode each week's poem alongside guidance from Mr. Cunningham.

Las Palmas Poetry Recital - Second Time Around (Reciting The Lake by Edgar Allan Poe!):


Poem Number Thirty-Five:

Preparedness - Edwin Markham


For all your days prepare,
And meet them ever alike:
When you are the anvil, bear –
When you are the hammer, strike.

Poem Number Thirty-Four:

footnote upon the construction of the masses - Charles Bukowski


some people are young and nothing
else and
some people are old and nothing
else
and some people are in between and
just in between.


and if the flies wore clothes on their
backs
and all the buildings burned in
golden fire,
if heaven shook like a belly
dancer
and all the atom bombs began to
cry,
some people would be young and nothing
else and
some people old and nothing
else,
and the rest would be the same
the rest would be the same.

the few who are different
are eliminated quickly enough
by the police, by their mothers, their
brothers, others; by
themselves.

all that’s left is what you
see.

it’s
hard.



Poems Number Thirty-Three:

Death of a Vermont Farm Woman - Barbara Howes


Is it time now to go away?
July nearly over; hay
Fattens the barn, the herds are strong,
Our old fields prosper; these long
Green evenings will keep death at bay.

Last winter lingered; it was May
Before a flowering lilac spray
Barred cold for ever. I was wrong.
Is it time now?

Six decades vanished in a day!
I bore four sons: one lives; they
Were all good men; three dying young
Was hard on us. I have looked long
For these hills to show me where peace lay.
Is it time now?



Fame - Austin Dobson


Fame is a food that dead men eat, -
I have no stomach for such meat.
In little light and narrow room,
They eat it in the silent tomb,
With no kind voice of comrade near
To bid the feaster be of cheer.

But friendship is a nobler thing, -
Of friendship it is good to sing.
For truly, when a man shall end,
He lives in memory of his friend,
Who doth his better part recall
And of his fault make funeral.


Poem Number Thirty-Two:

The Cow – Ann Taylor


Thank you, pretty cow, that made
Pleasant milk to soak my bread,
Every day and every night,
Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.

Do not chew the hemlock rank,
Growing on the weedy bank;
But the yellow cowslips eat;
They perhaps will make it sweet.

Where the purple violet grows,
Where the bubbling water flows,
Where the grass is fresh and fine,
Pretty cow, go there to dine.


Poem Number Thirty-One:

Grass - Carl Sandburg


Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work -
I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work.


Poem Number Thirty:

The Lake - Edgar Allan Poe


In youth’s spring, it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the wind would pass me by
In its still melody,
My infant spirit would awake
To the terror of that lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
And a feeling undefined
Springing from a darkened mind.

Death was in that poisoned wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his dark imagining;
Whose wildering thought could even make
An Eden of that dim lake.


Poem Number Twenty-Nine:

The Flower-Fed Buffaloes - Vachel Lindsay


The flower-fed buffaloes of the spring
In the days of long ago,
Ranged where the locomotives sing
And the prairie flowers lie low;
The tossing, blossoming, perfumed grass
Is swept away by wheat,
Wheels and wheels and wheels spin by
In the spring that still is sweet.
But the flower-fed buffaloes of the spring
Left us long ago.
They gore no more, they bellow no more,
They trundle around the hills no more: -
With the Blackfeet lying low,
With the Pawnees lying low.
Lying low.


Poem Number Twenty-Eight:

The Axe Has Cut the Forest Down - Elizabeth Coatsworth


The axe has cut the forest down,
The laboring ox has smoothed all clear,
Apples now grow where pine trees stood,
And cows graze instead of deer.

Where Indian fires once raised their smoke
The chimneys of a farmhouse stand,
And cocks crow barnyard challenges
To dawns that once saw savage land.

The axe, the plow, the binding wall,
By these the wilderness is tamed,
By these all human will is wrought,
The rivers bridged, the new towns named.


Poem Number Twenty-Seven:

Two Tramps in Mud Time - Robert Frost


The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.


Poem Number Twenty-Six:

Spring in New Hampshire - 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.

Poem Number Twenty-Five:

Experiment Degustatory – Ogden Nash

A gourmet challenged me to eat
A tiny bit of rattlesnake meat,
Remarking, “Don’t look horror-stricken.
You’ll find it tastes a lot like chicken.”
It did.
Now chicken I cannot eat,
Because it tastes like rattlesnake meat.


Poem Number Twenty-Four:

Encounter – Czeslaw Milosz

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.


Poem Number Twenty-Three:

Hope – Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.


Poem Number Twenty-Two:

The Falling Star – Sara Teasdale

I saw a star slide down the sky,
Blinding the north as it went by,
Too burning and too quick to hold,
Too lovely to be bought or sold,
Good only to make wishes on
And then forever to be gone.


Poem Number Twenty-One:

This Is Just to Say... - William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

And which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold


Poem Number Twenty:

I Dream A World - Langston Hughes

I dream a world where man
No other man will scorn,
Where love will bless the earth
And peace its path adorn.
I dream a world where ALL
Will know sweet freedom’s way,
Where greed no longer saps the soul
Nor avarice blights our day.

A world I dream where black or white,
Whatever race you be,
Will share the bounties of the earth
And every man is free,
Where wretchedness will hang its head
And joy, like a pearl,
Attends the needs of all mankind---
Of such I dream, my world!


Poem Number Nineteen:

A Reminder - Thomas Hardy

While I watch the fireplace blaze
Paint the room with ruddy rays,
Something makes my vision glide
To the frosty scene outside.

There, to reach a rotting berry,
Toils a thrush, -constrained to very
Dregs of food by sharp distress,
Taking such with thankfulness.

Why, O starving bird, when I
One day’s joy would justify,
And put misery out of view,
Do you make me notice you!


Poem Number Eighteen:

Mice - Rose Fyleman

I think mice
Are rather nice.
There tails are long,
Their faces small,
They haven't any
Chins at all.
Their ears are pink,
Their teeth are white,
They run about
The house at night.
They nibble things
They shouldn`t touch
And no one seems
To like them much
But I think mice
Are Nice



Poem Number Seventeen:


Snow Toward Evening - Melville Cane

Suddenly the sky turned gray,
The day,
Which had been bitter and chill,
Grew soft and still.
Quietly
From some invisible blossoming tree
Millions of petals cool and white
Drifted and blew,
Lifted and flew,
Fell with the falling night.

Poem Number Sixteen:

The Talisman - Marianne Moore

Under a splintered mast,
torn from the ship and cast
near her hull,

a stumbling shepherd found,
embedded in the ground,
a sea-gull

of lapis lazuli,
a scarab of the sea,
with wings spread---

curling its coral feet,
parting its beak to greet
men long dead.

Poem Number Fifteen:

The Swans - Andrew Young

How lovely are these swans,
That float like high proud galleons
Cool in the summer heat,
And waving leaf-like feet
Divide with narrow chests of snow
In a smooth surge
This water that is mostly sky;
So lovely that I know
Death cannot kill such birds,
It could but wound them, mortally

Poem Number Fourteen:

Dihydrogen Oxide - Bill Bryson, adapted by Mr. Cunningham

Imagine trying to live
In a world dominated
By dihydrogen oxide,
A compound that hides

With no taste or smell
And is so variable
That it is generally benign
But at other times,

Though legal,
Swiftly lethal.
It can scald you
Or freeze you.

When mixed by fools
With organic molecules,
It forms acids so nasty
With effects long-lasting

They strip leaves off green places!
And off statues eat faces!
When agitated nastily
It strikes with fury

Even for those who’ve learned
To live with its churn,
It remains a murderous
Substance of consequence.

We call its name many times,
Each day, very fine,
Like a mother calls a daughter,
We call it “water!”


Poem Number Thirteen:

Ozymandias - Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert….Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


Poem Number Twelve:

Good and Bad Children - Robert Louis Stevenson

Children, you are very little,
And your bones are very brittle;
If you would grow great and stately,
You must try to walk sedately.

You must still be bright and quiet,
And content with simple diet;
And remain, through all bewild'ring,
Innocent and honest children.

Happy hearts and happy faces,
Happy play in grassy places--
That was how in ancient ages,
Children grew to kings and sages.

But the unkind and the unruly,
And the sort who eat unduly,
They must never hope for glory--
Theirs is quite a different story!

Cruel children, crying babies,
All grow up as geese and gabies,
Hated, as their age increases,
By their nephews and their nieces.



Poem Number Eleven:

Lobster - Anne Sexton

A shoe with legs,
a stone dropped from heaven,
he does his mournful work alone,
he is like the old prospector for gold,
with secret dreams of God-heads and fish heads.
Until suddenly a cradle fastens round him
and he is trapped as the U.S.A. sleeps.
Somewhere far off a woman lights a cigarette;
somewhere far off a car goes over a bridge;
somewhere far off a bank is held up.
This is the world the lobster knows not of.
He is the old hunting dog of the sea
who in the morning will rise from it
and be undrowned
and they will take his perfect green body
and paint it red.


Poem Number Ten:

Choosing Shoes - Frida Wolfe

New shoes, new shoes,
Red and pink and blue shoes.
Tell me, what would you choose,
If they’d let us buy?

Buckle shoes, bow shoes,
Pretty pointy-toe shoes,
Strappy, cappy low shoes;
Let’s have some to try.


Bright shoes, white shoes,
Dandy-dance-by-night shoes,
Perhaps-a-little-tight shoes,
Like some? So would I.

But

Flat shoes, fat shoes,
Stump-along-like-that shoes,
Wipe-them-on-the-mat shoes,
That’s the sort they’ll buy.


Poem Number Nine:

The Mist and All - Dixie Wilson

I like the fall,
The mist and all.
I like the night owl's
Lonely call -
And wailing sound
of wind around.

I like the gray
November day,
And dead, bare boughs
That coldly sway
Against my pane.
I like the rain.

I like to sit
And laugh at it -
And tend
My cozy fire a bit.
I like the fall -
The mist and all.


Poem Number Eight:

Chairs in Snow - E.B. White

Quiet upon the terraces,
The garden chairs repose;
In fall they wore their sooty dresses,
Now the lees of snows.

How like the furnishings of youth,
In back yards of the mind:
Residuals of summer's truth
And seasons left behind.


Poem Number Seven:

Washington Crossing the Delaware - David Schulman

(an anagrammatic poem)
A hard, howling, tossing water scene.
Strong tide was washing hero clean.
"How cold!" Weather stings as in anger.
O Silent night shows war ace danger!

The cold waters swashing on in rage.
Redcoats warn slow his hint engage.
When star general's action wish'd "Go!"
He saw his ragged continentals row.

Ah, he stands - sailor crew went going.
And so this general watches rowing.
He hastens - winter again grows cold.
A wet crew gain Hessian stronghold.

George can't lose war with's hands in;
He's astern - so go alight, crew, and win!


Poem Number Six:

The Sloth - Theodore Roethke

In moving-slow he has no Peer.
You ask him something in his Ear,
He thinks about it for a Year;

And, then, before he says a Word
There, upside down (unlike a Bird),
He will assume that you have Heard-

A most Ex-as-per-at-ing Lug.
But should you call his manner Smug,
He'll sigh and give his Branch a Hug;

Then off again to Sleep he goes,
Still swaying gently by his Toes,
And you just know he knows he knows.


Poem Number Five:

A Sphinx - Carl Sandburg

Close-mouthed you sat five thousand years and never
let out a whisper.

Processions came by, marchers, asking questions you
answered with gray eyes never blinking, shut lips
never talking.

Not one croak of anything you know has come from your
cat crouch of ages.

I am one of those who know all you know and I keep my
questions: I know the answers you hold.


Poem Number Four:

Lake Isle of Innisfree - William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always day and night
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.


Poem Number Three:

A Theory - Charles Simic

If a cuckoo comes into the village
Of cuckoos to cuckoo and it's Monday,
And all the cuckoos should be outdoors working,
But instead there's no one anywhere

At home, or on the road overgrown with weeds,
Or even at the little gray schoolhouse,
Oh then, the cuckoo who came to the village
Of cuckoos to cuckoo must cuckoo alone.


Poem Number Two:

Homework! Oh, Homework! - Jack Prelutsky

Homework! Oh, Homework!
I hate you! You stink!
I wish I could wash you away in the sink,
if only a bomb
would explode you to bits.
Homework! Oh, homework!
You're giving me fits.


I'd rather take baths
with a man-eating shark,
or wrestle a lion
alone in the dark,
eat spinach and liver,
pet ten porcupines,
than tackle the homework
my teacher assigns.


Homework! Oh, homework!
You're last on my list,
I simply can't see
why you even exist,
if you just disappeared
it would tickle me pink.
mework! Oh, homework!
I hate you! You stink!


Poem Number One:

A Summer Morning - Rachel Field

I saw dawn creep across the sky,
And all the gulls go flying by.
I saw the sea put on its dress
Of blue midsummer loveliness,
And heard the trees begin to stir
Green arms of pine and juniper.
I heard the wind call out and say,
"Get up, my dear, it is today!"