The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

submitted by Julie Yu brit lit

Remembrance by Maya Angelou

Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek. On the
occasion, you press
above me, glowing, spouting
readiness, mystery rapes
my reason

When you have withdrawn
your self and the magic, when
only the smell of your
love lingers between
my breasts, then, only
then, can I greedily consume
your presence.

 

Submitted by LT Djaowe

Shoulders support the world

Submitted by Zachary R. Butler

 

Shoulders Support The World

                                                         Carlos Drummond de Andrade

                                                          (Translated by Len Sousa)

There comes a time when we no longer say: my God.
A time of absolute purity.
A time when we no longer say: my love.
Because love proved useless.
And eyes don't cry.
And hands only weave in rough work.
And the heart is dry.

Women knock at the door in vain, don't open it.
You stay alone, the light goes out,
and in the dark your eyes glow enormous.
You're convinced, you no longer know suffering.
And you expect nothing from friends.

Old age matters little, what is old age?
Your shoulders support the world
and it weighs no more than a child's hand.
The wars, famines, and talks in buildings
only prove that life goes on
and not all have freed themselves yet.
Some, finding the spectacle barbarous,
prefer (the delicates) to die.
There comes a time when there's no point in dying.
There comes a time when life is an order.
Merely life, without perplexity.

 

  _______________________________________________________________

Os Ombros Suportam o Mundo

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Chega um tempo em que não se diz mais: meu Deus.
Tempo de absoluta depuração.
Tempo em que não se diz mais: meu amor.
Porque o amor resultou inútil.
E os olhos não choram.
E as mãos tecem apenas o rude trabalho.
E o coração está seco.


Em vão mulheres batem à porta, não abrirás.
Ficaste sozinho, a luz apagou-se,
mas na sombra teus olhos resplandecem enormes.
És todo certeza, já não sabes sofrer.
E nada esperas de teus amigos.


Pouco importa venha a velhice, que é a velhice?
Teu ombros suportam o mundo
e ele não pesa mais que a mão de uma criança.
As guerras, as fomes, as discussões dentro dos edifícios
provam apenas que a vida prossegue
e nem todos se libertaram ainda.
Alguns, achando bárbaro o espetáculo,
prefeririam (os delicados) morrer.
Chegou um tempo em que não adianta morrer.
Chegou um tempo em que a vida é uma ordem.
A vida apenas, sem mistificação.

Os versos acima foram publicados originalmente no livro "Sentimento do Mundo", Irmãos Pongetti - Rio de Janeiro, 1940.  Foram extraídos do livro "Nova Reunião", José Olympio Editora - Rio de Janeiro, 1985, pág. 78.

 

 

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

By Edgar Allan Poe

Submitted by Kevin Stewart

Another Day Has Dawned

Amidst our chaos and confusion;
Amidst our anguish and despair;
Amidst our never-ending questions and blame;
… Lies a world of lessons.

Through our tears and astonishment;
Through our hopelessness and depression;
Through our anxiety and grief;
… Lies a world of shame.

For it is our world that is responsible;
It is our world that allowed this sadness;
It is our world that has lost its youth;
… And it is our world that needs to change.

It is a warning for those who would isolate it;
It is a warning for those who would bury it;
It is a warning for those who think it will not touch them;
… It is we, who need to address it.

For this is the birth of our own generation;
This is the birth of our own problems;
This is the birth of our own past mistakes;
… It is we, who needed to watch over them.

A new generation who have hopes and dreams;
A new generation who have life and laughter;
A new generation who deserve a chance at peace;
… It is we who need to make them secure.

It is time to stop talking in circles;
It is time to stop blaming and pointing;
It is time to stop questioning and guessing;
… It is time to accept the burden and act.

We are not blameless;
We are not above reproach;
We are not perfect role models;
… For we are the generation they emulate.

Look beyond your own your circle of life;
Look beyond your picket fences and chained doors;
Look beyond your own backyard;
… And admit your frailties and failures.

Did you not once look the other way?
Did you not once stay quiet when you should have spoken?
Did you not once say I cannot change it?
… Do you know that we can make a difference?

One small voice can begin to move mountains;
One caring gesture can begin to enlighten others;
One shoulder to lean on, can ease another’s pain;
… Did you know that you are that one?

Listen to those who are in jeopardy;
Listen to that small voice whispering that they are in trouble;
Listen to that child with the wayward, furtive glance;
… And be prepared to take part in their future.

For if you do not listen and talk;
If you do not participate and take responsibility;
If you do not guide and offer them your heart and wisdom;
… It is we, who will join in their misery.

It reaches beyond your own immediate children;
It reaches beyond their friends and peers;
It reaches beyond your nieces and nephews;
… For it is every child you come in contact with.

Positive action begins in our own backyards;
Positive action flows through your own neighborhood;
Positive action can encompass your own small town or city;
… And through this, we are all connected.

Be a mentor when others fail to counsel;
Be a counselor when others fail to listen;
Be a listener when others fail to notice;
… Be a positive experience with every child you meet.

For yesterday, someone looked the other way;
Yesterday, someone pretended they did not see;
Yesterday, someone passed by without offering help;
… But today, it is not too late.

Today, you can make a difference in someone’s life;
Today, you can offer your love and guidance;
Today, you can choose to be a positive influence for another;
… And then maybe, just maybe, our world will change with you.

 

By Kit McCallum

 

(Bruno Horst)

FORGIVING

How can we forgive a person we hate?
When they lie and cheat for their own sake.
Never stopping for a moment or two.
To see the sorrow they brought to you.
Just remember our Savior who came.
And He died on the cross oh what a shame.
and the ones that nailed Him to that cross.
the ones that we know that are to blame.
And Jesus Christ He knew everyone.
But Yet Jesus said, "Forgive them Father for they know not what they have done."
But our great and loving Father He knew.
For Jesus was sent to die for me and for you.
And when those nails were driven in.
Only Our Master would know in the end.
For God sent His only begotten son.
To die on that cross for all the LOST ONES.
So now do you think it's so hard to FORGIVE?
Could you sacrifice your ONLY child so others could live?
so with every breath you take, just remember
it is easier to LOVE than it is to HATE!

By Tracy Scroggins, Arkansas

 

(Bruno Horst)

Don't You Quit

When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low, and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won, had he stuck it out.
Don't give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.

Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit,
It's when things seem worse,
that you must not quit.

Author unknown

____________________

(Bruno Horst)

Keep Your Head Up

since we all came from a woman
Got our name from a woman and our game from a woman
I wonder why we take from our women
Why we rape our women, do we hate our women?
I think it's time to kill for our women
Time to heal our women, be real to our women
And if we don't we'll have a race of babies
That will hate the ladies, that make the babies
And since a man can't make one
He has no right to tell a woman when and where to create one
So will the real men get up
I know you're fed up ladies, but keep your head up.

Keep your Head Up - 2pac
submitted by: Ali Al Oraifan

---

See all the ways you can stay connected to friends and family

Madonna Mia

A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world's pain,

With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,

And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears

Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:

Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,

Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,

And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,

Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.

Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,

Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,

Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe,

Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice

Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw

The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

 

By: Oscar Wilde

 

Submited by: Irene Tracey 

Jose

José
by: Carlos Drummond de Andrade (With translation)
Posted by: Gregory Sartori

José

 

E agora, José?
A festa acabou,
a luz apagou,
o povo sumiu,
a noite esfriou,
e agora, José?
e agora, você?
você que é sem nome,
que zomba dos outros,
você que faz versos,
que ama, protesta?
e agora, José?

 

Está sem mulher,
está sem discurso,
está sem carinho,
já não pode beber,
já não pode fumar,
cuspir já não pode,
a noite esfriou,
o dia não veio,
o bonde não veio,
o riso não veio,
não veio a utopia
e tudo acabou
e tudo fugiu
e tudo mofou,
e agora, José?

 

E agora, José?
Sua doce palavra,
seu instante de febre,
sua gula e jejum,
sua biblioteca,
sua lavra de ouro,
seu terno de vidro,
sua incoerência,
seu ódio – e agora?

 

Com a chave na mão
quer abrir a porta,
não existe porta;
quer morrer no mar,
mas o mar secou;
quer ir para Minas,
Minas não há mais.
José, e agora?

 

Se você gritasse,
se você gemesse,
se você tocasse
a valsa vienense,
se você dormisse,
se você cansasse,
se você morresse...
Mas você não morre,
você é duro, José!

 

Sozinho no escuro
qual bicho-do-mato,
sem teogonia,
sem parede nua
para se encostar,
sem cavalo preto
que fuja a galope,
você marcha, José!
José, para onde?

 

 

---------------
José

 

What now, José?
The party’s over,
the lights are off,
the crowd’s gone,
the night’s gone cold,
what now, José?
what now, you?
you without a name,
who mocks the others,
you who write poetry
who love, protest?
what now, José?

You have no wife,
you have no speech
you have no affection,
you can’t drink,
you can’t smoke,
you can’t even spit,
the night’s gone cold,
the day didn’t come,
the tram didn’t come,
laughter didn’t come
utopia didn’t come
and everything ended
and everything fled
and everything rotted
what now, José?

what now, José?
Your sweet words,
your instance of fever,
your feasting and fasting,
your library,
your gold mine,
your glass suit,
your incoherence,
your hate—what now?

Key in hand
you want to open the door,
but no door exists;
you want to die in the sea,
but the sea has dried;
you want to go to Minas
but Minas is no longer there.
José, what now?

If you screamed,
if you moaned,
if you played
a Viennese waltz,
if you slept,
if you tired,
if you died…
But you don’t die,
you’re stubborn, José!

Alone in the dark
like a wild animal,
without tradition,
without a naked wall
to lean against,
without a black horse
that flees galloping,
you march, José!
José, where to?

An Old Irish Blessing

An Old Irish Blessing

 

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind always be at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

and rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

 

By : Anonymous

 

Submitted by:Tyler Perry

 

 

Love

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13   Bruna Ferreira

Eulalie by Edgar Allan Poe

Eulalie

I dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less—less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl—
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl.
Now Doubt—now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

To : professor Whalen
From: Pharah Dubuisson lefevre
Class 206 British Literature

A Divine Rapture by Francis Quarles

Divine Rapture
E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,
That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,
Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
Where in a greater current they conjoin:
So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine.
E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,
E'en so we joined; we both became entire;
No need for either to renew a suit,
For I was flax, and He was flames of fire:
Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine.
If all those glittering Monarchs, that command
The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
Should tender in exchange their shares of land,
I would not change my fortunes for them all:
Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
The world 's but theirs; but my Beloved's mine.

To :Professor Whalen
From: Pharah Dubuisson Lefevre
Class: 206 British literature

My lady's presence makes the roses red by Henry Constable's

My lady's presence makes the roses red,
Because to see her lips they blush for shame.
The lily's leaves, for envy, pale became,
And her white hands in them this envy bred.
The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread,
Because the sun's and her power is the same.
The violet of purple color came.
Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.
In brief: all flowers from her their virtue take;
From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed;
The living heat which her eyebeams doth make
Warmth the ground and quickened the seed.
The rain, wherewith she watered the flowers,
Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers.

To: professor
From: pharah Dubuisson Lefevre
Class 206 British literature

The Gladness of Nature

The Gladness of Nature 

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?  There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by.  The clouds are at play in the azure space And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.  There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.  And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles; Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

written by William Cullen Bryant 

submitted by Jonathan Corkum

National Poetry Month

Submitted by Jason Ribeiro

 

I know why the caged bird sings by Maya Angelou

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

 

 

 

The Best Thing in the World

Written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

What’s the best thing in the World?

June-rose, by may-dew impearled;

Sweet south-wind, that mean’s no rain;

Truth, not cruel to a friend;

Pleasure, not in haste to end;

Beauty, not self-decked and curled

Till its pride is over-plain;

Light, that never makes you wink;

Memory, that gives no pain;

Love, when, so, you’re loved again.

What’s the best thing in the world?

--Something out of it, I think.

 

Submitted by Jeanne McDonald, Eng 102-013

 

 

 

Slow Dance

This is a poem written by a teenager with cancer. She wants to see how many people get her poem. It is quite the poem. Please pass it on. This poem was written by a terminally ill young girl in a New York Hospital.

SLOW DANCE

Have you ever
watched kids
On a merry-go-round?

Or listened to
the rain

Slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a
butterfly's erratic flight?

Or gazed at the sun into the fading
night?

You better slow down.

Don't dance so
fast.

Time is short.

The music won't
last.

Do you run through each day

On the
fly?

When you ask How are you?

Do you hear the
reply?

When the day is done

Do you lie in your
bed

With the next hundred chores

Running through
your head?

You'd better slow down

Don't dance so
fast.

Time is short.

The music won't
last..

Ever told your child,

We'll do it
tomorrow?

And in your haste,

Not see
his
sorrow?

Ever lost touch,

Let a good
friendship die

Cause you never had time

To call
and say,'Hi'

You'd better slow down.

Don't dance
so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't
last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere

You
miss half the fun of getting there.

When you worry and hurry
through your day,

It is like an unopened
gift.....

Thrown away.

Life is not a
race.

Do take it slower

Hear the
music

Before the song is over.

release

Inner breathlessness, outer restlessness
By the time I caught up to freedom I was out of breath
Grandma asked me what I'm running for
I guess I'm out for the same thing the sun is sunning for
What mothers birth their youngens for
And some say Jesus coming for
For all I know the earth is spinning slow
Suns at half mast 'cause masses ain't aglow
On bended knee, prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter versus spirit
A metal ladder
A wooden cross
A plastic bottle of water
A mandala encased in glass
A spirit encased in flesh
Sound from shaped hollows
The thickest of mucus released from heightened passion
A man that cries in his sleep
A truth that has gone out of fashion
A mode of expression
A paint splattered wall
A carton of cigarettes
A bouquet of corpses
A dying forest
A nurtured garden
A privatized prison
A candle with a broken wick
A puddle that reflects the sun
A piece of paper with my name on it
I'm surrounded
I surrender
All
All that I am I have been
All I have been has been a long time coming
I am becoming all that I am
The spittle that surrounds the mouth-piece of the flute
Unheard, yet felt
A gathered wetness
A quiet moisture
Sound trapped in a bubble
Released into wind
Wind fellows and land merchants
We are history's detergent
Water soluble, light particles, articles of cleansing breath
Articles amending death
These words are not tools of communication
They are shards of metal
Dropped from eight story windows
They are waterfalls and gas leaks
Aged thoughts rolled in tobacco leaf
The tools of a trade
Barbers barred, barred of barters
Catch phrases and misunderstandings
But they are not what I feel when I am alone
Surrounded by everything and nothing
And there isn't a word or phrase to be caught
A verse to be recited
A man to de-fill my being in those moments
I am blankness, the contained center of an "O"
The pyramidic containment of an "A"
I stand in the middle of all that I have learned
All that I have memorized
All that I've known by heart
Unable to reach any of it
There is no sadness
There is no bliss
It is a forgotten memory
A memorable escape route that only is found by not looking
There, in the spine of the dictionary the words are worthless
They are a mere weight pressing against my thoughtlessness
But then, who else can speak of thoughtlessness with such confidence
Who else has learned to sling these ancient ideas
like dead rats held by their tails
so as not to infect this newly oiled skin
I can think of nothing heavier than an airplane
I can think of no greater conglomerate of steel and metal
I can think of nothing less likely to fly
There are no wings more weighted
I too have felt a heaviness
The stare of man guessing at my being
Yes I am homeless
A homeless man making offerings to the after-future
Sculpting rubber tree forests out of worn tires and shoe soles
A nation unified in exhale
A cloud of smoke
A native pipe ceremony
All the gathered cigarette butts piled in heaps
Snow covered mountains
Lipsticks smeared and shriveled
Offerings to an afterworld
Tattoo guns and plastic wrappers
Broken zippers and dead eyed dolls
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
It matters not what this paper be made of
Give me notebooks made of human flesh
Dried on steel hooks and nooses
Make uses of use, uses of us
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
On bended knee
Prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter vs. spirit, through meditation
I program my heart to beat breakbeats and hum basslines on exhalation

written by Saul Williams

submitted by Samantha Kirby-Dixon