Petals

by Pat Mora

have calloused her hands,

brightly colored crepe paper: turquoise,

yellow, magenta, which she shapes

into large blooms for bargain-hunting tourists

who see her flowers, her puppets, her baskets,

but not her – small gray-haired woman

wearing a white apron, who hides behind

blossoms in her stall at the market,

who sits and remembers collecting wildflowers

as a girl, climbing rocky Mexican hills

to fill a straw hat with soft blooms

which she’d stroke gently, over and over again

with her smooth fingertips.

A guided response to write a poem about the person who you honor on Mother’s Day. This could be your mom, stepmom, aunt, grandmother or nana.  You may write more than one poem and put it together in a very special way as a gift.

Use the five senses when you complete this sequence. Use vivid words that tell color, shape and texture.

1. write words that describe your mother’s hands
2. write words that tell what she does when she works
3. write words that describe her at work
4. write words that describe her face, eyes, nose, mouth, hair
5. write words that describe her in her favorite clothes
6. write words that describe a memory she may have from when she was a young girl
7. write words that describe her being funny
8. write words that describe her doing something that she loves
9. write words that describe her doing something with you

Now we will take this list and arrange the words into a poem.

How to write a limerick? Go to

http://www.poetryamerica.com/Limerick.asp

How to write a cinquain?  Go to

http://childrensbooks.suite101.com/article.cfm/how_to_write_a_cinquain

How to write a haiku? Go to

http://www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Haiku-Poem

Thanks For Remembering Us

Dana Gioia

The flowers sent here by mistake,
signed with a name that no one knew,
are turning bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor says they’re not for her,
and no one has a birthday near.
We should thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us having an affair?
At first we laugh, and then we wonder.

The iris was the first to die,
enshrouded in its sickly-sweet
and lingering perfume. The roses
fell one petal at a time,
and now the ferns are turning dry.
The room smells like a funeral,
but there they sit, too much at home,
accusing us of some small crime,
like love forgotten, and we can’t
throw out a gift we’ve never owned.

Love Poem With Toast

Miller Williams

Some of what we do, we do
to make things happen,
the alarm to wake us up, the coffee to perc,
the car to start.

The rest of what we do, we do
trying to keep something from doing something,
the skin from aging, the hoe from rusting,
the truth from getting out.

With yes and no like the poles of a battery
powering our passage through the days,
we move, as we call it, forward,
wanting to be wanted,
wanting not to lose the rain forest,
wanting the water to boil,
wanting not to have cancer,
wanting to be home by dark,
wanting not to run out of gas,

as each of us wants the other
watching at the end,
as both want not to leave the other alone,
as wanting to love beyond this meat and bone,
we gaze across breakfast and pretend.

Otherwise

Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

Let us not let February slip away into the oblivion of a blizzard without paying homage to the king of the love poetry, William Shakespeare!  He wrote sonnets that contained the themes of love, time, beauty. Hmm- wonder if they are relevant today?

Take a look at this

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakespeare%27s_sonnets>

A sonnet is a 14 line poem with this pattern: abab, cdcd, efef, gg

Copy the sonnet in the Love Poetry section of this blog – “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?”  Place the abab… patterns on the lines.  Translate it into modern English and reflect upon its meaning in your journal.

Does Shakespeare use these tools: metaphor, simile, alliteration, personification, assonance?

Love is Like the Wild Rose-Briar

By Emily Bronte   

Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.

When You Are Old

by William Butler Yeats 

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

If Thou Must Love Me

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love’s sake only. Do not say

“I love her for her smile her look her way

Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of ease on such a day”

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheek dry,

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

But love me for love’s sake, that evermore

Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity.

Life in a Love

by Robert Browning 

Escape me?

Never

Beloved!

While I am I, and you are you,

So long as the world contains us both,

Me the loving and you the loth,

While the one eludes, must the other pursue.

My life is a fault at last, I fear:

It seems too much like a fate, indeed!

Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.

But what if I fail of my purpose here?

It is but to keep the nerves at strain,

To dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall,

And baffled, get up to begin again,

So the chase takes up one’s life, that’s all.

While, look but once from your farthest bound,

At me so deep in the dust and dark,

No sooner the old hope drops to ground

Than a new one, straight to the selfsame mark,

I shape me

Ever

Removed!

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day

Sonnet 18

William Shakespeare 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Condolence

They hurried here, as soon as you had died,
Their faces damp with haste and sympathy,
And pressed my hand in theirs, and smoothed my knee,
And clicked their tongues, and watched me, mournful-eyed.
Gently they told me of that Other Side-
How, even then, you waited there for me,
And what ecstatic meeting ours would be.
Moved by the lovely tale, they broke, and cried.

And when I smiled, they told me I was brave,
And they rejoiced that I was comforted,
And left to tell of all the help they gave.
But I had smiled to think how you, the dead,
So curiously preoccupied and grave,
Would laugh, could you have heard the things
they said.

The Choice

He’d have given me rolling lands,
Houses of marble, and billowing farms,
Pearls, to trickle between my hands,
Smoldering rubies, to circle my arms.
You- you’d only a lilting song,
Only a melody, happy and high,
You were sudden and swift and strong-
Never a thought for another had I.

He’d have given me laces rare,
Dresses that glimmered with frosty sheen,
Shining ribbons to wrap my hair,
Horses to draw me, as fine as a queen.
You- you’d only to whistle low,
Gayly I followed wherever you led.
I took you, and I let him go-
Somebody ought to examine my head!

My New Year’s Resolutions

by Robert Fisher

I will not throw the cat out the window
Or put a frog in my sister’s bed
I will not tie my brother’s shoelaces together
Nor jump from the roof of Dad’s shed
I shall remember my aunt’s next birthday
And tidy my room once a week
I’ll not moan at Mum’s cooking (Ugh! fish fingers again!)
Nor give her any more of my cheek.
I will not pick my nose if I can help it
I shall fold up my clothes, comb my hair,
I will say please and thank you (even when I don’t mean it)
And never spit or shout or even swear.
I shall write each day in my diary
Try my hardest to be helpful at school
I shall help old ladies cross roads (even if they don’t want to)
And when others are rude I’ll stay cool.
I’ll go to bed with the owls and be up with the larks
And close every door behind me
I shall squeeze from the bottom of every toothpaste tube
And stay where trouble can’t find me.
I shall start again, turn over a new leaf,
leave my bad old ways forever
shall I start them this year, or next year
shall I sometime, or …..?

(this poem also in your text on 391)

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

I Hear America Singing

By Walt Whitman

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 in his boat, the deckhand

singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or

at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of

the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,

robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.