Could make a small boy dizzy;   

But I hung on like death:   

Such waltzing was not easy. 

We romped until the pans   

Slid from the kitchen shelf;   

My mother’s countenance   

Could not unfrown itself. 

The hand that held my wrist   

Was battered on one knuckle;   

At every step you missed 

My right ear scraped a buckle. 

You beat time on my head   

With a palm caked hard by dirt,   

Then waltzed me off to bed   

Still clinging to your shirt.

- Reading this time and again, brings so much real emotion to the table. He is talking of true experiences with family (father) and what it was like to grow. Branching from what Lowell said above, I think that without expression through poetry, you have no way to show real feelings. And from that, then they will just disappear.

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.

- This is truly one of the best points to Lowell's statement above. The writer is expressing through writing a paper for their english class. Comparing themselves to the teacher, and expressing the difference in culture between the two. The writer didn't feel confident saying this aloud, so writing gave them the chance to say it all. Poems allow you to express your true feelings, which is exactly what this person has done.

Shovel them under and let me work— 

                                          I am the grass; I cover all. 

And pile them high at Gettysburg 

And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. 

Shovel them under and let me work. 

Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: 

                                          What place is this? 

                                          Where are we now? 

                                          I am the grass. 

                                          Let me work.

- Within this short poem "grass" its comparing himself to the grass of the earth. Showing his true feelings about the world and the things that are happening around him. I think that this is so powerful, he is short and sweet with his words, but at the same time explaining something so deep to us. He doesn't just write about the recent war; he tackles a very long history of wars in his poem, and connects them all together with the idea of the grass growing over battlefields. 

And then I can tell myself
What the hell I'm supposed to do
And then I can tell myself
Not to ride along with you

I had all and then most of you
Some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Haunted by the ghost of you
Oh, take me back to the night we met

When the night was full of terrors
And your eyes were filled with tears
When you had not touched me yet
Oh, take me back to the night we met

I had all and then most of you
Some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Haunted by the ghost of you
Take me back to the night we met

- The lyrics of this song really speak to me in way, that can only be expressed through love. I feel that through the words Lowell stated that I have above, she means that you have to live to have life experience. You only know by living. This song is heart, love and soul. It speaks of pain and the loss of a lover. The sadness is what really makes it real and make you feel the true meaning of the song. Which to me is loss and love.

 

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

- This poem is all about expressing himself, showing what he thinks. Whats really going on this poem? There is no true answer. the statement about talks about how to express yourself, at least to me. It about the being creative and showing what you really can think of.