AP English Literature Poetry Collections

As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life

BY WALT WHITMAN
1

As I ebb’d with the ocean of life,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk’d where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok,
Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant,
Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,
I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,
Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems,
Was seiz’d by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the land of the globe.

Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those slender
windrows,

Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,
Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide,
Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,
Paumanok there and then as I thought the old thought of likenesses,
These you presented to me you fish-shaped island,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk’d with that electric self seeking types.

2
As I wend to the shores I know not,
As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck’d,
As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,
I too but signify at the utmost a little wash’d-up drift,
A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.

O baffled, balk’d, bent to the very earth,
Oppress’d with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,
Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I have not once

had the least idea who or what I am,
But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet untouch’d, untold,

altogether unreach’d,
Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,
With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,

Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.

I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single object, and that no
man ever can,

Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart upon me and sting
me,

Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.

3
You oceans both, I close with you,
We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, knowing not why,
These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all.

You friable shore with trails of debris,
You fish-shaped island, I take what is underfoot,
What is yours is mine my father.

I too Paumanok,
I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been wash’d on your

shores,
I too am but a trail of drift and debris,
I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island.

I throw myself upon your breast my father,
I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,
I hold you so firm till you answer me something.

Kiss me my father,
Touch me with your lips as I touch those I love,
Breathe to me while I hold you close the secret of the murmuring I envy.

4
Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,)
Cease not your moaning you fierce old mother,
Endlessly cry for your castaways, but fear not, deny not me,
Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you or gather from

you.

I mean tenderly by you and all,
I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we lead, and

following me and mine.

Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses,
Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,
(See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last,
See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,)
Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,
Buoy’d hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,
Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,
Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,
A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at random,
Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature,
Just as much whence we come that blare of the cloud-trumpets,
We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out before you,
You up there walking or sitting,
Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.

Lost

BY David Wagoner

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

Otherwise

BY Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid

BY William Stafford

There is a country to cross you will
find in the corner of your eye, in
the quick slip of your foot—air far
down, a snap that might have caught.
And maybe for you, for me, a high, passing
voice that finds its way by being
afraid. That country is there, for us,
carried as it is crossed. What you fear
will not go away: it will take you into
yourself and bless you and keep you.
That’s the world, and we all live there.

Me, the Motor, and the Sky

BY Valeria Alfaro

Flying and feeling no force
Dragging me to land.
The anxiety behind not being
Able to control the fall, or
The up or the down

What if I fall with no wings
To fly?
What if I die with no one
To hug?
What if I had more to say,
But instead just bit my
Tongue?

The breathing in and out.
The counting slowly 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
The cold sweat and hands.
The prayers to a listener God

It’s just me, the motor,
And the sky.
What could go wrong?

Wake up

BY Andrew Lopez

to the same cycle
As always
Who knows what’s in store tomorrow
Probably the same thing as always
Being at home sucks

How much longer will it be like this
A year?
2 more?
Maybe 5
It doesn’t matter to me
I could rest or play games, or something else I guess
I could study or work or eat
What should I do?

I should take up a new hobby
Learn a new language
Learn to draw
Perhaps even learning to drive
Something
But then again maybe not

Being stuck at home for a whole year during the pandemic made me feel
uncertain about my life and what would happen next. The constant heat, the lack
of change, the overwhelming amount of anxiety as Covid kept getting worse and
worse. Everyday was the same cycle: Wake up too early, attend online classes,
eat, do homework, go to bed way too late. I started feeling unsure because I was
convinced that I would be bound to repeat this cycle for who knows how many
more years. This isolation caused me to think about my current point in life and if
there even would be a future for me that wasn’t behind a computer screen. As
the days turned into weeks which then turned into months I kept going down that
rabbit hole which seemed to know no end. My mind was split trying to do
everything at once while trying to not do anything at all. Thus, I chose to explore
literary works related to this feeling of uncertainty. Poetry allows a certain
freedom which lets authors with different styles of poetry to stir up contrastive
emotions even when writing about the same theme. This collection of poems
aims to portray the theme of uncertainty. Uncertainty varies from love to the
future as each author writes about their insecurities and lack of knowledge in
their own style.

Walt Whitman’s “As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life” represents the constant
influx of new experiences that are washed ashore like debris since you never
know what the waves will bring in. The structure of the poems follows that of
waves crashing and retreating back into the sea. The poem starts off calm and
then transforms as if going through a storm and then at the end the sea becomes
calm yet again. I resonated with the constant waves creating a feeling of
sickness that had started off small and then increased to an almost
immeasurable amount.

Similarly, in “Lost” David Wagoner relates the uncertainty of oneself to that
of being lost in the forest. The forest is used metaphorically to describe life since
the only way to get help when one is lost is by stopping and understanding
everything around you. If you don’t know how to navigate the forest then you will
never be able to find your way back on track. In “Otherwise” Jane Kenyon goes
about what seems like a good day but she has an unnerving feeling in the back
of her mind that these good days will come to an end. This repetition of a good
day over and over creates a feeling of insecurity since this blissful day will
eventually have to come to an end.

forgetful bloom

A poetry collection by Alejandro McCotter Gonzalez

June Sunset

Sarojini Naidu

Here shall my heart find its haven of calm,
By rush-fringed rivers and rain-fed streams
That glimmer thro' meadows of lily and palm.
Here shall my soul find its true repose
Under a sunset sky of dreams
Diaphanous, amber and rose.
The air is aglow with the glint and whirl
Of swift wild wings in their homeward flight,
Sapphire, emerald, topaz, and pearl.
Afloat in the evening light.

A brown quail cries from the tamarisk bushes,
A bulbul calls from the cassia-plume,
And thro' the wet earth the gentian pushes
Her spikes of silvery bloom.
Where'er the foot of the bright shower passes
Fragrant and fresh delights unfold;
The wild fawns feed on the scented grasses,
Wild bees on the cactus-gold.

An ox-cart stumbles upon the rocks,
And a wistful music pursues the breeze
From a shepherd's pipe as he gathers his flocks
Under the pipal-trees.
And a young Banjara driving her cattle
Lifts up her voice as she glitters by
In an ancient ballad of love and battle
Set to the beat of a mystic tune,
And the faint stars gleam in the eastern sky
To herald a rising moon.

[I wandered lonely as a Cloud]

William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils;

Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:—

A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

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.

Eternity

George Marion McClellan

Rock me to sleep, ye waves, and drift my boat,
With undulations soft, far out to sea;
Perchance, where sky and wave wear one blue coat,
My heart shall find some hidden rest remote.
My spirit swoons, and all my senses cry
For ocean's breast and covering of the sky.
Rock me to sleep, ye waves, and, outward bound,
Just let me drift far out toil and care,
Where lapping of the waves shall be the sound
Which, mingled with the winds that gently bear
Me on between a peaceful sea and sky,
To make my soothing, slumberous lullaby.
Thus drifting on and on upon thy breast,
My heart shall go to sleep and rest, and rest.

Drifting Flowers of the Sea

Sadakichi Hartmann

Across the dunes, in the waning light,
The rising moon pours her amber rays,
Through the slumbrous air of the dim, brown night
The pungent smell of the seaweed strays—

From vast and trackless spaces
Where wind and water meet,
White flowers, that rise from the sleepless deep,
Come drifting to my feet.

They flutter the shore in a drowsy tune,
Unfurl their bloom to the lightlorn sky,
Allow a caress to the rising moon,
Then fall to slumber, and fade, and die.

White flowers, a-bloom on the vagrant deep,
Like dreams of love, rising out of sleep,
You are the songs, I dreamt but never sung,
Pale hopes my thoughts alone have known,
Vain words ne’er uttered, though on the tongue,
That winds to the sibilant seas have blown.

In you, I see the everlasting drift of years
That will endure all sorrows, smiles and tears;

For when the bell of time will ring the doom
To all the follies of the human race,
You still will rise in fugitive bloom

And garland the shores of ruined space.

There Will Come Soft Rains

Sara Teasdale

(War Time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Evening Pebbles grow smaller,
smoother beneath night’s
Dorianne Laux rough currents. We walk

Moonlight pours down long distances, carting
without mercy, no matter our bags, our packages.
how many have perished Burdens or gifts.
beneath the trees.
We know the land
The river rolls on. is disappearing beneath
the sea, islands swallowed
There will always be like prehistoric fish.
silence, no matter
how long someone We know we are doomed,
has wept against done for, damned, and still
the side of a house, the light reaches us, falls
bare forearms pressed on our shoulders even now,
to the shingles.
even here where the moon is
Everything ends. hidden from us, even though
Even pain, even sorrow. the stars are so far away.

The swans drift on.

Reeds bear the weight
of their feathery heads.

The Flowers Will Remember

Alejandro McCotter Gonzalez

Unknowing nature, growing without qualm
In its apathy blossoming utter and absolute calm
Gazing in the midnight hours
Towards the sky falls the pale, indifferent moon
Watching over the fleeting flowers
They circle one another in forgetful bloom

Waxing, waning
Flourishing, decaying
From their universal rhythms never straying

A perfect escape from the world we’ve made,
As they refuse to bear witness
To them, our faults all but fade
Their forgetting a forgiveness

Heavens above glide unscathed while the sky begins to choke,
But the flowers, they find no escape and suffocate in hideous smoke.
We, thieves of reprieve, have wasted in our greed
The fire of man has roared from an ember.
But the flowers, now—
Oh, how terribly now—
The flowers will remember.

I’ve found in these past few years, when I grow too stressed thinking about the worries of
my daily life, that I like to think back to the idea of optimistic nihilism. That, in the
words of the great Kurt Vonnegut, we’re merely mud that was lucky enough to get to sit
up and look around. The little impact we may make in our lives will eventually be erased
by the ebbs and flows of the universe—and that’s okay. Put elegantly in Dorianne Laux’s
Evening: “Everything ends. Even pain, even sorrow.” It’s a philosophy that allows me to
not grow too overly concerned about the minutiae of day-to-day life that may burden
me; I should simply try to enjoy this ephemeral span of time I’ve been given.

I find nature as a symbol to be the perfect manifestation of this idea: of an indifferent,
eternal world. A perfect symbol to lift me into this—into what I at least personally find
to be—calming headspace. The moon will still wax and wane; the tides will rise and fall;
plants and animals will continue to run the due course of their lives, all without me.
When I consider the grandness of it all, any worries that I could possibly have seem puny
in comparison. A similar sentiment is seen in Sadakichi Hartmann’s Drifting Flowers of the
Sea: it contemplates the enormity of nature—the “vast and trackless spaces where wind
and water meet”—comparing it to the relative transience of our own lives. “All the follies
of the human race” will be erased when the “bell of time [rings the doom]”. There Will
Come Soft Rains by Sara Teasdale fills me with a similar feeling of twisted hope in the
sense of “Hey if mankind does ‘perish utterly’, at least the frogs will still get to keep on
singing!”

Now, not all of the poems need be so weirdly grim; nature additionally can be
appreciated for its simple pastoral beauty and the serenity that can be found in it.
Sarojini Naidu is perfectly able to transport us to her “haven of calm” through her
picturesque description of the landscapes of Hyderabad in her poem June Sunset. William
Wordsworth, too, describes that which ‘fills his heart with pleasure’, whimsically writing
of a valley of daffodils, and the sense of bliss the scenery provided, both while he was
there and later in the remembrance of it. Nature, of course, provides an environmental
evasion of the stresses of our routines through its sheer separation from human society.
As seen in Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost, the woods are miles
away from the farmhouses and villages around and certainly “lovely, dark and deep” for
it.

This perfect uncaring respite we can find in nature, both physically and existentially,
however, is unfortunately starting to care. While the cosmic aspects of nature as of yet
remain untouched by us, our actions are dooming the more organic ones. Because we
have made ourselves known through the destruction of the climate, the flowers—while
initially able to live blissfully ignorant, forgetting of our existence—-now must begin to
remember.



To the Virgins to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

My Lost Youth by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;

Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,

And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,

The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides

Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;

And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,

And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;

The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,

And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!

And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay,

Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;

And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves

In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;

The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part

Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain

My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,

I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The Lost Garden by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There was a fair green garden sloping
From the southeast side of the mountain-ledge;
And the earliest tint of the dawn came groping
Down through its paths, from the day's dim edge.
The bluest skies and the reddest roses
Arched and varied its velvet sod;
And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposes
The angels sing on the hills of God.

I wandered there when my veins seemed bursting
With life's rare rapture, and keen delight;
And yet in my heart was a constant thirsting
For something over the mountain-height.
I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory
That turned to crimson the peaks of snow,
And the winds from the west all breathed a story
Of realms and regions I longed to know.

I saw on the garden's south side growing
The brightest blossoms that breathe of June;
I saw in the east how the sun was glowing,
And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune;
I heard the drip of a silver fountain,
And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee;
But still I looked out over the mountain
Where unnamed wonders awaited me.

I came at last to the western gateway
That led to the path I longed to climb;
But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway,
For close at my side stood greybeard Time.
I paused, with feet that were fain to linger
Hard by that garden's golden gate;
But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger;
"Pass on," he said, "for the day grows late."

And now on the chill grey cliffs I wander;
The heights recede which I thought to find,
And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder,

When I think of the garden I left behind.
Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor,
I know full well it would not repay
For the fair lost tints of the dawn so tender
That crept up over the edge o' day.

I would go back, but the ways are winding,
If ways there are to that land, in sooth;
For what man succeeds in ever finding
A path to the garden of his lost youth?
But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten,
That a rose-scent drifts from far away;
And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen,
That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.

The Sparrow by Laurence Dunbar

A little bird, with plumage brown,
Beside my window flutters down,
A moment chirps its little strain,
Ten taps upon my window–pane,
And chirps again, and hops along,
To call my notice to its song;
But I work on, nor heed its lay,
Till, in neglect, it flies away.

So birds of peace and hope and love
Come fluttering earthward from above,
To settle on life’s window–sills,
And ease our load of earthly ills;
But we, in traffic’s rush and din
Too deep engaged to let them in,
With deadened heart and sense plod on,
Nor know our loss till they are gone.

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Life of a Flower by Andrea Molina

Planting a seed, the beginning of life
Nurtured and loved like a delicate feather
The showers of spring exalting your growth
Blooming through the months
Shining like the summer sun
Charming everything that comes nearby
But fall is right around the corner
And you no longer stand tall
Your fine petals dropping in the ground
Your bright colors are fading away
And in the twilight of winter
You cease to exist
What once was a blossom beauty
Now is frozen under the icy snow

As I began my senior year of High School, I came to the big realization that life as
I knew it was going to come to an end. I had only one more year of my “normal” life and
after this everything would be totally different. For the first time I understood the
importance of living in the moment and enjoying the present, since time passes at an
extremely fast pace. Time is something that I will never get back and the past will only
reside in my memory. In fact, this is something that poets throughout different historical
periods have acknowledged and recognized. Through their writings, they have expressed
the importance of enjoying and living in the present since time goes by faster than we
imagine, just like a “flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying”. The authors of
this poetry collection have made a great emphasis on the significance of youth and how
these are the golden years in life. It doesn’t matter how much you remember these times,
or how many memories you have, these will only be “long, long thoughts”. Ella Wheeler
Wilcox describes in her poem that the only way she can go back in time and remember
the joyful moments is when she “leans from the cliffs and listens, that a young laugh
breaks on the air like spray”. It is important to never take these glorious moments for
granted, because before we know it, they will disappear and be part of the recollection of
our memories. Since no “man succeeds in ever finding a path to the garden of his lost
youth” the poets are constantly conveying the idea of Carpe Diem because their
experience in life has taught them that we don’t know what is our “loss till they are
gone”. Human beings aren’t capable of understanding the tremendous value that the
present has, until it becomes the past. Due to this, they repeatedly demonstrate the
fondness they have of their youth because “age is best …, when youth and blood are
warmer”. The authors exhibit the significance of appreciating your youth and making the
most out of it by describing the dreadfulness of growing up and being old. The poet
Robert Herrick tells us that “for having lost but once your prime, you may forever tarry”
because once you exit your pleasurable years, nothing will ever live up to those
standards. As time goes by you can feel “a shadow falling on your spirit straightway”
because “ in the twilight of winter you cease to exist”. As you grow farther apart from
your youth, the spark inside of you slowly starts to fade away. By
pointing out the differences on how these periods in life are
experienced, they communicate the importance of enjoying and
being thankful for the present. Nevertheless, Dylan Thomas
encourages us in his poem to “rage against the dying of the light”
because even though death is approaching, it has not arrived and we
must take the little time we have remaining and make it count. Life
is very short, and before we know it, we will be on our deathbeds

looking back at all of our memories, so we must cherish everything that we have, because
in the blink of an eye, it will all be gone.

G O O D E N O U G H?

Grace Oh

TO MY
YOUNGER

SELF

EPIDERMAL

MACABRE

Theodore Roethke

INDELICATE IS HE WHO LOATHES
THE ASPECT OF HIS FLESHY CLOTHES,
THE FLYING FABRIC STITCHED ON BONE,

THE VESTURE OF THE SKELETON,
THE GARMENT NEITHER FUR NOR HAIR,

THE CLOAK OF EVIL AND DESPAIR,
THE VEIL LONG VIOLATED BY

CARESSES OF THE HAND AND EYE.
YET SUCH IS MY UNSEEMLINESS:

I HATE MY EPIDERMAL DRESS,
THE SAVAGE BLOOD'S OBSCENITY,

THE RAGS OF MY ANATOMY,
AND WILLINGLY WOULD I DISPENSE
WITH FALSE ACCOUTERMENTS OF SENSE,

TO SLEEP IMMODESTLY, A MOST
INCARNADINE AND CARNAL GHOST.

BARBIE

DOLL Marge Piercy

THIS GIRLCHILD WAS BORN AS USUAL
AND PRESENTED DOLLS THAT DID PEE-PEE

AND MINIATURE GE STOVES AND IRONS
AND WEE LIPSTICKS THE COLOR OF CHERRY CANDY.
THEN IN THE MAGIC OF PUBERTY, A CLASSMATE SAID:

YOU HAVE A GREAT BIG NOSE AND FAT LEGS.

SHE WAS HEALTHY, TESTED INTELLIGENT,
POSSESSED STRONG ARMS AND BACK,

ABUNDANT SEXUAL DRIVE AND MANUAL DEXTERITY.
SHE WENT TO AND FRO APOLOGIZING.

EVERYONE SAW A FAT NOSE ON THICK LEGS.

SHE WAS ADVISED TO PLAY COY,
EXHORTED TO COME ON HEARTY,
EXERCISE, DIET, SMILE AND WHEEDLE.

HER GOOD NATURE WORE OUT
LIKE A FAN BELT.

SO SHE CUT OFF HER NOSE AND HER LEGS
AND OFFERED THEM UP.

IN THE CASKET DISPLAYED ON SATIN SHE LAY
WITH THE UNDERTAKER'S COSMETICS PAINTED ON,

A TURNED-UP PUTTY NOSE,
DRESSED IN A PINK AND WHITE NIGHTIE.
DOESN'T SHE LOOK PRETTY? EVERYONE SAID.

CONSUMMATION AT LAST.
TO EVERY WOMAN A HAPPY ENDING

MBIE Grace Oh

BORN SO BEAUTIFUL,
WITHOUT ONE SINGLE FLAW TO BE SEEN
UNTIL THE WORDS OF OTHER ENTERS THROUGH THEIR EARS

“LOOK HOW CHUBBY”
“LOOK HOW SKINNY”
“SUCH A WEIRD NOSE”
“I WOULD RATE THEM A 1/10”

WITH A SCALPEL, THEY CHANGE THEIR BODY
WITH PILLS, THEY CHANGE THEIR BODY

WITH UNREALISTIC DIETS, THEY CHANGE THEIR BODY
THE BODY THAT THEIR MOTHERS CREATED FOR 9 LONG MONTHS

WHAT WAS IT ALL FOR?
TO FIT IN THE UNREALISTIC MOLD SOCIETY HAS BUILD

TO SATISFY OTHER PEOPLE
TO BATTLE WITH THE VOICES INSIDE THEIR HEAD CREATING

DISTORTED IMAGES

WHEN WILL IT STOP?
WILL IT STOP, WHEN THEY ARE LYING FLAT ON THEIR BACKS IN A

CLOSED BOX,
AND HEAR THE WORDS “DON’T THEY LOOK BEAUTIFUL” WHILE THEY

TRAVEL TO THEIR ETERNAL SLEEP?

“BEAUTIFUL”
“HANDSOME”

“HOT”
“PRETTY”

“SEXY”
IS THAT THE HAPPY ENDING?

THIS NEW DISEASE CALLED
MBIE

MY BODY ISN’T ENOUGH
INFECTS PEOPLE SLOWLY, AS A BUTTERFLY WITHOUT WINGS,

UNTIL THE GRIM REAPER COMES TO COLLECT THEM

WE ARE ALL
BORN SO
BEAUTIFUL

Rupi Kaur

“WE ARE ALL BORN
SO BEAUTIFUL

THE GREATEST TRAGEDY IS
BEING CONVINCED WE ARE NOT”

TELL YOUR

DAUGHTERS

Nikita Gill

TELL YOUR DAUGHTERS HOW YOU LOVE YOUR BODY.
TELL THEM HOW THEY MUST LOVE THEIRS.

TELL THEM TO BE PROUD OF EVERY BIT OF THEMSELVES—
FROM THEIR TIGER STRIPES TO THE SOFT FLESH OF THEIR THIGHS,

WHETHER THERE IS A LITTLE OF THEM OR A LOT,
WHETHER FRECKLES COVER THEIR FACE OR NOT,
WHETHER THEIR CURVES ARE PLENTIFUL OR SLIM,
WHETHER THEIR HAIR IS THICK, CURLY, STRAIGHT, LONG OR

SHORT.
TELL THEM HOW THEY INHERITED
THEIR ANCESTORS, SOULS IN THEIR SMILES,
THAT THEIR EYES CARRY COUNTRIES
THAT BREATHED LIFE INTO HISTORY,
THAT THE SWING OF THEIR HIPS
DOES NOT DETERMINE THEIR DESTINY.
TELL THEM NEVER TO LISTEN WHEN BODIES ARE CRITIQUED.
TELL THEM EVERY WOMAN’S BODY IS BEAUTIFUL
BECAUSE EVERY WOMAN’S SOUL IS UNIQUE

THANK YOU

A LITTLE BACK STORY

ALMOST 5 YEARS AGO, I COULDN’T LOOK AT MYSELF THROUGH A MIRROR BECAUSE MY EYES
AND MIND DISTORTED REALITY, MAKING MY BODY LOOK DIFFERENT. EVERY DAY WAS A
CONSTANT BATTLE WITH THE LITTLE VOICE INSIDE MY HEAD SCREAMING I WASN’T GOOD

ENOUGH, THAT I WASN’T SKINNY ENOUGH. AS GRACE OH EXPRESSED ON MBIE (MY BODY ISN’T
ENOUGH DISEASE), IT WAS A CONSTANT “BATTLE WITH THE VOICES INSIDE THEIR HEAD

CREATING DISTORTED IMAGES”. I WAS SO CONSUMED BY WHAT OTHERS THOUGHT OF MY
BODY THAT I BEGAN TO CHANGE, JUST LIKE WHEN MARGE PIERCY WROTE IN BARBIE DOLL
HOW “EVERYONE SAW A FAT NOSE ON THICK LEGS” THAT THE PERSON EVENTUALLY “ CUT OFF
HER NOSE AND HER LEGS/AND OFFERED THEM UP” OR EVENTUALLY, JUST LIKE GRACE OH
STATES, “WITH A SCALPEL, THEY CHANGE THEIR BODY, WITH PILLS, THEY CHANGE THEIR BODY,
WITH UNREALISTIC DIETS, THEY CHANGE THEIR BODY.” AS I MENTIONED ABOVE, I STARTED TO
CHANGE MYSELF, BECOMING A PERSON I DIDN’T RECOGNIZE. I HATED MY BIG THIGHS, MY

FLAT NOSE, MY SMALL LIPS, THE CURVES AROUND MY HIPS, I HATED THE WAY I LOOKED
BECAUSE IT WASN’T THE BODY THAT SOCIETY ACCEPTED. I HEARD THE SO-CALLED ADVICE TO

“PLAY COY, EXHORTED TO COME ON HEARTY/ EXERCISE” AND/OR AS RUPI KUAR STATES
“CONVINCED WE ARE NOT” BEAUTIFUL.

AFTER 5 YEARS, I HAVE FINALLY GAINED BODY CONFIDENCE AND ACCEPTED THE WAY MY BODY
IS. THROUGHOUT MY JOURNEY, I STARTED TO IGNORE WHAT OTHERS THOUGHT ABOUT MY

BODY. I SAID AFFIRMATIONS ABOUT THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS ABOUT MYSELF AND EMBRACED
HOW I LOOKED SINCE NOBODY ELSE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD LOOKS LIKE ME, JUST LIKE NIKITA
GILL WROTE THAT WE “INHERITED / (OUR) ANCESTORS, SOULS IN (OUR) SMILES, THAT (OUR)
EYES CARRY COUNTRIES THAT BREATHED LIFE INTO HISTORY.” BEFORE ACCEPTING MY BODY, I

FELT ALONE, THAT I WAS CRAZY TO THINK THAT I WASN’T GOOD ENOUGH, BUT I REALIZED
THAT COUNTLESS OTHERS SHARE SIMILAR THOUGHTS. IN A POEM BY RUPI KUAR, THERE IS NO
SUBJECT, BUT ONLY THE “WE,” ALLOWING KAUR TO CREATE A DEEPER CONNECTION WITH THE

READER AS SHE MAKES THE POEM MORE PERSONAL, REASSURING ME THAT I AM NOT THE
ONLY ONE AND MANY PEOPLE HAVE GONE THROUGH THIS, MAYBE EVEN HERSELF INCLUDED.

ADDITIONALLY, THE CONSTANT REPETITION OF THE “WE ARE ...” STATEMENT CAN BE SEEN
THROUGH THE POEMS SUCH AS, IN RUPI KAUR'S POEM SHE BEGINS WITH “WE ARE ALL BORN/
SO BEAUTIFUL.” SIMILARLY, NIKITA GILL REMINDS US TO “TELL THEM EVERY WOMAN’S BODY
IS BEAUTIFUL/ BECAUSE EVERY WOMAN’S SOUL IS UNIQUE” REASSURING US THAT WE ARE ALL

GOOD-LOOKING AND PROVING THAT THE CONSTANT REPETITION OF AFFIRMATIONS WILL
ALLOW US TO FEEL AND SEE OURSELVES AS BEAUTIFUL.

I WOULD HAVE NEVER IMAGINED I WOULD HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THE WAY I LOOKED, BUT I
LEARNED THAT SOMETIMES, OUR MIND AND OUR FEELINGS ARE COMPLETELY OFF, JUST LIKE

THEODORE ROETHKE STATES HOW "INDELICATE IS HE WHO LOATHES/THE ASPECT OF HIS
FLESHY CLOTHES” REFERRING TO THAT IT ISN’T RIGHT TO HATE YOUR BODY, BUT YOUR MIND
CAN CONTROL PERCEPTION. WE BEGIN TO HATE EVERYTHING THAT MAKES US HUMAN, FROM

OUR “EPIDERMAL DRESS,/ THE SAVAGE BLOOD'S OBSCENITY,/ THE RAGS OF MY ANATOMY”.
WHEN WE ARE BORN, WE ARE AMAZED AND INTRIGUED BY HOW OUR BODY MOVES FREELY AND

HATING THE WAY WE LOOK IS THE LEAST OF OUR WORRIES. THESE WORRIES BEGIN WHEN WE
NOTICE THE LITTLE “IMPERFECTIONS” AROUND OUR BODIES LIKE THE ONES GILL MENTIONS

SUCH AS THE'' TIGER STRIPES TO THE SOFT FLESH OF THEIR THIGHS, WHETHER FRECKLES
COVER THEIR FACE OR NOT, WHETHER THEIR CURVES ARE PLENTIFUL OR SLIM” OR WHEN
PEOPLE START TO CRITICIZE AND TELL US “YOU HAVE A GREAT BIG NOSE AND FAT LEGS.” AS A
RESULT, “THE GREATEST TRAGEDY IS/ BEING CONVINCED WE ARE NOT” BEAUTIFUL EVEN
THOUGH THOSE “FLAWS” MAKE UP A PART OF WHO WE ARE JUST LIKE WHEN GILL COMPARES
STRETCH MARKS WITH “TIGER STRIPES.” TIGERS REPRESENT STRENGTH AND FEARLESSNESS IN

MANY COUNTRIES AND THAT’S WHAT THEY REPRESENT.

NOT MANY OF US KNOW WHEN THE PERSISTENT VOICE WILL COME TO AN END, AND NOT ALL
OF US ARE LUCKY. JUST LIKE PIERCY WROTE, WE FINALLY GET “EVERY WOMAN HAS A HAPPY
ENDING” WHEN WE FINALLY HEAR, “DOESN'T SHE LOOK PRETTY?” BUT WE MIGHT LISTEN TO IT

WHEN WE ARE “IN THE CASKET DISPLAYED ON SATIN SHE LAY/WITH THE UNDERTAKER'S
COSMETICS PAINTED ON, A TURNED-UP PUTTY NOSE,/DRESSED IN A PINK AND WHITE NIGHTIE.”

OR WHEN THE “GRIM REAPER COMES TO COLLECT THEM” TO THEIR ETERNAL SLEEP WISHING
THEY LOOKED DIFFERENT AND STILL INFECTED BY THE “MBIE DISEASE” (MY BODY ISN’T
ENOUGH DISEASE).



Musée des Beaux Arts by W.H auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

A Roosevelt by Ruben Dario

¡Es con voz de la Biblia, o verso de Walt Whitman,
que habría que llegar hasta ti, Cazador!
Primitivo y moderno, sencillo y complicado,
con un algo de Washington y cuatro de Nemrod.
Eres los Estados Unidos,
eres el futuro invasor
de la América ingenua que tiene sangre indígena,
que aún reza a Jesucristo y aún habla en español.

Eres soberbio y fuerte ejemplar de tu raza;
eres culto, eres hábil; te opones a Tolstoy.
Y domando caballos, o asesinando tigres,
eres un Alejandro-Nabucodonosor.
(Eres un profesor de energía,
como dicen los locos de hoy.)
Crees que la vida es incendio,
que el progreso es erupción;
en donde pones la bala
el porvenir pones.
No.

Los Estados Unidos son potentes y grandes.
Cuando ellos se estremecen hay un hondo temblor
que pasa por las vértebras enormes de los Andes.
Si clamáis, se oye como el rugir del león.
Ya Hugo a Grant le dijo: «Las estrellas son vuestras».
(Apenas brilla, alzándose, el argentino sol
y la estrella chilena se levanta...) Sois ricos.
Juntáis al culto de Hércules el culto de Mammón;
y alumbrando el camino de la fácil conquista,
la Libertad levanta su antorcha en Nueva York.

Mas la América nuestra, que tenía poetas

desde los viejos tiempos de Netzahualcoyotl,
que ha guardado las huellas de los pies del gran Baco,
que el alfabeto pánico en un tiempo aprendió;
que consultó los astros, que conoció la Atlántida,
cuyo nombre nos llega resonando en Platón,
que desde los remotos momentos de su vida
vive de luz, de fuego, de perfume, de amor,
la América del gran Moctezuma, del Inca,
la América fragante de Cristóbal Colón,
la América católica, la América española,
la América en que dijo el noble Guatemoc:
«Yo no estoy en un lecho de rosas»; esa América
que tiembla de huracanes y que vive de Amor,
hombres de ojos sajones y alma bárbara, vive.
Y sueña. Y ama, y vibra; y es la hija del Sol.
Tened cuidado. ¡Vive la América española!
Hay mil cachorros sueltos del León Español.
Se necesitaría, Roosevelt, ser Dios mismo,
el Riflero terrible y el fuerte Cazador,
para poder tenernos en vuestras férreas garras.

Y, pues contáis con todo, falta una cosa: ¡Dios!

Money by Philip Larkin

Quarterly, is it, money reproaches me:
‘Why do you let me lie here wastefully?

I am all you never had of goods and sex.
You could get them still by writing a few cheques.’

So I look at others, what they do with theirs:
They certainly don’t keep it upstairs.

By now they’ve a second house and car and wife:
Clearly money has something to do with life

—In fact, they’ve a lot in common, if you enquire:
You can’t put off being young until you retire,

And however you bank your screw, the money you save
Won’t in the end buy you more than a shave.

I listen to money singing. It’s like looking down
From long french windows at a provincial town,

The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad
In the evening sun. It is intensely sad.

Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Virtue by Goerge Herbert

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

On Virtue by Phillis Wheatly

O thou bright jewel in my aim I strive
To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
I cease to wonder, and no more attempt
Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound.
But, O my soul, sink not into despair,
Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
Fain would the heaven-born soul with her converse,
Then seek, then court her for her promised bliss.

Auspicious queen, thine heavenly pinions spread,
And lead celestial Chastity along;
Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,
Arrayed in glory from the orbs above.
Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
O leave me not to the false joys of time!
But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee,
To give an higher appellation still,
Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
O Thou, enthroned with Cherubs in the realms of day!

Money on the floor by Alfonso Ortega

As I walk between my classroom
My luck seems to strike today
Finding money on the floor
From a classmate who I am quite willing to betray

Thinking on the opportunities
A smile runs through my face
The food court will be celebrating in joy
As there is no better way to spend money than in that place

However, as I go pick it up
I immediately stop to reflect
Is this the way of a virtuous man? I ask
If I do this, could I really ask for respect?

Ugh It doesn't matter,
It's not like anybody has to know
At the end of the day I will be benefiting
It was destiny for this money to bestow.

As I pick it up and continue my way
The joy of in my face begins to fade away
What if my classmate needs it more?
What if this occurred to me another day?

Oh how hard it is to give the money back to the owner
But what would stealing bring me
It seems to do wrong is the easy path in life