AP English Literature Poetry Collections

AP ENGLISH

LITERATURE POETRY

COLLECTIONS

VOLUME ONE
APRIL 2022

In AP English, students were assigned
to put together a poetry collection
based on a selected theme or motif.
Students chose ideas ranging from
love to uncertainty to the power of
nature to mental health and body
image. In addition to including 5-7
poems that addressed a range of
authors, poets and time periods, they
also had to write one original poem
that tied into the motif or theme.

Collections:
So I Bloom by Isabella Alvarado
A Beating Heart by Michelle Argenal
Saved for a Rainy Day by Luciano
Carrion
Decamping by Sung-Hoon Cho
Thorns by Nydia del Carmen
Languor by Mariana Delgado
Power of Nature by Patrick Fine
Venus by Mia Halleslevens
The Little Things by Caroline Ketelhohn
Last Goodbyes by Minji Kwak
The Anxiety of Not Knowing by Andrew
Lopez
Forgetful Bloom by Alejandro McCotter
Blink of an Eye by Andrea Molina
Good Enough by Grace Oh
Virtus/Mores by Alfonso Ortega
Natura by Juliana Osorio
Love by Carlos Raudez
Technology by Mariano Solorzano



To my mom,
for helping me bloom.

The Oak and the Rose

by Shel Silverstein

An oak tree and a rosebush grew,
Young and green together,
Talking the talk of growing things-
Wind and water and weather.
And while the rosebush sweetly bloomed
The oak tree grew so high
That now it spoke of newer things-
Eagles, mountain peaks and sky.
'I guess you think you're pretty great,'
The rose was heard to cry,
Screaming as loud as it possibly could
To the treetop in the sky.
'And now you have no time for flower talk,
Now that you've grown so tall.'
'It's not so much that I've grown,' said the tree,
'It's just that you've stayed so small.'

My Gardener

by Rupi Kaur

this is the recipe of life
said my mother
as she held me in her arms as I wept
think of those flowers you plant
in the garden each year
they will teach you
that people too must wilt
fall
root
rise
in order to bloom

Before I…

by Insiya K. Patanwala

Before I became strong, I knew what it was like
To be weak,
How difficult it is to love yourself,
To find the wholeness that you seek.

Before I knew the light,
I have had my fair share of darkness, too,
Where my world fell into a hopelessness
And I didn’t know how to get through.

For I have known the tears it takes,
The courage to stand up again,
When you are broken down and bruised
And you know nothing but the pain.

You forget to appreciate love,
If you haven’t seen the hate,
Till you forget the meaning of smile and laughter,
And your heart is left abate.

I have known the strength and courage
It requires to get it right,
To face the things that hold you down
And hold your head up and fight.

Before I was who I am now,
I was someone I didn’t want to be.
I was lost, battered, and defeated,
Before I knew how to be me!

“<”

by Isabella Alvarado

In the mind of a child,
There is little understanding of the world
Of the way it works,
The way the people in it function

There is such a beautiful innocence
Such love for ourselves
For others
For the very world itself

It is not until much later that the questions begin
Why don’t I look like her?
Why aren’t I as smart as him?
Why aren’t I as beautiful?

At that same time,
We learn basic math at school
We learn the symbol “<”
Less than

And then it clicks,
I am not like them for a reason
All because I am
Less than

I have spent almost 18 years of my life
Believing myself to be
Less than others,
Exhausting myself comparing

Until one day, on a random Saturday afternoon,
Everything else I learned finally clicked
The symbol “=”
Equal to

I am equal to everyone else

We are different, yes
But our differences do not make anyone
Better or less

Our differences make us unique
Proof of our own growth
But they never make us inferior
They simply make us equals

Still I Rise

by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Life

by Charlotte Bronte

Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

Something I never realized as a child, but that I now know, is that everybody grows at their own
pace. For the majority of my life, I struggled deeply with insecurities. Everything I did, every move I
made, made me feel less than. I would look at others and wonder, “Why aren’t I like that?”. I would
question myself constantly, putting myself down for being different from others. Everything about me felt
so wrong when compared to what everyone else had. As Insiya K. Patanwala says in her poem Before I,
“Before I became strong, I knew what it was like to be weak, How difficult it is to love yourself, to find
the wholeness that you seek”. I struggled to love every part of myself when it was placed next to others
who were, in my blurred eyes and mind, better than I was. Just like Insiya wrote, I was weak, in a way,
and I was struggling to fit the pieces of myself together. In her poem “<”, Isabella Alvarado expresses her
feelings as a child, and she says: “And then it clicks, I am not like them for a reason…
All because I am less than”. More than just physical aspects, it was also hard for me to accept that other
people were better at certain things than I was. In my mind, it was a constant battle of comparison and
analysis, which always ended up with me on the losing side, as I was less than others. As Isabella
Alvarado says, I wondered, “Why don’t I look like her? Why aren’t I as smart as him? Why aren’t I as
beautiful?”. Here, she demonstrates a stream of questions towards herself and towards the world,
wondering why she is not like others, similar to how I felt towards myself. The more I saw from others,
and the more mistakes I made, the more I felt like a failure and like I just simply wasn’t as good enough
as others.

It wasn’t until years later that I realized the truth. It was never about being better or less; it was
just about being different. I had never truly looked at myself as an individual before, and the day I did was
the day that changed everything. In his poem The Oak and the Rose, Shel Silverstein makes an eye
opening allusion to people and their changes as individuals through the use of nature. At one point, the
oak tree in the poem says to the rose: “'It's not so much that I've grown,' said the tree,
'It's just that you've stayed so small.'”. When the rose is comparing herself to the tree, she seems small
because of how large the oak tree is. However, when she is seen as an individual, it is evident that though
she has not grown to the tree’s size, she has still grown to her own capacity and limit. Looking at myself
in this same way truly changed my life. I realized it was never about being like others, or being as good as
others; it was about growing at my own pace, just like the rose
had done. I also learned that to grow as a person also meant to
learn, and to not kick myself when I was down. Part of my
insecurities were about constantly feeling like I was failing;
failing my family, my friends, myself. It was a cycle of
disappointment in myself. Later on, after many years of making
mistakes, I eventually learned from them. And learning from
them showed me the value of growing from your mistakes. As the
saying goes, you live and you learn. In Maya Angelou’s poem
Still I Rise, she says “You may shoot me with your words, You
may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your
hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise”. Just like Maya Angelou, I
will always rise after I fall. I will always dust myself off and
move on, as the only option is to grow from a situation. Bad
things will always happen, and I will always have to deal with
failures and insecurities, but I cannot keep those things from letting me grow and move on. As Charlotte
Bronte said, “Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; If the shower will make
the roses bloom, O why lament its fall?”. Why should I be sorry for the things I cannot control? At the
end of the day, every situation will also bring something positive, which will allow me to grow as a
human being. As Bronte says, from rain, flowers will always bloom.



What love can be and what we do
Michelle Argenal Wheelock

Love,
Something so simple, that can become so hard,
Love can be unconditional,
Something so beautiful, like field of blooming flowers on a spring day
Yet can quickly turn into a cloudy skies, and a field full of rain
Yet we still fight to feel happy,
We fight to feel,
We fight for love.

Never Seek to tell thy Love
William Blake

Never seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be
For the gentle wind does move
Silently invisibly

I told my love I told my love
I told her all my heart
Trembling cold in ghastly fears
Ah she doth depart

Soon as she was gone from me
A traveler came by
Silently invisibly
O was no deny

To be in love
Gwendolyn Brooks

To be in love
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things
Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.
A sky is blue.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
He is not there but
You know you are tasting together
The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes
Because your pulse must not say
What must not be said.
When he
Shuts a door-
Is not there_
Your arms are water.
And you are free
With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth
To touch, to whisper on.
Oh when to declare
Is certain Death!
Oh when to apprize
Is to mesmerize,
To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
Into the commonest ash.

Before you came
Ahmed Faiz

Before you came,
things were as they should be:
the sky was the dead-end of sight,
The road was just a road, wine merely wine.

Now everything is like my heart,
a color at the edge of blood:
the gray of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns,
the gold when we meet, the season ablaze,
the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames,
and the black when you cover the earth
with the coal of dead fires.

And the sky, the road, the glass of wine?
The sky is a shirt wet with tears,
the road a vein about to break,
and the glass of wine a mirror in which
the sky, the road, the world keep changing.

Don't leave now that you're here—
Stay. So the world may become like itself again:
so the sky may be the sky,
the road a road,
and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.

Love Comes Quietly
Robert Creeley

Love comes quietly,
finally, drops
about me, on me,
in the old ways.
What did I know
thinking myself
able to go
alone all the way

Heart, We will forget him
Emily dickinson

Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you're lagging.
I may remember him!

This book is a collection of six unique poems that tell the story of love. Growing up, I was
surrounded by love: laughs that led to tears, my brother's jokes during the long car rides, falling
from my bike, and my father kissing my head and assuring me everything was going to be alright.
Love has transcended through many parts of my life and environment. But little did I know that
growing up would teach me a lesson on how many different types and definitions of love that there
are and the strange and unpredictable emotions that love contains. Love can be beautiful, painful,
and life changing. It can teach us to know ourselves better and sometimes even discover we were
missing things we never knew we needed. Just like the first time I felt what it was like to fall in love.
In the poem “Before You Came,” Ahmed Faiz introduces
a person who has never experienced what it was like to
fall in love and feeling the passion that love ignites
though the usage of repetition and structure. Similarly
in the poem, “Love Comes Quietly” Robert Creeley
discusses a person falling in love and realizing how the
world shifted as a result: Love creates a sensation like
no other, and adds more color and happiness to every
individual's life. What he once saw as, “the sky was the
dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely
wine” had turned into “The sky is a shirt wet with tears, the road a vein about to break.” There is a
shift of emotion seen from the author, who used to see things dully, simply and objectively and now
sees and feels things with more meaning, just how I felt before and after I met my boyfriend. Creeley
mentioned, “What did I know, thinking myself, able to go, alone all the way.'' Here, he emphasizes
the idea that after feeling the impact of love, it can change one's perspective of life. Similar to how
I've realized that I would hate to continue living a life without the love of not only my family but my
boyfriend in it. In both “Never seek to tell thy love” by William Blake and “Heart, We Will Forget
him” by Emily Dickinson, we see many phrases with the element of repetition like “I told my love”
and “forget”. Both poems have a tone of sadness and uncertainty. William Blake speaks about how
concealing your feelings from the other person is the best option, “Never seek to tell thy love”, since
it would hurt more for them to not feel the same, than to never know at all. While on the other

hand, Emily Dickinson talks about a heartbreak, after a
love romance died. She not only speaks directly to her
heart metaphorically but to herself, “Heart, we will
forget him! You and I, tonight!”. And finally, “To be in
love” by Gwendolyn Brooks and “What love can be and
what we do” by Michelle Argenal express the evolution
of love and what it's like to be in love. It brings light to
the real moments that occur in a relationship because
love is not always smiles and laughs but also hard and
hurtful moments. Brooks begins the poem mentioning
“him and he” which later in the poem, she changes to
“you”. Yet Argenal begins with “love” and ends with “we”.
Love will continue to hold many different meanings and interpretations for every individual, just
like it has in my life. Love can be beautiful, painful, and life changing. It can teach us to know
ourselves better and sometimes even discover we were missing things we never knew we needed!



Unnamed by Alicia Cook

“Most of what enters my mind
arrives uninvited. Chaos swarms
the perimeter of my calm.
(Inevitability has a noise. Only I
hear the hum.) It’s not creative
or clean. It’s MANIC and MESSY.
It’s not slow and controlled.
It’s SUDDEN and OUT OF MY
HANDS. Like waking up sick
because someone else left the
window open on the coldest
night of the year.”

Panic Attack P.O.V by Julie Piechowski

I make it seem loud and quiet,
Painful and peaceful

I come out of nowhere,
yet you know I’m here,
I do this when I want to.
But when you take deep breaths,
Slow down your heartbeat,
And try to calm down,

I’ll go away,
But only sometimes though.

Silent Screams by Anonymous

Can't you hear my silent screams?
They are so loud they echo in my dreams.

Behind this face that carries a smile
Lies a dark road that goes on mile after mile.

My silent screams have been going on for years,
But it always falls on so many deaf ears.

How can they hear these silent screams in my mind?
They can't hear my thoughts if I keep telling them I'm fine.

What can I tell them? These silent screams carry no words.
It's just feelings of sadness and darkness that come in its herds.

How can I explain so people understand this?
It's like walking around in a suffocating black mist.

It's holding on to happiness like holding water in your hands.
It just trickles between your fingers and disappears into the sands.

I can't explain how this feels; it's so extreme,
So I hold my mouth shut to cover my silent screams.

White Knight by Luciano Carrion

Lies
Something sinful to many but, what about to ourselves
Maybe that's the remedy, the repellent to that nasty being
Keep it away from me as much as possible
Believe me, something that isn't a lie is you can't kill the being
It constantly surrounds you like a lion around an antelope

The lies I'm talking about are something your mom would tell you
“You're doing great”
“You tried your best that's what matters”
“Everyone is special in their own way”
These lies that you hope with your whole become true

And that's what so fascinating about the mind
Sometimes they magically do become true
You become more at peace with yourself
And all of sudden your consciousness can finally rest
From the years of beating, you have done to it

The real mystery is how to become strong enough
Strong enough to kill the being
I know I said what I said but perhaps that was a lie itself
The lies we say to ourself is of our choice
Which somehow is hard to believe sometimes

To hold down your feelings like an overpacked suitcase is what gives an advantage to the being
So those silent screams we hold in our head are what he kills us the being weapon of choice
The lies encourage us to turn those silent screams into waves of sound that can be audible
Once the screams are released the mind clears is the power we gain
In which we have to finally defeat the being, at least is a lie I tell myself,
I hope with my heart becomes true.

There is a difference by Rupi Kaur

I have never known anything more
quietly loud than anxiety

If you could accept
That perfection is impossible
What would you stop obsessing over

You are lonely
But you are not alone

For 18 years, life didn't seem to change all that much, at least not at a fast pace
where it seemed like I was running on a treadmill that did not have a stop button. I have
to admit that for those years I feel like I wasn't at all prepared for change, at least not
major change. Not at all. College, romances, family issues I could go on and on but
writing this is making my palms sweat, my collection is my guide to overcoming anxiety.

Worry crawls in quickly. Like Rupi Kaur said, “I have never known anything more
quietly loud than anxiety.” After some time, stress holds a lot more pressure than it used
to. I slowly realize that your emotional status changes which then leads to a physical
burden, which then leads to so many overwhelming thoughts that I find hard to exit in
your brain. I then find it hard to build up the courage to let anyone know about this
suffering and then I lie to myself claiming you're overreacting. Alicia Cook said it best
“Most of what enters my mind arrives uninvited” and slowly my life revolves around that
one burden that walked in like a criminal breaking into a home. This problem mutates
into something “manic and messy” something Alecia cook and I can relate to. Sometimes
I worry “Can't you hear my silent screams?” wanting to vent to someone but holding
myself back with every cell in my body to not bother someone or come off annoying.
After a period of time where anxiety rules my life I start to wonder and question like an
anonymous author once said,” It's holding on to happiness like holding water in your
hands. It just trickles between your fingers and disappears into the sand.”

After some time (hopefully) the anxiety decided to quiet down “but only some
time though” as it eventually comes back with an even nastier intent than before. For that
grace period, however, the water has settled around me and I become embarrassed.
Convincing ourselves that it was all for nothing, so much worry and abuse to the mind,
and for what? That is not the case at all, as much as it gets hard to believe with so much
envy within us, hardships are part of human nature, and “if you could accept that
perfection is impossible what would you stop obsessing over” a rhetorical question Rupi
Kaur asks her readers. Well, my answer, I would stop obsessing over trying to be perfect
but in all my attempts I still have not realized that it's something not visible to obtain.
This loud and quiet assassin I call anxiety only exists within us. Well, at least I believe
that to keep myself at peace. In a way, I try to lie to myself as a repellent for anxiety, as I
have concluded nobody can kill it but can hold it as far away as possible. This is what
people with these problems need to do, to keep themselves at bay so these “silent
screams” I yell, actually produce a wave of sounds that reach the people I need. As Rupi
Kaur said, “you are lonely, but you are not alone”

DECAMPING

Sung-Hoon Cho 2021-2022

Two Men & a Truck

By: Laura Kasischke

Once, I was as large


as any living creature could be.
Such terror in the way she screamed, and the horn honking,
and the squealing wheels, and, afterward, her cold





I could lift the world and carry it sweat against my cheek?

from my breast to its bath.



Ah, she wants us to live forever.

When I looked down from the sky It’s her weakness ... Now I see!

you could see the love in my eye:



But, once, I was larger

“Oh, tiny world, if anything than any other being —

ever happened to you, I would die.”



larger, perhaps, than any being

And I said, “No!” to the hand. Snatched had any right to be.

the pebble from the mouth, fished it out



Because, of course, eventually, the world

and told the world it would choke! grew larger, and larger, until it could lift
Warned the world over & over! “Do



me up and put me down anywhere
you hear me? Do you want to choke?!” it pleased. Until, finally, I would need




But how was the world to know its help to move the bird bath, the book-
what the truth might be? Perhaps
shelf, the filing cabinet. “And



they grant you special powers, these
could you put my desk by the window, sweetie?”
choking stones. Maybe



A truck, two men, one of them my son, and
they change the child into a god, all-swallowing. everything I ever owned, and they



didn’t even want to stop for lunch.
For, clearly, there were other gods.

The world could see Even the freezer. Even the piano.


(“You can have it if you can move it.”)
that I, too, was at the mercy of something.

Sure, I could point to the sky

But, once, I swear, I was ... And now
this trunk in the attic to prove it:
and say its name, but I couldn’t make it change.

Some days it was blue, true, but others

These shoes in the palm of my hand?
were ruined by its gray: You used to wear them on your feet.
“I’m sorry, little world —



This blanket the size of a hand towel?
no picnic, no parade, no swimming pool today ... ” I used to wrap it around you sleeping




And the skinned knee in spite of me. in my arms like this. See? This
And why else would there be is how small the world used to be when





everything else in the world was me.

The Albatross

By: Kate Bass

When I know you are coming home
I put on this necklace:

glass beads on a silken thread,
a blue that used to match my eyes.
I like to think I am remembering you.

I like to think you don’t forget.



The necklace lies heavy on my skin,
it clatters when I reach down
to lift my screaming child.

I swing her, roll her in my arms until she forgets.
The beads glitter in the flicker of a TV set
as I sit her on my lap
and wish away the afternoon.


I wait until I hear a gate latch lift
the turn of key in lock.
I sit amongst toys and unwashed clothes,

I sit and she fingers the beads until you speak
in a voice that no longer seems familiar, only

strange.
I turn as our child tugs at the string.
I hear a snap and a sound like falling rain.

Open Arms

By: Wendy L. Nichols


The day you were born,

you touched my soul.
You were the missing link,
that made my life whole.



Those beautiful blue eyes,

stare at me in awe.
Gazing at the woman
Who just became your mom.



As days turned to months,
and months turned to years.

I watched you grow,
Facing life's challenges and fighting your

fears.



Now that your grown,
you take that next step.

Those years gone by,
in my heart they're kept.



If you get lost along your way,
not sure what to do or what to say.
Know that I'm present in spirit and soul
with open arms and a hand for you always

to hold.

A day in June

By: Rob Hermsmeier

Alone in my new garden where the swing set used to be,
I sat and tilled the fertile ground, preparing it for seed.

The patchy grass that used to grow between young feet at play,
Alas, to my new pastime in the dirt, had given way.



The worms and bugs which once were pets I simply left alone.
The tiny rocks were nuisances that had been T-Rex bones.
But as I dug, my trowel brought a treasure from below;
A pinkish, plastic bubble wand awaiting a child's blow.


It brought a smile to my face as I set it aside.
A simple toy, yet so much joy it brought to those who tried.
I was amazed at what that magic bubble wand could do.
It took me to a day in June, back when my son turned two.


Oh, what fun we'd had that day, the sprinkler tickling us.
We fixed a picnic on the grass, and neither ate our crust.

He learned to hit a Wiffle ball and squealed from base to base,
And then we blew the bubbles; he would puff and I would chase.



I felt a tear roll down my cheek as giggles I recalled.
The laughs have slowly faded as my little one's grown tall.
Now, on my spring and summer days, I till the hours away
Remembering the childhood games that he and I once played.



I wish I had a dollar for each time I'd turned him down.
He's asking me to twirl him or to kick the ball around;
To hide and seek, or venture out to wonder at the moon.

I'd gladly give it all away for one more day in June.

Childhood Poem

By: Philip Vincent Sanders

Listen to their laughter
Listen to them sing

Watch them on the roundabout
Watch them on the swings
See them playing football
See them beam and glow
Innocence of childhood
Why does it not show…
Us … as we get older
How sweet life could be
If … just now and then
We could look and see …

The child … still deep within us
Gentle simplicity

That years and years obliterate
As we become less free
So caught up in the world
It’s complications too…
Wouldn’t it be nicer

If our childhood lasted through….
All our life upon this earth
It’s gentle innocence

Making mankind kinder………
And maybe have more sense…..

Hourglass
By: Sung-Hoon Cho

Playing happily on the playground grass
Didn't notice how the time went by

The years slip through like sand in an
hourglass

looking back I can't help but sigh



Looking at the sky with my soaring kite
I hear my mother cheer and cry

trying not to look back at the rearview
blinding light

I still hear my mother's cheers and
cries.

How do you think your parents will feel when they see Reversing the time is impossible, Rob Hersmeier
you take that big step through the closing sliding door said it best by saying ``I'd gladly give it all away for

of the airport?. “Those years gone by, in my heart one more day in June.”. Everyone wishes to
they're kept,” said Wendy L. Nichols when writing to experience the past again because everything
her dear child that was entering adulthood. Leaving always looks better in hindsight. As years go by,
behind our families and home to continue with our lives “we become less free” and lose the freedom of
is a difficult human experience. Nevertheless, this stage being a child. My collection tries to make you
of life is necessary to grow up and become an adult. remember the sensation of being young again, in
When we were young, we wished to grow up faster in order to appreciate how much you have grown.
order to buy our own ice creams and video games, but
as time passed we wished to stay at home to cherish

the love that our mothers give. We wish to be able to Nostalgia and love go hand in hand. Looking back
on your life, you can feel the love that your parents
crawl back into that cozy feeling that a Mother
Kangaroo gives to their offspring. have given you. My collection will focus on
parental love and nostalgia. I chose to pick two

themes as they mesh well together and have
shared views. I also felt that the themes that I have
Time waits for no one. It is a ticking bomb that counts chosen were a fitting theme for the last English
down everyone's lives, moments, activities and etc. It project I will have for the school I have attended
may seem daunting to know that it is impossible to for more than fifteen years. It's an appreciation
stop, freeze and rewind, but that allows humans to collection for my parents as well as a reminder for
enjoy each moment. A common saying, “ holding onto those young students that read it. A reminder to
always thank your parents for the sacrifice they are
the past is damaging” perfectly encapsulates this making every day in order to make us happy and to
philosophy. As myself and the other class of 2022 give us everything we need. We often forget to
students are moving towards college it is only natural to appreciate what we have until it's time to let it go
look back at the time. However, it is important to not
be blinded by the rearview mirror. Instead appreciate

the past and look forward to making new moments to

look back to.



.



See you again!



We start lying And Down We Go
and being lied
to get by Nydia del Carmen
no sacrifice
Is there anything more human than disappointment?

We end lying
on the murderous muck
dreaming of lies
crying for the sky
And in the
scarce
crisp
moments
in between
where we believe
the lies we’ve seen
the lies we’ve so precisely
pathetically produced
setting the scene
for the most morbid motion
picture
this

“YOUR LIFE: A TRAGEDY”

SHOWING EVERY DAY

Only in the moments
in between

we close our eyes
believe we can fly
just to c r a s h

o
l
l
a nd

p
s
d ie

Some retry
the wise save time

There is nothing more human than disappointment.

Alone With Everybody

Charles Bukowski

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.

A Grave

Marianne Moore

Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have to yourself,

it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;

the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top,

reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;

the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look—
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them

for their bones have not lasted:
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,

and row quickly away—the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as

death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx—beautiful under

networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore—
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bellbuoys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things

are bound to sink—
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.

Brothers

James Weldon Johnson

(THE MOB SPEAKS:)
See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air

Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he
Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye!
No light is there; none, save the glint that shines

In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs
Of some wild animal caught in the hunter’s trap.
How came this beast in human shape and form?
Speak man!—We call you man because you wear
His shape—How are you thus? Are you not from

That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race
Which we have known three centuries? Not from
That more than faithful race which through three wars
Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes

Without a single breach of trust? Speak out!

(THE VICTIM SPEAKS:)
I am, and am not.

(THE MOB SPEAKS AGAIN:)
Then who, why are you?

(THE VICTIM SPEAKS AGAIN:)
I am a thing not new, I am as old

As human nature. I am that which lurks,
Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed;
The ancient trait which fights incessantly
Against restraint, balks at the upward climb;

The weight forever seeking to obey
The law of downward pull—and I am more:

The bitter fruit am I of planted seed;
The resultant, the inevitable end

Of evil forces and the powers of wrong.
Lessons in degradation, taught and learned,

The memories of cruel sights and deeds,
The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate
Filtered through fifteen generations have
Sprung up and found in me sporadic life.
In me the muttered curse of dying men,

On me the stain of conquered women, and
Consuming me the fearful fires of lust,
Lit long ago, by other hands than mine.

In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayers
Of wretches now long dead—their dire bequests.
In me the echo of the stifled cry
Of children for their battered mothers’ breasts.
I claim no race, no race claims me; I am
No more than human dregs; degenerate;
The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin;
I am—just what I am. . . . The race that fed

Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same
Today. But I—

(THE MOB CONCLUDES:)
Enough, the brute must die!

Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resist
The fire much longer than this slender pine.
Now bring the fuel! Pile it round him! Wait!

Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose
The agony and terror in his face.

And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames
Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek!

And there’s another! wilder than the first.
Fetch water! Water! Pour a little on

The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so!
Now let it slowly blaze again. See there!

He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out,
Searching around in vain appeal for help!

Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh
Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts
Down through the coils of chain that hold erect
The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree.
Stop! to each man no more than one man’s share.
You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain,

Let us divide its links; this skull, of course,
In fair division, to the leader comes.

And now his fiendish crime has been avenged;
Let us back to our wives and children—say,

What did he mean by those last muttered words,
“Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we”?

A Satyr Against Reason and Mankind

John Wilmot

Were I (who to my cost already am
One of those strange, prodigiouscreatures, man)

A spirit free to choose, for my own share
What case of flesh and blood I pleased to wear,

I’d be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,
Or anything but that vain animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.
The senses are too gross, and he’ll contrive
A sixth, to contradict the other five,
And before certain instinct, will prefer
Reason, which fifty times for one does err;
Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind,
Which, leaving light of nature, sense, behind,
Pathless and dangerous wand’ring ways it takes
Through error’s fenny bogs and thorny brakes;
Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain
Mountains of whimseys, heaped in his own brain;
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down
Into doubt’s boundless sea where, like to drown,
Books bear him up awhile, and make him try
To swim with bladders of philosophy;
In hopes still to o’ertake th’ escaping light;
The vapour dances in his dazzling sight
Till, spent, it leaves him to eternal night.
Then old age and experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to death, and make him understand,
After a search so painful and so long,
That all his life he has been in the wrong.
Huddled in dirt the reasoning engine lies,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.
Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch,
And made him venture to be made a wretch.
His wisdom did his happiness destroy,
Aiming to know that world he should enjoy.
And wit was his vain, frivolous pretense
Of pleasing others at his own expense.
For wits are treated just like common whores:
First they’re enjoyed, and then kicked out of doors.
The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains
That frights th’ enjoyer with succeeding pains.
Women and men of wit are dangerous tools,
And ever fatal to admiring fools:
Pleasure allures, and when the fops escape,
’Tis not that they’re beloved, but fortunate,
And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.

But now, methinks, some formal band and beard
Takes me to task. Come on, sir; I’m prepared.

“Then, by your favor, anything that’s writ
Against this gibing, jingling knack called wit

Likes me abundantly; but you take care
Upon this point, not to be too severe.
Perhaps my muse were fitter for this part,

For I profess I can be very smart
On wit, which I abhor with all my heart.

I long to lash it in some sharp essay,
But your grand indiscretion bids me stay
And turns my tide of ink another way.
“What rage ferments in your degenerate mind
To make you rail at reason and mankind?
Blest, glorious man! to whom alone kind heaven

An everlasting soul has freely given,
Whom his great Maker took such care to make

That from himself he did the image take
And this fair frame in shining reason dressed

To dignify his nature above beast;
Reason, by whose aspiring influence
We take a flight beyond material sense,
Dive into mysteries, then soaring pierce
The flaming limits of the universe,
Search heaven and hell, Find out what’s acted there,
And give the world true grounds of hope and fear.”
Hold, mighty man, I cry, all this we know

From the pathetic pen of Ingelo;
From Patrick’s Pilgrim, Sibbes’ soliloquies,

And ’tis this very reason I despise:
This supernatural gift, that makes a mite

Think he’s an image of the infinite,
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,

To the eternal and the ever blest;
This busy, puzzling stirrer-up of doubt
That frames deep mysteries, then finds ’em out,
Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools
Those reverend bedlams, colleges and schools;
Borne on whose wings, each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe;
So charming ointments make an old witch fly
And bear a crippled carcass through the sky.
’Tis this exalted power, whose business lies

In nonsense and impossibilities,
This made a whimsical philosopher
Before the spacious world, his tub prefer,
And we have modern cloistered coxcombs who
Retire to think ’cause they have nought to do.

But thoughts are given for action’s government;
Where action ceases, thought’s impertinent:

Our sphere of action is life’s happiness,
And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an ass.
Thus, whilst against false reasoning I inveigh,

I own right reason, which I would obey:
That reason which distinguishes by sense
And gives us rules of good and ill from thence,
That bounds desires, with a reforming will
To keep ’em more in vigour, not to kill.
Your reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy,
Renewing appetites yours would destroy.
My reason is my friend, yours is a cheat;
Hunger calls out, my reason bids me eat;
Perversely, yours your appetite does mock:
This asks for food, that answers, “What’s o’clock?”
This plain distinction, sir, your doubt secures:
’Tis not true reason I despise, but yours.
Thus I think reason righted, but for man,
I’ll ne’er recant; defend him if you can.

For all his pride and his philosophy,
’Tis evident beasts are, in their own degree,

As wise at least, and better far than he.
Those creatures are the wisest who attain,
By surest means, the ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler finds and kills the hares
Better than Meres supplies committee chairs,
Though one’s a statesman, th’ other but a hound,
Jowler, in justice, would be wiser found.
You see how far man’s wisdom here extends;
Look next if human nature makes amends:
Whose principles most generous are, and just,
And to whose morals you would sooner trust.
Be judge yourself, I’ll bring it to the test:
Which is the basest creature, man or beast?
Birds feed on birds, beasts on each other prey,

But savage man alone does man betray.
Pressed by necessity, they kill for food;
Man undoes man to do himself no good.
With teeth and claws by nature armed, they hunt
Nature’s allowance, to supply their want.
But man, with smiles, embraces, friendship, praise,

Inhumanly his fellow’s life betrays;
With voluntary pains works his distress,
Not through necessity, but wantonness.

For hunger or for love they fight and tear,
Whilst wretched man is still in arms for fear.

For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid,
From fear, to fear successively betrayed;
Base fear, the source whence his best passions came:
His boasted honor, and his dear-bought fame;
The lust of power, to which he’s such a slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave;
To which his various projects are designed;
Which makes him generous, affable, and kind;
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,
And screws his actions in a forced disguise,

Leading a tedious life in misery
Under laborious, mean hypocrisy.
Look to the bottom of his vast design,
Wherein man’s wisdom, power, and glory join:
The good he acts, the ill he does endure,
’Tis all from fear, to make himself secure.
Merely for safety, after fame we thirst,
For all men would be cowards if they durst.
And honesty’s against all common sense:
Men must be knaves, ’tis in their own defence.
Mankind’s dishonest; if you think it fair
Among known cheats to play upon the square,

You’ll be undone.
Nor can weak truth your reputation save:
The knaves will all agree to call you knave.
Wronged shall he live, insulted o’er, oppressed,
Who dares be less a villain than the rest.
Thus sir, you see what human nature craves:
Most men are cowards, all men should be knaves.

The difference lies, as far as I can see,
Not in the thing itself, but the degree,
And all the subject matter of debate
Is only: Who’s a knave of the first rate?
All this with indignation have I hurled
At the pretending part of the proud world,
Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise
False freedoms, holy cheats, and formal lies
Over their fellow slaves to tyrannize.

But if in Court so just a man there be
(In Court, a just man, yet unknown to me)

Who does his needful flattery direct,
Not to oppress and ruin, but protect
(Since flattery, which way soever laid,
Is still a tax on that unhappy trade);
If so upright a statesman you can find,
Whose passions bend to his unbiased mind,
Who does his arts and policies apply
To raise his country, not his family,
Nor, whilst his pride owned avarice withstands,
Receives close bribes through friends’ corrupted hands—
Is there a churchman who on God relies;
Whose life, his faith and doctrine justifies?
Not one blown up with vain prelatic pride,
Who, for reproof of sins, does man deride;
Whose envious heart makes preaching a pretense,
With his obstreperous, saucy eloquence,
To chide at kings, and rail at men of sense;
None of that sensual tribe whose talents lie
In avarice, pride, sloth, and gluttony;
Who hunt good livings, but abhor good lives;
Whose lust exalted to that height arrives
They act adultery with their own wives,
And ere a score of years completed be,
Can from the lofty pulpit proudly see
Half a large parish their own progeny;
Nor doting bishop, who would be adored
For domineering at the council board,
A greater fop in business at fourscore,
Fonder of serious toys, affected more,
Than the gay, glittering fool at twenty proves
With all his noise, his tawdry clothes, and loves;
But a meek, humble man, of honest sense,
Who preaching peace, does practice continence;
Whose pious life’s a proof he does believe
Mysterious truths, which no man can conceive.
If upon earth there dwell such God-like men,
I’ll here recant my paradox to them,
Adore those shrines of virtue, homage pay,
And, with the rabble world, their laws obey.
If such there be, yet grant me this at least:
Man differs more from man, than man from beast.



Languor

A Poetry Collection
confectioned by Mariana Delgado