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Suspending Disbelief While Brown , Part II, by Hossanah Asuncion

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Suspending Disbelief While Brown , Part II, by Hossanah Asuncion

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_1eglGp4vwd7e36A2CJ2zx6w_VsX0BkNF3u88pa7ZJw/edit?usp=sharing

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We use ketchup because they laughed. And then they used our salt. And then our salt flecked gold. And then our gold was put in their museum.

Their books get newer. Our books miss pages.

Their mothers pay our mothers who come home too tired to mother.

You write, it reifies. It clots.
Our misery, it prints.
We commiserate: we pain and seizure.
They laugh. They spectate. They garland. They trophy.

What the sadness is like:

Tender word after tender word succumbs before it saves you.

You are a sculptor and you cannot move your arms. The marble stares the way desire waits.

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Suspending Disbelief While Brown, Part II

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We use ketchup because they laughed. And then they used our salt. And then our salt flecked gold. And then our gold was put in their museum. Their books get newer. Our books miss pages. Their mothers pay our mothers who come home too tired to mother. You write, it reifies.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1AeihJMYET7J1Kjd1guLRgOsyle_Dwq3ogQIHWF7sE1w/edit?usp=sharing

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© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

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Comments & analysis: From morning till night it was Lucy’s delight / To chatter and talk without stopping:

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1L-DNP3W9tHW_4Sny3VQNBEYr0ZYpoBX1qNf5Trt2MG0/edit?usp=sharing

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A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,
Grew in a little garden all alone;
A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,
Nor fairer garden yet was never known:
The maidens danced about it morn and noon,
And learned bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon
Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade.
But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.
God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,
The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

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A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,Grew in a little garden all alone;A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,Nor fairer garden yet was never known:The maidens danced about it morn and noon,And learned bards of it their ditties made;The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moonWater'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade.But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew;The maids and fairies both were kept away,And in a drought the caterpillars threwThemselves upon the bud and every spray.God shield the stock!

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her keen sight
and its laser
serrations
surgical rotations
undressing
bone-white
in clockwise
countdown
around a
prenatal core
its cyanide
unborn
this unsung
artist carving
her curving
relief as if
by a craving
of curvature
itself for
conclusion:
or else
of some
rondure
so sheer
as to molt
its skin
of matter
turn after
turn on
the unseen
potter's lathe
of unmaking:
thumb-spun
by a suddenly
unknowable Eve
who might soon
no longer
deign to
receive
the name
Mother

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her keen sight and its laser serrations surgical rotations undressing bone-white in clockwise countdown around a prenatal core its cyanide unborn this unsung artist carving her curving relief as if by a craving of curvature itself for conclusion: or else of some rondure so sheer as to molt its skin of matter turn after turn on the unseen potter's lathe of unmaking: thumb-spun by a suddenly unknowable Eve who might soon no longer deign to receive the name Mother

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/17J2h7En-LTd5V0r3ZwAqGuliz9i1Z1RzONfRObj8MG8/edit?usp=sharing

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Lovers, forget your love,
     And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
     And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
     Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
     Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane,
     He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
     To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,
     Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
     And little of love could know.

But he sighed upon the sill,
     He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
     Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
     To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
     And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
     And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
     A hundred miles away.

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Lovers, forget your love, And list to the love of these, She a window flower, And he a winter breeze. When the frosty window veil Was melted down at noon, And the cagèd yellow bird Hung over her in tune, He marked her through the pane, He could not help but mark, And only passed her by, To come again at dark.

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Early Evening Quarrel, by Langston Hughes

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Early Evening Quarrel, by Langston Hughes

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Where is that sugar, Hammond,
I sent you this morning to buy?
I say, where is that sugar
I sent you this morning to buy?
Coffee without sugar
Makes a good woman cry.

I ain't got no sugar, Hattie,
I gambled your dime away.
Ain't got no sugar, I
Done gambled that dime away.
If you's a wise woman, Hattie,
You ain't gonna have nothing to say.

I ain't no wise woman, Hammond.
I am evil and mad.
Ain't no sense in a good woman
Bein' treated so bad.

I don't treat you bad, Hattie,
Neither does I treat you good.
But I reckon I could treat you
Worser if I would.

Lawd, these things we women
Have to stand!
I wonder is there nowhere a
Do-right man?

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Where is that sugar, Hammond,
I sent you this morning to buy?
I say, where is that sugar
I sent you this morning to buy?
Coffee without sugar ...

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WJEFL4S34VgHuTmIiPnR5JSJvsfy4Y355O7Zi0Zayco/edit?usp=sharing

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I'll tell you how the sun rose, -
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
"That must have been the sun!"

But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.

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I'll tell you how the sun rose, -A ribbon at a time.The steeples swam in amethyst,The news like squirrels ran.The hills untied their bonnets,The bobolinks begun.Then I said softly to myself,"That must have been the sun!"But how he set, I know not.There seemed a purple stileWhich little yellow boys and girlsWere climbing all the whileTill when they reached the other side,A dominie in grayPut gently up the evening bars,And led the flock away.

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Song of Myself, 1 [I Celebrate Myself], by Walt Whitman

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Song of Myself, 1 [I Celebrate Myself], by Walt Whitman

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And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

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And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

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To Any Reader, by Robert Louis Stevenson

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To Any Reader, by Robert Louis Stevenson

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Robert Louis Stevenson

As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.

Robert Louis Stevenson

from The Collected Poems of Robert Louis Stevenson, edited by Roger C. Lewis (Edinburgh University Press, 2003); originally published in A Child's Garden of Verses

Robert Louis Stevenson

It is sadly ironic that RLS, under whose pen Scotland and the Scottish character burst into life, was exiled to a life and death so far from his native land.

More about Robert Louis Stevenson

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To Any Reader by Robert Louis Stevenson - Scottish Poetry Library

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Robert Louis Stevenson As from the house your mother sees You playing round the garden trees, So you may see, if you will look Through the windows of this book, Another child, far, far away, And in another garden, play. But do not think you can at all, By knocking on the window, call That child to hear you.

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for David Fagen
Corporal, U.S. Army (1898-1899); Captain, Philippine Republican Army (1899-1901)

Our worst enemy is General May:
rainy season, the lieutenant means, monsoon
much like Tampa's summer storms. Roads become marsh;
not just flooding but fever, a fire
that hollows me out. We throw lifelines
to overturned ferries; casualties grow long.

Incessant drizzle. Letters take too long by killing time, not
to reach home. I prefer carousal, cards: dismay
in officers' faces when I cross the line.
The guardhouse my second home. My fines soon
add up: a month's pay. Most of it earned, so far,
ladrones: we march

to summits, spy gugus drilling below; march gone-only grinning farmers left.
back down to find the enemy long

Hellfire spits the lieutenant, scanning ridges, amazed
to have been rolled by shoeless bandits again. Soon
he'll snap, like the officers in Samar who lined

up boys young as ten-sympathizers, aligned
with insurgents. (So said General Smith.) Marshaled
them, blindfolded, to clearings. Too soon
for them to swell the soil; long
rest for short lives. Their will bewilders me-
faced with Gatlings, Krags, methodical shellfire

they ambush hand to hand. Bolos; sniper fire Land surely rich with poetry-
in enfilades. Harass our lines
then beat back to boondocks, a maze
of jungle, cordilleras, rice fields, marsh.

in their tongue-land like home: typhoon tulang

cousin to hurricane. When the monsoon
shifts, so do I-I snap, desert for foreign fires.
Rope can kill black soldiers but not disease, lungs
like ours grittier, the C.O.s say; we're maligned
but nicknamed "Immunes." My old unit marches,
black against brown. Under white. As if to make

the Far East a second South. I captain a line
for the Filipino side: a turncoat, merging
nations. Our flag has no color. Soon it may.

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for David FagenCorporal, U.S. Army (1898-1899); Captain, Philippine Republican Army (1899-1901) Our worst enemy is General May: rainy season, the lieutenant means, monsoon much like Tampa's summer storms. Roads become marsh; not just flooding but fever, a fire that hollows me out. We throw lifelines to overturned ferries; casualties grow long.

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Hymn to the Moon, by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

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Hymn to the Moon, by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

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A Hymn To The Moon Poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

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Written in July, in an arbour Thou silver deity of secret night, Direct my footsteps through the woodland shade; Thou conscious witness of unknown delight, The Lover’s guardian, and the Muse’s ai

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Song of the Moon, by Priscilla Jane Thompson

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Song of the Moon, by Priscilla Jane Thompson

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Oh, a hidden power is in my breast, A power that none can fathom; I call the tides from seas of rest, They rise, they fall, at my behest; And many a tardy fisher's boat, I've torn apart and set afloat, From out their raging chasm.

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On Being Brought from Africa to America, by Phillis Wheatley

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On Being Brought from Africa to America, by Phillis Wheatley

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Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic die."

May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train. Christians, Negros, black as Cain,

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Pagan land, Taught my benighted soul to understand Saviour too: Once I redemption neither sought nor knew. Some view our sable race with scornful eye, "Their colour is a diabolic die." May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train. Christians, Negros, black as Cain,

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To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time, by Robert Herrick

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To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time, by Robert Herrick

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oodG6ACT101sOIvyUrGzXVxwxG9G2JC_Jf_Kv5PhBg0/edit?usp=sharing

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To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time - Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

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I prithee spare me gentle boy, by Sir John Suckling

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I prithee spare me gentle boy, by Sir John Suckling

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I prithee spare me gentle boy,
Press me no more for that slight toy,
That foolish trifle of an heart;
I swear it will not do its part,
Though thou dost thine, employ'st thy pow'r and art.

For through long custom it has known
The little secrets, and is grown
Sullen and wise, will have its will,
And like old hawks pursues that still
That makes least sport, flies only where't can kill.

Some youth that has not made his story,
Will think perchance the pain's the glory,
And mannerly sit out love's feast;
I shall be carving of the best,
Rudely call for the last course 'fore the rest.

And oh when once that course is past,
How short a time the feast doth last;
Men rise away and scarce say grace,
Or civilly once thank the face
That did invite, but seek another place.

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I prithee spare me gentle boy - Poem by Sir John Suckling

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I prithee spare me gentle boy,Press me no more for that slight toy,That foolish trifle of an heart;I swear it will not do its part,Though thou dost thine, employ'st thy pow'r and art. For through long custom it has knownThe little secrets, and is grownSullen and wise, will have its will,And like old hawks pursues that stillThat makes least sport, flies only where't can kill.

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THE GOOD SHEPHERD
by: Lope de Vega (1562-1635)

HEPHERD! who with thine amorous, sylvan song
Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,
Who mad'st Thy crook from the accursed tree
On which Thy powerful arms were stretched so long!
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains;
For Thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be;
I will obey Thy voice, and wait to see
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.
Hear, Shepherd Thou who for Thy flock art dying,
Oh, wash away these scarlet sins, for Thou
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.
Oh, wait! to Thee my weary soul is crying,
Wait for me: Yet why ask it, when I see,
With feet nailed to the cross, Thou'rt waiting still for me!

This English translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow of 'The Good Shepherd' is reprinted from Hispanic Anthology: Poems Translated from the Spanish by English and North American Poets. Ed. Thomas Walsh. New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1920.

MORE POEMS BY LOPE DE VEGA

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THE GOOD SHEPHERD by: Lope de Vega (1562-1635) HEPHERD! who with thine amorous, sylvan songHast broken the slumber that encompassed me, Who mad'st Thy crook from the accursed tree On which Thy powerful arms were stretched so long!

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From You Have I Been Absent, by William Shakespeare

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From You Have I Been Absent, by William Shakespeare

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When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him,
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

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from you have i been absent in the spring (sonnet 98)

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From you have I been absent in the spring (Sonnet 98)

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When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him, Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odor and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.

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So we are taking off our masks, are we, and keeping
our mouths shut? as if we'd been pierced by a glance!

The song of an old cow is not more full of judgment
than the vapors which escape one's soul when one is sick;

so I pull the shadows around me like a puff
and crinkle my eyes as if at the most exquisite moment

of a very long opera, and then we are off!
without reproach and without hope that our delicate feet

will touch the earth again, let alone "very soon."
It is the law of my own voice I shall investigate.

I start like ice, my finger to my ear, my ear
to my heart, that proud cur at the garbage can

in the rain. It's wonderful to admire oneself
with complete candor, tallying up the merits of each

of the latrines. 14th Street is drunken and credulous,
53 rd tries to tremble but is too at rest. The good

love a park and the inept a railway station,
and there are the divine ones who drag themselves up

and down the lengthening shadow of an Abyssinian head
in the dust, trailing their long elegant heels of hot air

crying to confuse the brave "It's a summer day,
and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world."

Frank O'Hara

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Homosexuality - by Frank O'Hara .. So we are taking off our masks, are we, and keeping our mouths shut? as if we'd been pierced by a glance! The song of an old cow is not more full of judgment than the vapors which escape

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The Author to Her Book, by Anne Bradstreet

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The Author to Her Book, by Anne Bradstreet

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Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain