OrangesThe first time I walkedWith a girl, I was twelve,Cold, and weighted downWith two oranges in my jacket.December. Frost crackingBeneath my steps, my breathBefore me, then gone,As I walked towardHer house, the one whosePorch light burned yellowNight and day, in any weather.A dog barked at me, untilShe came out pullingAt her gloves, face brightWith rouge. I smiled,Touched her shoulder, and ledHer down the street, acrossA used car lot and a lineOf newly planted trees,Until we were breathingBefore a drugstore. WeEntered, the tiny bellBringing a salesladyDown a narrow aisle of goods.I turned to the candiesTiered like bleachers,And asked what she wanted -Light in her eyes, a smileStarting at the cornersOf her mouth. I fingeredA nickel in my pocket,And when she lifted a chocolateThat cost a dime,I didn't say anything.I took the nickel fromMy pocket, then an orange,And set them quietly onThe counter. When I looked up,The lady's eyes met mine,And held them, knowingVery well what it was allAbout.Outside,A few cars hissing past,Fog hanging like oldCoats between the trees.I took my girl's handIn mine for two blocks,Then released it to letHer unwrap the chocolate.I peeled my orangeThat was so bright againstThe gray of DecemberThat, from a distance,Someone might have thoughtI was making a fire in my hands.-- Gary Soto
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
winter poem #2
Sunday, November 22, 2009
what's he talking about?
Lines for the Fortune CookiesI think you're wonderful and so does everyone else.Just as Jackie Kennedy has a baby boy, so will you -- even bigger.You will meet a tall beautiful blonde stranger, and you will not say hello.You will take a long trip and you will be very happy, though alone.You will marry the first person who tells you your eyes are like scrambled eggs.In the beginning there was YOU -- there will always be YOU, I guess.You will write a great play and it will run for three performances.Please phone The Village Voice immediately: they want to interview you.Roger L. Stevens and Kermit Bloomgarden have their eyes on you.Relax a little; one of your most celebrated nervous tics will be your undoing.Your first volume of poetry will be published as soon as you finish it.You may be a hit uptown, but downtown you're legendary!Your walk as a musical quality which will bring you fame and fortune.You will eat cake.Who do you think you are, anyway? Jo Van Fleet?You think your life is like Pirandello, but it's really like O'Neill.A few dance lessons with James Waring and who knows? Maybe something will happen.That's not a run in your stocking, it's a hand on your leg.I realize you've lived in France, but that doesn't mean you know EVERYTHING!You should wear white more often -- it becomes you.The next person to speak to you will have a very intriguing proposal to make.A lot of people in this room wish they were you.At times, your disinterestedness may seem insincere, to strangers.Now that the election's over, what are you going to do with yourself?You are a prisoner in a croissant factory and you love it.You eat meat. Why do you eat meat?Beyond the horizon there is a vale of gloom.You too could be Premier of France, if only ... if only ...
Why I Am Not A PainterI am not a painter, I am a poet.Why? I think I would rather bea painter, but I am not. Well,for instance, Mike Goldbergis starting a painting. I drop in."Sit down and have a drink" hesays. I drink; we drink. I lookup. "You have SARDINES in it.""Yes, it needed something there.""Oh." I go and the days go byand I drop in again. The paintingis going on, and I go, and the daysgo by. I drop in. The painting isfinished. "Where's SARDINES?"All that's left is justletters, "It was too much," Mike says.But me? One day I am thinking ofa color: orange. I write a lineabout orange. Pretty soon it is awhole page of words, not lines.Then another page. There should beso much more, not of orange, ofwords, of how terrible orange isand life. Days go by. It is even inprose, I am a real poet. My poemis finished and I haven't mentionedorange yet. It's twelve poems, I callit ORANGES. And one day in a galleryI see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
Friday, November 6, 2009
the apartment is really cold haha
Those Winter SundaysSundays too my father got up earlyAnd put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,then with cracked hands that achedfrom labor in the weekday weather madebanked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.When the rooms were warm, he'd call,and slowly I would rise and dress,fearing the chronic angers of that house,Speaking indifferently to him,who had driven out the coldand polished my good shoes as well.What did I know, what did I knowof love's austere and lonely offices?-- Robert Hayden
Monday, October 12, 2009
Langston Hughes double feature
Theme for English BThe instructor said:Go home and writea page tonight.And let that page come out of you --Then, it will be true.I wonder if it's that simple?I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.I went to school there, then Durham, then hereto this college on the hill above Harlem.I am the only colored student in my class.The steps from the hill lead down into Harlemthrough a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevatorup to my room, sit down, and write this page:It's not easy to know what is true for you or meat twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm whatI feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:hear you, hear me -- we too -- you, me, talk on this page.(I hear New York too.) Me -- who?Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.I like a pipe for a Christmas present,or records -- Bessie, bop, or Bach.I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT likethe same things other folks like who are other races.So will my page be colored that I write?Being me, it will not be white.But it will bea part of you, instructor.You are white --yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.That's American.Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.Nor do I often want to be a part of you.But we are, that's true!As I learn from you,I guess you learn from me --although you're older -- and white --and somewhat more free.This is my page for English B.
HarlemWhat happens to a dream deferred?Does it dry uplike 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 sagslike a heavy load.Or does it explode?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
in the beginning
E. E. Cummings is one of my favorite poets so he'll be showing up here quite a bit. I'm starting with this one, though, because I think of it as the first poem that made me love poetry. I discovered it in 5th grade during our poetry project - I don't remember if I found it myself or if the teacher showed it to us, but it really stuck with me. In fact, my only other memory of the entire project was staying up super late typing my anthology the night before it was due. This one is far from my favorite Cummings poem, but I think the reason it made such an impact was that before, my only real exposure to poetry had been Shel Silverstein, and this honestly might be the first time I realized poems don't have to rhyme!
in Just-
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
Reading over it, I really don't think much of this poem at all. I just remember being intrigued by the fact that the balloonman is "goat-footed" and the repetition in different formats of "far and wee." The one thing I do just love about this one is Cummings' delightful word choice. Some of my absolute favorite adjectives (what, you don't have a favorite adjective?) are "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful."
Monday, September 28, 2009
a lonely poem
Not Waving But DrowningNobody heard him, the dead man,But still he lay moaning:I was much further out than you thoughtAnd not waving but drowning.Poor chap, he always loved larkingAnd now he's deadIt must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,They said.Oh, no no no, it was too cold always(Still the dead one lay moaning)I was much too far out all my lifeAnd not waving but drowning.-- Stevie Smith
Sunday, September 27, 2009
all about perspective
Ultimate ProblemsIn the Aztec design God crowdsinto the little pea that is rollingout of the picture.All the rest extends bleakerbecause God has gone away.In the White Man design, though,no pea is there.God is everywhere,but hard to see.The Aztecs frown at this.How do you know he is everywhere?And how did he get out of the pea?-- William Stafford
welcome to Love That Poem
October 10What do you mean--Why does so much dependupona blue car?You didn't say beforethat I had to tell why.The wheelbarrow guydidn't tell why.
I think Mr. Robert Frosthas a littletoomuchtimeon hishands.