ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 15, 2011 17:07:47 GMT -5
Well, just to put across a lady's point of view on that sort of poetry:
This is an anonymous poem I found on the web
Chubby Girl Rant
Maybe you didn't come here to listen to a poem about the chubby girl blues,
but this is a poem about the chubby girl blues.
People think that fat is funny, so naturally, I am both.
Though I prefer to be considered chubby.
But for the sake of drama I'll say fat.
Fat has a much fatter impact.
This doesn’t mean I have low self-esteem.
I consider myself cute and cuddly.
A cliche teddy bear of sorts. Come and snuggle me.
It's cozy underneath this J-ello.
And it doesn't mean that I don’t care about my health.
It means that I love beer, soda, and the occasional midnight PopTart.
Nor does it mean that I’m not fit enough to squash your spiny frame.
Oopsie daisy! I think I just had a slip of the tongue.
Did I say fit enough to squash your spiny frame?
I meant fat enough.
I am definitely fat enough to squash your spiny frame!
But I’m also smart enough to know that
squashing an evil twerp out of its misery would be inhumane.
People should always have a chance to learn
from their negative judgement and underestimations,
and if you experienced
Premature-Death-By-Fat-Ass-Squish
you would probably learn nothing.
Also, violence is never the answer.
That’s the first thing a chubby girl learns in school.
Because she’s expected to lose the fight.
Every. Single. Time.
She’s expected to be the friendly girl who never speaks her mind.
She’s expected to be bad at sports.
She’s always picked last in PE unless she proves herself,
or by the chance of some God-Bless-The-Chubby-People-For-One-Day miracle,
that the retards in her PE class
want to use her as the goalie
because she can block
85% of the net without ever moving.
In reality she is not that large.
But sometimes she feels like “whale” is not far off.
And yes, I did say retards. I’m not trying to be politically correct here.
You can blame my lack of political correction on the heart palpitations
I’m experiencing at this present moment.
HELP!
Does anyone here know CPR?
Emergency! Chubby girl with heart palpitations near death is in the vicinity!
Doctor! Doctor! Does anyone know fuckin’ CPR?
Nobody here is a doctor.
So I fall to the ground and get stuck under the weight of my heavy heaving heart.
After the initial shocked stares and dropped jaws, I stand up and yell, I’m OK!
And I continue reading this poem!
Sue me about my caloric intake, and how I just scared the nothingness
out of your stomach when I fell to the ground pretending to die a horribly fat and tragic death!
Just wait and see what happens when my arteries unclog
and unleash a hellish storm of carbs into your aura
and turn it into a bloated blob of jackass bologna carcass,
topped with bullshit pepperoni and complete with
a blood red plethora of cherries on top.
But always remember, that violence is never the answer.
Especially if the violence involves food.
Because people all over the world could feed off of the grub that just exploded from my chubby tummy!
If it bothers you to hear me talk openly about my technically obese BMI,
go to the privacy of your home, and purge all of your frustrations into the media toilet.
Then eat a hamburger to cheer up.
I really don’t care.
It interrupts my dinner thinking about your skinny regurgitating values,
and we all know, a fat girl can’t enjoy her dinner if there are
skinny little A-holes purging at that same exact moment.
Note: I know that not all skinny people are A-holes and I know that all people do not hate fatties or chubbies. There is just much too much to love.
And don’t worry, you don’t need to avoid offending me
by assuming that I am the speaker of this poem.
Because, really, it is me.
I wore a tighter T-shirt today
just to prove
that I am this chubby girl.
I’m sure you knew that already.
And at any rate,
nothing calls for a snack
more than a poem
of buffet
proportion.
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Post by Soulman on Nov 30, 2011 17:17:40 GMT -5
T'was the night before Christmas, He lived all alone, In a one bedroom house, ... made of plaster and stone. I had come down the chimney, with presents to give, And to see just who, in this home, did live. I looked all about, a strange sight I did see, No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree. No stocking by mantle, just boots filled with sand, On the wall hung some pictures of far distant lands. With medals and badges,awards of all kinds, A sober thought, came through my mind. For this house was different, it was dark and dreary, I found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly. The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone, Curled up on the floor, in this one bedroom home. The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder, Not how I had pictured a British soldier. Was this the hero, of whom I'd just read? Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed? I realized the families, that I saw this night, Owed their lives to these soldiers, Who were willing to fight. Soon round the world, the children would play, And grownups would celebrate, a bright Christmas day. They all enjoyed freedom, each month of the year, Because of the soldiers, like the one lying here. I couldn't help wonder, how many lay alone, In a cold Christmas eve, in a land far from home. The very thought brought, a tear to my eye, I dropped to my knees, and started to cry. The soldier awakened, and I heard a rough voice, "Santa don't cry, this life is my choice; I fight for freedom, i don't ask for more, My life is my god, my country, my corps." The soldier rolled over, and drifted to sleep, I couldn't control it, I continued to weep. I kept watch for hours, so silent and still, And we both shivered, from the cold night's chill. I didn't want to leave, on that cold, dark, night, This guardian of honour, so willing to fight. When the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure, Whispered, "Carry on Santa, it's Christmas Day & all is secure." One look at my watch, and I knew he was right. Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night.
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Post by Soulman on Dec 1, 2011 16:51:24 GMT -5
Another from Torn Hirons.
Daddys Poem by Torn Hirons on Sunday, 8 March 2009 at 14:02
Her hair was up in a pony tail, her favourite dress tied with a bow. Today was Daddy's Day at school, and she couldn't wait to go.
But her mummy tried to tell her, that she probably should stay home. Why the kids might not understand, if she went to school alone.
But she was not afraid; she knew just what to say. What to tell her classmates of why he wasn't there today..
But still her mother worried, for her to face this day alone. And that was why once again, she tried to keep her daughter home.
But the little girl went to school eager to tell them all. About a dad she never sees a dad who never calls.
There were daddies along the back wall, for everyone to meet. Children squirming impatiently, anxious in their seats
One by one the teacher called a student from the class. To introduce their daddy, as seconds slowly passed.
At last the teacher called her name, every child turned to stare. Each of them was searching, a man who wasn't there.
'Where's her daddy at?' She heard a boy call out. 'She probably doesn't have one,' another student dared to shout.
And from somewhere near the back, she heard a daddy say, 'Looks like another deadbeat dad, too busy to waste his day.'
The words did not offend her, as she smiled up at her Mum. And looked back at her teacher, who told her to go on.
And with hands behind her back, slowly she began to speak. And out from the mouth of a child, came words incredibly unique.
'My Daddy couldn't be here, because he lives so far away. But I know he wishes he could be, since this is such a special day.
And though you cannot meet him, I wanted you to know. All about my daddy, and how much he loves me so.
He loved to tell me stories he taught me to ride my bike. He surprised me with pink roses, and taught me to fly a kite.
We used to share fudge sundaes, and ice cream in a cone. And though you cannot see him. I'm not standing here alone.
'Cause my daddy's always with me, even though we are apart I know because he told me, he'll forever be in my heart'
With that, her little hand reached up, and lay across her chest. Feeling her own heartbeat, beneath her favourite dress.
And from somewhere in the crowd of dads, her mother stood in tears. Proudly watching her daughter, who was wise beyond her years.
For she stood up for the love of a man not in her life. Doing what was best for her, doing what was right.
And when she dropped her hand back down, staring straight into the crowd. She finished with a voice so soft, but its message clear and loud.
'I love my daddy very much, he's my shining star. And if he could, he'd be here, but heaven's just too far.
You see he is a soldier And died just this past year When a roadside bomb hit his convoy and taught brave men to fear.
But sometimes when I close my eyes, it's like he never went away.' And then she closed her eyes, and saw him there that day.
And to her mother's amazement, she witnessed with surprise. A room full of daddies and children, all starting to close their eyes.
Who knows what they saw before them, who knows what they felt inside. Perhaps for merely a second, they saw him at her side.
'I know you're with me Daddy,' to the silence she called out. And what happened next made believers, of those once filled with doubt.
Not one in that room could explain it, for each of their eyes had been closed. But there on the desk beside her, was a fragrant long-stemmed pink rose.
And a child was blessed, if only for a moment, by the love of her shining star. And given the gift of believing, that heaven is never too far.
Send this to the people you'll never forget and remember to send it also to the person that sent it to you. It's a short message to let them know that you'll never forget them.
Take the time...to live and love.
Until eternity. God bless!
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Jessiealan
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Post by Jessiealan on Dec 4, 2011 20:45:16 GMT -5
These lovely little poems are very touching, soulman.
Thank you for posting them.
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Post by beth on Feb 27, 2012 21:05:09 GMT -5
That's What I Said by April Bernard
It pricks the arms like poison, knowing that some things, once chosen, are yours and that meanwhile the night comes much too soon this time of year. There are things you will not be allowed to say. You think them anyway, until they become you. The two boys in shirt sleeves are in the street again, skateboards balking where the sidewalk buckles in geologic fault. They seem mirthless, as they yell and fall and the cold mist tries to veil them from passing cars.
Yesterday’s storm slammed the leaves to the ground. Hiss, hiss, the tires go, against the scraps of piano music, not Chopin today, from upstairs. Someone tried to understand you once and he’s dead, though not from trying. Clunk, clunk, goes the landlady’s daughter, trying out her new boots on the back stairs.
Things have narrowed to a point and no gorgeous diction can get you out of it. There’s just the flats of your feet, willing each new step out of empty pockets where change, keys, pens once rattled. You threw them into the bushes on the next block and then came home with the grey linings hanging from your jacket like socks. You forgot to check the mail and when you opened the door you brought the night in with you.
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Post by beth on Feb 28, 2012 23:58:34 GMT -5
Main Street Joyce Kilmer
I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, But it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow, And over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go.
Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing, And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring; I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, Because I think it is humaner than any other street.
A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels: It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, But it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognise its friends.
There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, And twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play. And there wasn't a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy That Main Street didn't remember, and somehow seem to enjoy.
The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train They make the weary city street reverberate with pain: But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart.
God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky, That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown, But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.
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Post by beth on Feb 29, 2012 0:38:45 GMT -5
This Was Pompeii Dar Williams
I am thinking about the woman in a century of peace, On a bright mosaic she is washing on her knees, And she looks up at the black sky beyond the mountain tall, She says, "Oh good, the rain is finally going to fall today." This was Pompeii
And everyone has memories of the night that melted stone, The neighbor's nightgown, the screaming on the phone, And the tired man at the station says, "We can't tell who's alive, All we ever know is that the tourists survive." "Tra la, tra la," they say, they say, "Let's Go Pompeii."
And I think about Pompeii when I feel an end is near, Just before the rain and eveyr time you disappear, And I think about a teacup, suspended and half served, And all the scholars know is that it's perfectly preserved. "Oh, oh," that's all, they say, "This was Pompeii."
And as for my own kingdom, not a table leg was charred, I simply lost my kingdom, 'cause I held it much too hard, Once I had a sadness, the sadness turned to trust, The trust turned into ashes and to lawyers and dust, A century, a day, This was Pompeii.
EAA
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Mar 9, 2012 21:15:03 GMT -5
Never Offer Your Heart to Someone Who Eats Hearts
Never offer your heart to someone who eats hearts who finds heartmeat delicious but not rare who sucks the juices drop by drop and bloody-chinned grins like a God.
Never offer your heart to a heart gravy lover. Your stewed, overseasoned heart consumed he will sop up your grief with bread and send it shuttling from side to side in his mouth like bubblegum.
If you find yourself in love with a person who eats heart these things you must do:
Freeze your heart immediately. Let him--next time he examines your chest-- find your heart cold flinty and unappetizing.
Refrain from kissing lest he in revenge dampen the spark in your soul.
Now, sail away to Africa where holy women await you on the shore-- long having practiced the art of replacing hearts with God and Song.
--Alice Walker
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Mar 9, 2012 21:22:13 GMT -5
Fable of Fables
By Nazim Hikmet
We are by the waterside the plane tree and I. the plane tree and I. Our reflections are thrown on the water the plane tree’s and mine. The sparkle of the water hits us the plane tree and me.
We are by the waterside the plane tree, I and the cat. Our reflections are thrown on the water the plane tree’s, mine and the cat’s. The sparkle of the water hits us the plane tree, me and the cat.
We are by the waterside the plane tree, I, the cat and the sun. Our reflections are thrown on the water the plane tree’s, mine, the cat’s and the sun’s. The sparkle of the water hits us the plane tree, me, the cat and the sun.
We are by the waterside the plane tree, I, the cat, the sun and our life. Our reflections are thrown on the water the plane tree’s, mine, the cat’s, the sun’s and our life’s. The sparkle of the water hits us the plane tree, me, the cat, the sun and our life.
We are by the waterside. First the cat will go its reflection will be lost on the water. Then I will go my reflection will be lost on the water. Then the plane tree will go its reflection will be lost on the water. Then the water will go the sun will remain then it will go too.
We are by the waterside the plane tree, I, the cat, the sun and our life. The water is cool the plane tree is huge I am writing a poem the cat is dozing the sun is warm it’s good to be alive. The sparkle of the water hits us the plane tree, me, the cat, the sun, our life.
Translated by Richard McKane
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Mar 15, 2012 17:35:59 GMT -5
Don't think I've posted this one on here before - if I have it must have been ages ago so please delete it!
It's my translation from the French of a beautiful Francois Villon poem:
Ballade of the Gibbet (From the French of Francois Villon)
[An epitaph in the form of a ballade that Francois Villon wrote of himself and his company, then expecting shortly to be hanged]
Brothers and men that follow after us, Let not your hearts be hard as we lie here, For if you pity our state most dolorous God will grant you his mercy on your bier. Look on the six of us that hang in fear; Look on our bodies, once in youth's full flower, Now only food that birds and worms devour, And dust and ashes mark our resting place. Not at our corpses mock and be venomous, But pray God grant us sinners his true grace.
Listen, we ask your prayers; look not in scorn Upon our bodies, doomed to early death. However wise he is, not a man born Is always wise: so, with a kindly breath, Pray Mary's son, in whom we place our faith, To show us mercy, take our sins away, Although they brought us where we are today, Save us, we beg you, from that fiery place Called hell. We but hang here in sorrowful death: God grant us sinners his true grace.
The rain from heaven above has washed us clean; The sun has bleached us black and bare. Rooks and ravens from our bodies glean The trophies for their nests: our hair, Beards, eyes. Buffetted by the frisky air We dance the tune of the wild wind, Our bodies never rest, we never find Peace upon earth. Birds peck about my face; Live not like us: do not die in despair,. God grant us sinners his true grace!
Envoi:
Prince Jesus, Lord of all, be not unkind, And save us from the fiery gates of hell; Though we deserve to dwell in that dark place Let us not live in fields of asphodel. God, grant us sinners your true grace.
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Post by Soulman on Jul 2, 2012 15:07:48 GMT -5
I'm not sure who wrote this poem, nor do i really care. I just like it.
Cranky Old Man
What do you see nurses? . . What do you see? What are you thinking . . . when looking at me? A cranky old man . . . not very wise, Uncertain of habit . . . with faraway eyes? Who dribbles his food . . . and makes no reply. When you say in a loud voice. . .'I do wish you'd try! Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do. And forever is losing . . . a sock or shoe? Who, resisting or not . . .lets you do as you will, With bathing and feeding . . .the long day to fill? Is that what you're thinking?. . .Is that what you see? Then open your eyes, nurse. . .you're not looking at me. I'll tell you who I am . . . as I sit here so still, As I do at your bidding . . . as I eat at your will. I'm a small child of Ten . . .with a father and mother, Brothers and sisters . . . who love one another A young boy of Sixteen . . . with wings on his feet Dreaming that soon now . . . a lover he'll meet. A groom soon at Twenty . . . my heart gives a leap. Remembering, the vows . . .that I promised to keep. At Twenty-Five, now . . .I have young of my own. Who need me to guide . . . and a secure happy home. A man of Thirty . . . my young now grown fast, Bound to each other . . . with ties that should last. At Forty, my young sons . . .have grown and are gone, But my woman is beside me . . .to see I don't mourn. At Fifty, once more. . . babies play 'round my knee, Again, we know children. . . my loved one and me. Dark days are upon me. . . my wife is now dead. I look at the future. . . I shudder with dread. For my young are all rearing . . . young of their own. And I think of the years . . . and the love that I've known. I'm now an old man . . . and nature is cruel. It's jest to make old age . . . look like a fool. The body, it crumbles . . . grace and vigour, depart. There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart. But inside this old carcass. . . a young man still dwells, And now and again . . . my battered heart swells I remember the joys. . . I remember the pain. And I'm loving and living . . . life over again. I think of the years, all too few . . . gone too fast. And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last. So open your eyes, people. . . open and see. Not a cranky old man, Look closer . . . see . . .ME!!
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Post by Soulman on Oct 14, 2012 12:47:29 GMT -5
Here did Harold, King of England, fall and die under the Dragon Banner, pierced through an eye; Harold we honour you, last of the Saxon Kings, Son of Hengest and Horsa - the Divine Twins; Cerdic and Cynric - Sons of the Engel-Kin, Wielding the Sword of Victory, land to win; England - won by the Sword -worked by the Plough And today - all that was won is thrown away by cowardly fools who live for today, with scant regard for those that won this Sacred Land, and fought to save this Sacred Land, that we may have and cherish it for those to come. Harken, ye who seek to overthrow this Sacred Land - this England! Though the mass today are fast asleep, Beware! There's Wolves Among The Sheep
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Post by men an tol on Oct 15, 2012 22:08:20 GMT -5
In the ever so long ago, being taught poems was a common part of school and there were text books of poems. Through the years I have (re)acquired some of these books and they were generally about 100 poems each, Some poems were in each of these books but they had unique offerings. One such book was “One Hundred and One Famous Poems” [1918]; another was “A book of Treasured Poems” [1928]; and yet another was “A Book of Living Poems” [1934]. Together they represent a time, a place, and an appreciation of the ‘word;’ now long gone. They were meant to be teaching poems of how to view the world and find your place in it. I’ll offer a few here and over time, others:
The Duel by Eugene Field (1850-1895) The gingham dog and the calico cat Side by side on the table sat; ‘T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) Nor one nor t’ other had slept a wink! The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate Appeared to know as sure as fate There was going to be a terrible spat. (I was n’t there; I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate!) The gingham dog went “Bow-wow-wow!” And the calico cat replied “Mee-ow!” The air was littered, an hour or so, With bits of gingham and calico, While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place Up with its hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row! (Now mind: I ‘m only telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true!) The Chinese plate looked very blue, And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do!” But the gingham dog and the calico cat Wallowed this way and tumbled that, Employing every tooth and claw In the awfullest way you ever saw--- And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! (Don’t fancy I exaggerate--- I got my news from the Chinese plate!) Next morning, where the two had sat They found no trace of dog or cat; And some folks think unto this day That burglars stole that pair away! But the truth about the cat and pup Is this: they ate each other up! Now what do you really think of that! (The old Dutch clock it told me so, And that is how I came to know.)
The Builders Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
All are architects of fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.
For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our todays and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these; Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.
In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house where gods may dwell Beautiful, entire, and clean.
Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble, as they seek to climb.
Build today, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure Shall tomorrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain’ And one boundless reach of sky.
Opportunity Edward R. Sill
This I beheld. Or dreamed it in a dream; - There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle’s edge, And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel - That blue blade that the king’s son bears - but this Blunt thing!” - he snapped and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field.
The came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.
I have a Rendezvous with Death Alan Seeger (died at age 27 in 1916)
I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed Barricade When Spring comes round 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 this dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath; I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow flowers appear.
God knows ‘twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear . . . But I’ve a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.
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Post by beth on Oct 16, 2012 16:11:52 GMT -5
These are kind of "classics", but we did not have "Poetry Books" Must have been nice. Our poetry was interspersed with prose selections in Literature books - English Lit for senior year and American Lit for junior year.
Most of my English teachers were avid to assign memorization exercises.
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Post by men an tol on Oct 19, 2012 12:53:50 GMT -5
In my opinion these are truly 'learning' exercises. That is, learning what it means to become a responsible adult, to become your parents and grandparents.
If by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired of waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise.
If you can dream – and not make your dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same: If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings, And never breath a word about your loss: If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And – which is more – you'll be a Man, my son!
Love of Country (from the Lay of the Last Minstrel) by Sir Walter Scott
Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who to himself hath said: “This is my own, my native land?” Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go mark hi well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power and pelf, The wretch concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
Cowards William Shakespeare
Cowards die many times before their deaths: The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.
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