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Remember the sky that you were born under,

know each of the star’s stories.

Remember the moon, know who she is.

Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the

strongest point of time. Remember sundown

and the giving away to night.

Remember your birth, how your mother struggled

to give you form and breath. You are evidence of

her life, and her mother’s, and hers.

Remember your father. He is your life, also.

Remember the earth whose skin you are:

red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth

brown earth, we are earth.

Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their

tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,

listen to them. They are alive poems.

Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the

origin of this universe.

Remember you are all people and all people

are you.

Remember you are this universe and this

universe is you.

Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.

Remember language comes from this.

Remember the dance language is, that life is.

Remember.

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The instructor said,

Go home and write
a 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 here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me—we two—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 like
the 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 be
a 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.

From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Knopf and Vintage Books. Copyright © 1994 by the Estate of Langston Hughes. All rights reserved.

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The river is famous to the fish.
The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.
The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.
The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.
The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.
The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.
I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.
I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.

From Words Under the Words: Selected Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye. Copyright © 1995.

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Remember the sky that you were born under,

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A poet, novelist, fiction writer, and playwright, Langston Hughes is known for his insightful, colorful portrayals of black life in America from the twenties through the sixties and was important in shaping the artistic contributions of the Harlem Renaissance.

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Theme for English B - The instructor said,

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Famous - The river is famous to the fish

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You whom I could not save,

Listen to me.

Can we agree Kevlar

backpacks shouldn’t be needed

for children walking to school?

Those same children

also shouldn’t require a suit

of armor when standing

on their front lawns, or snipers

to watch their backs

as they eat at McDonalds.

They shouldn’t have to stop

to consider the speed

of a bullet or how it might

reshape their bodies. But

one winter, back in Detroit,

I had one student

who opened a door and died.

It was the front

door to his house, but

it could have been any door,

and the bullet could have written

any name. The shooter

was thirteen years old

and was aiming

at someone else. But

a bullet doesn’t care

about “aim,” it doesn’t

distinguish between

the innocent and the innocent,

and how was the bullet

supposed to know this

child would open the door

at the exact wrong moment

because his friend

was outside and screaming

for help. Did I say

I had “one” student who

opened a door and died?

That’s wrong.

There were many.

The classroom of grief

had far more seats

than the classroom for math

though every student

in the classroom for math

could count the names

of the dead.

A kid opens a door. The bullet

couldn’t possibly know,

nor could the gun, because

“guns don’t kill people,” they don’t

have minds to decide

such things, they don’t choose

or have a conscience,

and when a man doesn’t

have a conscience, we call him

a psychopath. This is how

we know what type of assault rifle

a man can be,

and how we discover

the hell that thrums inside

each of them. Today,

there’s another

shooting with dead

kids everywhere. It was a school,

a movie theater, a parking lot.

The world

is full of doors.

And you, whom I cannot save,

you may open a door

and enter a meadow, or a eulogy.

And if the latter, you will be

mourned, then buried

in rhetoric.

There will be

monuments of legislation,

little flowers made

from red tape.

What should we do? we’ll ask

again. The earth will close

like a door above you.

What should we do?

And that click you hear?

That’s just our voices,

the deadbolt of discourse

sliding into place.

Copyright © 2016 by Matthew Olzmann. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 5, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets.

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Anna Grinberg // "Letter Beginning with Two Lines" & "Who Sits and Waits

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No longer satisfied by the way time slips
through his life's work, the maker
of hourglasses yearns for a change.

He elects to construct a staircase instead.
Rather than grains of sand,
he'll manufacture one stair after another
to lament every transient second.

Look at it now! It rockets upward, almost vertical,
beginning in his backyard, puncturing
the cloud cover, and everyone speculates
where it will end. It will end
where all ambitions end: in the ether,
where the body ceases, and a story continues.

But for now, it's a monument.
For now: a defiance, misoneism.
A bridge between
Earth and what Earth cannot touch.

What does he think as he builds?
Mostly he contemplates the work:
the sawdust, the anger, the hammer.
But sometimes he dreams of cars, highways,
of crashes and sequestered wreckage.
Old pain. He had a friend, out there.
There was a highway, a vehicle overturned.

If his friend was here today,
she'd understand this monument.
She liked the sky, country music and caterpillars.

There are four thousand muscles in a caterpillar.
It uses every one of them
to become something other than itself.
Is the body a cocoon? the man wonders.

From the top of the staircase, the life
he left below is almost unrecognizable.
Look at the beagle, yelping in the neighbor's yard.
The rooftops of the shrinking houses. Everything
getting smaller as his view of the world

expands. The roads marked by petite yellow lines.
Graceland and Grant's Tomb and whatever's left
of the Parthenon. All of it is down there.
Things end. But what he can't comprehend
is how, around those endings, everything else
continues.

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letter beginning with two lines by czesław miłosz

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Letter Beginning with Two Lines by Czesław Miłosz

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No longer satisfied by the way time slipsthrough his life's work, the makerof hourglasses yearns for a change. He elects to construct a staircase instead.Rather than grains of sand,he'll manufacture one stair after anotherto lament every transient second. Look at it now!

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Impossible is a word people use to

describe something they can’t do

sometimes they might want to be sadistic

sprinkle it with a dash of realistic and

say it’s near enough impossible nyam

possible they’d like you to think you’re

lying in hospital for the fog and

obstacles and trying not to fool but

they’re impossible as am I impossible

there are no winners until someone’s

wanting she won’t know what I’m capable

of until I’ve done it I could ever stand

here patient and listen wanting to make

an incision having to wait for

permission or I could make a decision

and I could take a position impossible

is the manifestation of your inhibitions

so fear of trying in his fear of flying

your mind’s racing in your heart is an

ounce of help they’re turning against

you and you’re starting to doubt

yourself the nights were cold in the

mornings are rough now you’re worrying

about people calling your bluff

second-guessing your ability and order

your stuff but no you alone is more than

enough this is the truth I saw before I

went to sleep I knew my time would come

eventually so I celebrate every test

that was sent to me because what’s about

to be was meant to be it’s remarkable to

try but I can’t afford to die no when my

ambition didn’t kill me forget the voice

of reason listen to the room no guts no

glory

you

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Inspirational poem from George the Poet | Impossible by George the Poet | Short Film | Random Acts

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You cannot pronounce my name.

“Soor-ya.” Not “soar.”

Surya—the sun god.

Mom always tells me that a smile heals everything.

So I try.

I sit beside you in the cafeteria

and smile.

You look down at your food

and eat your cheeseburger,

I eat the lemon rice in my box.

My mom cut and squeezed two lemons

and cracked open a coconut to make my lunch.

I savor every spoon of my vegan rice

while you savor your meat patty.

You enjoy your burger. I enjoy my lemon rice.

We don’t say anything to each other

until almost the end of the lunch break.

I apologize for splattering ink

on your shirt when you got my name wrong this morning.

You smile back at me. “Surya,” you say.

You don’t know how that makes me feel.

Mom is right.

A smile always heals.

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A smile always heals by Suma Subramaniam | Poetry Magazine

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I am not a stranger to the dark
Hide away, they say
'Cause we don't want your broken parts
I've learned to be ashamed of all my scars
Run away, they say
No one'll love you as you are

But I won't let them break me down to dust
I know that there's a place for us
For we are glorious

When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown 'em out
I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I'm meant to be, this is me
Look out 'cause here I come
And I'm marching on to the beat I drum
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me

Another round of bullets hits my skin
Well, fire away 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in
We are bursting through the barricades and
Reaching for the sun (we are warriors)
Yeah, that's what we've become

I won't let them break me down to dust
I know that there's a place for us
For we are glorious

When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown 'em out
I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I'm meant to be, this is me
Look out 'cause here I come
And I'm marching on to the beat I drum
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me

This me

And I know that I deserve your love
There's nothing I'm not worthy of

When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown 'em out
This is brave, this is bruised
This is who I'm meant to be, this is me

Look out 'cause here I come (look out 'cause here I come)
And I'm marching on to the beat I drum
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me

When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown 'em out
I'm gonna send a flood
Gonna drown 'em out
Oh
This is me

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This Is Me - The Greatest Showman {LYRICS}

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When Giving Is All We Have

One river gives
Its journey to the next.

We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.

Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:

Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.

You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me

What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made

Something greater from the difference.

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Alberto Ríos reads his poem "When Giving Is All We Have" as part of Dear Poet, the Academy of American Poets' educational project for National Poetry Month 2016. Learn more at www.poets.org/dear-poet.

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Born in 1952, Alberto Ríos is the inaugural state poet laureate of Arizona and the author of many poetry collections, including served as a A Small Story about the Sky (Copper Canyon Press, 2015). In 1981, he received the Walt Whitman Award for his collection Whispering to Fool the Wind (Sheep Meadow Press, 1982). He Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets from 2014 to 2020.

About Alberto Ríos

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When Giving Is All We Have - We give because someone gave to us.