My distinguished padlet by ANGELINA BELL

Poem

bellam4 — 2017-02-17 18:15:17 UTC

She is fire, he is ice.
One glimpse of her ignites his stone cold eyes.
The heat of her body melts the frozen parts of his heart, he walks through flames just to feel her warmth.
Christy Ann Martine

Classical Music that reflects the tone/mood

bellam4 — 2017-02-21 17:43:14 UTC

Abstract art for the tone/mood of the poem

bellam4 — 2017-02-21 17:59:34 UTC

Meme for poem

bellam4 — 2017-02-21 18:06:49 UTC

Monologue

bellam4 — 2017-02-21 18:12:07 UTC

"Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush be paint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay,'
And I will take thy word: yet if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries
Then say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse an say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond."
-Juliet
http://www.shakespeare-monologues.org/plays/35

Favorite/ song lyrics

bellam4 — 2017-02-21 18:17:53 UTC

Hey white liar
The truth comes out a little at a time
And it spreads just like a fire
Slips off of your tongue like turpentine
And I don't know why, white liar

You better be careful what you do
I wouldn't wanna be in your shoes
If they ever found you out
You better be careful what you say
It never really added up anyway
I got friends in this town

Hey white liar
The truth comes out a little at a time
And it spreads just like a fire
Slips off of your tongue like turpentine
And I don't know why, white liar

You said you went out to a bar
And walked some lady to her car
But your face has more to tell
'Cause my cousin saw you on the street
With a red head named Bernice
Turns out you don't lie too well

Hey white liar
The truth comes out a little at a time
And it spreads just like a fire
Slips off of your tongue like turpentine
And I don't know why, white liar

Here's a bombshell just for you
Turns out I've been lying too

Now I'm a white liar
The truth comes out a little at a time
And it spreads just like a fire
Slips off of my tongue like turpentine
And I don't know why
White liar

Snow poem

bellam4 — 2017-02-21 18:20:46 UTC

Walking through a field with my little brother Seth

I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow.
For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels
had been shot and dissolved when they hit the ground.

He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer.

Then we were on the roof of the lake.
The ice looked like a photograph of water.

Why he asked. Why did he shoot them.

I didn't know where I was going with this.

They were on his property, I said.

When it's snowing, the outdoors seem like a room.

Today I traded hellos with my neighbor.
Our voices hung close in the new acoustics.
A room with the walls blasted to shreds and falling.

We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence.

But why were they on his property, he asked.

David Berman

Deer hit

bellam4 — 2017-02-21 18:22:06 UTC

You’re seventeen and tunnel-vision drunk, 
swerving your father’s Fairlane wagon home

at 3:00 a.m. Two-lane road, all curves 
and dips—dark woods, a stream, a patchy acre

of teazle and grass. You don’t see the deer 
till they turn their heads—road full of eyeballs,

small moons glowing. You crank the wheel, 
stamp both feet on the brake, skid and jolt

into the ditch. Glitter and crunch of broken glass 
in your lap, deer hair drifting like dust. Your chin

and shirt are soaked—one eye half-obscured 
by the cocked bridge of your nose. The car

still running, its lights angled up at the trees. 
You get out. The deer lies on its side.

A doe, spinning itself around
in a frantic circle, front legs scrambling,

back legs paralyzed, dead. Making a sound—
again and again this terrible bleat.

You watch for a while. It tires, lies still. 
And here’s what you do: pick the deer up

like a bride. Wrestle it into the back of the car—
the seat folded down. Somehow, you steer

the wagon out of the ditch and head home, 
night rushing in through the broken window,

headlight dangling, side-mirror gone. 
Your nose throbs, something stabs

in your side. The deer breathing behind you, 
shallow and fast. A stoplight, you’re almost home

and the deer scrambles to life, its long head 
appears like a ghost in the rearview mirror

and bites you, its teeth clamp down on your shoulder 
and maybe you scream, you struggle and flail

till the deer, exhausted, lets go and lies down.

2
Your father’s waiting up, watching tv.
He’s had a few drinks and he’s angry.

Christ, he says, when you let yourself in. 
It’s Night of the Living Dead. You tell him

some of what happened: the dark road, 
the deer you couldn’t avoid. Outside, he circles

the car. Jesus, he says. A long silence. 
Son of a bitch, looking in. He opens the tailgate,

drags the quivering deer out by a leg. 
What can you tell him—you weren’t thinking,

you’d injured your head? You wanted to fix 
what you’d broken—restore the beautiful body,

color of wet straw, color of oak leaves in winter? 
The deer shudders and bleats in the driveway.

Your father walks to the toolshed,
comes back lugging a concrete block.

Some things stay with you. Dumping the body 
deep in the woods, like a gangster. The dent

in your nose. All your life, the trail of ruin you leave.

Eating poetry

bellam4 — 2017-02-21 18:22:59 UTC

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. 
There is no happiness like mine. 
I have been eating poetry. 

The librarian does not believe what she sees. 
Her eyes are sad 
and she walks with her hands in her dress. 

The poems are gone. 
The light is dim. 
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. 

Their eyeballs roll, 
their blond legs burn like brush. 
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
 
She does not understand. 
When I get on my knees and lick her hand, 
she screams. 

I am a new man. 
I snarl at her and bark. 
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.