Arezou Esmaeeli

Bryan Dunn

English 2, 6th Hour

23 April 2016

Poetry Anthology

After Us by Connie Wanek

Rain is falling through the roof.
And all that prospered under the sun,
the books that opened in the morning
and closed at night, and all day
turned their pages to the light;

the sketches of boats and strong forearms
and clever faces, and of fields
and barns, and of a bowl of eggs,
and lying across the piano
the silver stick of a flute; everything

invented and imagined,
everything whispered and sung,
all silenced by cold rain.

The sky is the color of gravestones.
The rain tastes like salt, and rises
in the streets like a ruinous tide.
We spoke of millions, of billions of years.
We talked and talked.

Then a drop of rain fell
into the sound hole of the guitar, another
onto the unmade bed. And after us,
the rain will cease or it will go on falling,
even upon itself.

The Sun Is Shining -Arezou Esmaeeli

The sun is shining everyday

Until the clouds cover its way

The storms that come

The storms that go

The sun never seems to be alone

And everyday when we wake

For our morning chores

And jobs to take

The morning birds tweet us awake

While the night crickets lull us to sleep

The cheerful laughter of kids next door

To the couple walking down the street

Happiness seems to stay

While the sun has found its way

So don’t leave sun but when you do

Let the moon continue the joy

Not Bad Dad, Not Bad by Jon Heller Levi

I think you are most yourself when you are swimming;

slicing the water with each stroke,

the funny way you breathe, your mouth cocked

as though you're yawning.

You're neither fantastic nor miserable

at getting from here to there.

You wouldn't win any medals, Dad,

but you wouldn't drown.

I think how different everything might have been

had I judged your loving

like I judge your sidestroke, your butterfly,

your Australian crawl.

But I always thought I was drowning

in that icy ocean between us,

I always thought you were moving too slowly to save me,

When you were moving as fast as you can.

Not Bad Dad, Not Bad- Response

My father isn’t a very social person, but he tends to make up for that aspect in different ways such as his intelligence, advice and support he gives the family. Whenever he gathers up his courage to say something sentimental or be social, he is a very funny and sweet person. Sometimes like Jon Heller Levi, I feel as though my father doesn’t care for me. However, that is not at all true. It can be hard to remember that he does care for me because of how little he mentions it. He may only say that he loves me a few times a year, but he shows it everyday when he comes home from work when saying hello with a hug and kiss.

I ride the bus to school every morning. When my mom has gone to work, I will text my dad saying that I have made it on the bus. Every one of those mornings he will wish me a good day along with telling me to be happy. One morning it started raining, and I didn’t have my umbrella with me. The rain was slowly coming faster and faster, so I called my dad (my mother wasn’t home) to bring me an umbrella. He said no, it’s only a little bit of rain. After he hung up it started to pour. I was stressed out because I didn’t have enough time to finish homework because of musical practice, and I didn’t get enough sleep, so I started to cry. I felt somehow abandoned. My house isn’t too far from the bus stop, and I wondered how hard would it have been to hop in the car and bring me an umbrella. Later that night, he found out that I was upset about what happened that morning from my mom. He said he didn’t realize how much it was raining, because when he had opened the door it was only drizzling. He apologized and was very sorry or what had happened.

The Iceberg Theory by Gerald Locklin

all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.

you'd think romaine was descended from

orpheus's laurel wreath,

you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional

benefits attributed to it by popeye,

not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of

veriaine and debussy.

they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage

just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

I guess the problem is

it's just too common for them.

It doesn't matter that it tastes good,

has a satisfying crunchy texture,

holds its freshness

and has crevices for the dressing,

whereas the darker, leafier varieties

are often bitter, gritty, and flat.

It just isn't different enough and

it's too goddamn american.

of course a critic has to criticize;

a critic has to have something to say

perhaps that's why literary critics

purport to find interesting

so much contemporary poetry

that just bores the shit out of me.

at any rate, I really enjoy a salad

with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,

the more the merrier,

drenched in an Italian or roquefort dressing.

and the poems I enjoy are those I don't have

to pretend that I'm enjoying.

Personal Response to The Iceberg Theory

I feel as though I can connect to this very well. The way I interpret this poem is that if you like something, go ahead and like it. Don’t care that a few celebrities do not like it. If that’s what you like, go ahead and continue enjoying it. The poet mentions how iceberg lettuce is seen as simple and not really a unique and expensive type of lettuce and because of that food critics don’t see it as something extravagant or worthy of eating. The Locklin describes the texture of iceberg lettuce and how it is able to  maintain its freshness.

I really enjoy face swapping. I know, how can a story that starts with face swapping ever go wrong? Well, Snapchat has a feature where you can face swap. Not only do I face swap with other people, I faceswap with dolls and other inanimate objects. I find it hilarious, but some of my friends find it to be the most horrifying thing ever. That doesn’t mean I stopped face swapping with different objects. I continue to do it, and they get even more scary every time. I still send them the terrifying face swaps, and I don’t think I ever will stop. I enjoy them and that’s all that matters at the moment.

Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out by Jimmie Cox

Once I lived the life of a millionaire,

Spent all my money, I just did not care.

Took all my friends out for a good time,

Bought bootleg whisky, champagne and wine.

Then I began to fall so low,

Lost all my good friends, I did not have nowhere to go.

I get my hands on a dollar again,

I’m gonna hang on to it till that eagle grins.

‘Cause no, no, nobody knows you

When you’re down and out.

In your pocket, not one penny,

And as for friends, you don’t have any.

When you finally get back up on your feet again,

Everybody wants to be your old long-lost friend.

Said it’s mighty strange, without a doubt,

Nobody knows you when you’re down and out.

When you finally get back upon your feet again,

Everybody wants to be your good old long-lost friend.

Said it’s mighty strange,

Nobody knows you,

Nobody knows you,

Nobody knows you when you’re down and out

Nobody Knows You When You’re Down And About- Analytical

Looking at the title, one would think this poem would be about when you aren’t famous or rich, no one will know you exist. You are seen as nothing when you aren’t standing out above the rest. After reading the poem, the poem is about someone who once was a millionaire. He would party and spend his money mindlessly. He would take his friends out for a great time until slowly the money began to run out. Finally he hit rock bottom, his friends pretending like they didn’t know him. No one knows you when you’re down and out, until you make it to the top again then everyone wants to be your friend. The speaker seems to be one to have inherited the money. The reason why I say this is because he didn’t seem to care about what he spent the money on or how much he spent. He didn’t act like he worked hard to make so much money.

As far as figurative language, this poem seems to be pretty literal. There isn’t much imagery. The most I would say is that one can imagine him partying with his friends, then struggling to get his hands on a dollar. The protagonist seems to have regret and sadness in his heart for spending all his money on people that would leave him in a heartbeat when he ran out. The poem begins somewhat happy, the guy is a millionaire. He is generous for taking his freinds out for a good time, then there is a change in attitude that starts with the word, “then.” “Then I began to fall so low,” he went from rich to broke quickly and his friends left him. The title seems to establish that. It seems logical because many people I’m sure are only friends with someone to use them or make themselves look good. Then when they become nobodies, why would they hang along? This scenario happens in many movies and shows when someone starts as hot stuff then ends alone. I believe this poem is trying to tell us to be wise with the way we spend our money and cautious on who we spend it on. Choose people that are only there for you, people who wouldn’t snatch the money out of your hand if you offered it to them.

Elevator Music by Henry Taylor

A tune with no more substance than the air,

performed on underwater instruments,

is proper to this short lift from the earth.

It hovers as we draw into ourselves

and turn our reverent eyes toward the lights

that count us to our various destinies.

We’re all in this together, the song says,

and later we’ll descend. The melody

is like a name we don’t recall just now

that still keeps on insisting it is there.

Elevator Music- Personal

This poem is very calming to me. Something about it gives me a sense of security. I usually think elevators are very scary, especially when you are in their alone or with a stranger. However, this poem reminds me of my time in Iran. Whenever I go to Iran, I have such a great time. I love to see my family, and spending time with them.

This poem stands out to me because I remember I would go to my cousin’s apartment. I cannot tell you how many times I went up and down the elevator there. Elevator music always made me feel anxious, somewhat like “Oh, the elevator will stop working now.” The elevator music was calming and my cousin, and I would laugh because of how happy we were to finally see each other. I had so many fun times in their home, and I always felt attached to her. Similar to the poem, I am with my cousins in Iran for a certain amount of time, but eventually we will separate only to see each other again.

The Bell by Richard Jones

In the tower the bell

is alone, like a man

in his room,

thinking and thinking.

The bell is made of iron.

It takes the weight

of a man

to make the bell move.

Far below, the bell feels

hands on a rope.

It considers this.

It turns its head.

Miles away,

a man in his room

hears the clear sound,

and lifts his head to listen.

The Hard Working Girl and The Shy Boy by Arezou Esmaeeli  

Everyday the girl wakes up

to start another day.

She goes to class

and does her job.

She smiles to the teachers,

and assists the kids with the homework.

No one says thanks you,

no one smiles back.

The boy in the class,

does his homework,

watches her help out,

but never opens his mouth to speak.

But never does the boy ignore her efforts,

he wishes he could say thank you,

But his efforts fall short.

Another day the girl works and the boy watches.

The Panic Bird by Robert Phillips

Autoplay next video

just flew inside my chest. Some

days it lights inside my brain,

but today it's in my bonehouse,

rattling ribs like a birdcage.

If I saw it coming, I'd fend it

off with machete or baseball bat.

Or grab its scrawny hackled neck,

wring it like a wet dishrag.

But it approaches from behind.

Too late I sense it at my back --

carrion, garbage, excrement.

Once inside me it preens, roosts,

vulture on a public utility pole.

Next it flaps, it cries, it glares,

it rages, it struts, it thrusts

its clacking beak into my liver,

my guts, my heart, rips off strips.

I fill with black blood, black bile.

This may last minutes or days.

Then it lifts sickle-shaped wings,

rises, is gone, leaving a residue --

foul breath, droppings, molted midnight

feathers. And life continues.

And then I'm prey to panic again.

Small Comfort by Katha Pollitt

Coffee and cigarettes in a clean cafe,
forsythia lit like a damp match against
a thundery sky drunk on its own ozone,

the laundry cool and crisp and folded away
again in the lavender closet-too late to find
comfort enough in such small daily moments

of beauty, renewal, calm, too late to imagine
people would rather be happy than suffering
and inflicting suffering. We're near the end,

but O before the end, as the sparrows wing
each night to their secret nests in the elm's green dome
O let the last bus bring

love to lover, let the starveling
dog turn the corner and lope suddenly
miraculously, down its own street, home.

Small Comfort by Katha Pollitt

Coffee and cigarettes in a clean cafe,
forsythia lit like a damp match against
a thundery sky drunk on its own ozone,

the laundry cool and crisp and folded away
again in the lavender closet-too late to find
comfort enough in such small daily moments

of beauty, renewal, calm, too late to imagine
people would rather be happy than suffering
and inflicting suffering. We're near the end,

but O before the end, as the sparrows wing
each night to their secret nests in the elm's green dome
O let the last bus bring

love to lover, let the starveling
dog turn the corner and lope suddenly
miraculously, down its own street, home.

Goodbye To The Old Life by Wesley McNair

Goodbye to the old life,

to the sadness of rooms

where my family slept as I sat

late at night on my island

of light among papers.

Goodbye to the papers

and to the school for the rich

where I drove them, dressed up

in a tie to declare who I was.

Goodbye to all the ties

and to the life I lost

by declaring, and a fond goodbye

to the two junk cars that lurched

and banged through the campus

making sure I would never fit in.

Goodbye to the finest campus

money could buy, and one

final goodbye to the paycheck

that was always gone

before it got home.

Farewell to the home,

and a heartfelt goodbye

to all the tenants who rented

the upstairs apartment,

particularly Mrs. Doucette,

whose washer overflowed

down the walls of our bathroom

every other week, and Mr. Green,

determined in spite of the evidence

to learn the electric guitar.

And to you there, the young man

on the roof turning the antenna

and trying not to look down

on how far love has taken you,

and to the faithful wife

in the downstairs window

shouting, "That's as good

as we're going to get it,"

and to the four hopeful children

staying with the whole program

despite the rolling picture

and the snow - goodbye,

wealth and joy to us all

in the new life, goodbye!

Goodbye To The Old Life- Personal

I feel as though many young adults and adults with young souls can relate to this really well. The reason being is that all of us can get frustrated by the workload we have, the stress at home, the stress with relationships and sometimes we wish that we could say goodbye. I feel as though during the teen years, there are more opportunities to fail and to explore different things. The author is saying goodbye to very simple situations that many of us are able to relate to in some way, such as the Mrs. Doucette who was the sweet neighbor but somewhat a klutz. The couple who have stayed together to help each other out, I’m sure married couples do look back at what happened to their love.

I relate to this, because sometimes I feel as though I am tired with going through the same old things. I enjoy exploring different things which is why I decided to take part in the Hairspray musical production at school. It gave me something that allowed me to create a new aspect of my life, and it has brought me so much happiness and joy that I am sad to see it end. Before Hairspray, I would go to school then go home and start on homework. Any field trip I went to was academic related, Hairspray has brought me to a whole new world. I was able to become friends with such talented and amazing people that I would’ve never known if I didn’t take part in the production. Everyone is so kind, and we are such a happy family. The experiences I had with them, along with the praise they give everyone and the laughs we had was worth every hour of sleep I lost each night.

The Death Of Santa Claus by Charles Webb

He's had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don't make house
calls to the North Pole,

he's let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap

open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it's only
indigestion anyway, he thinks,

until, feeding the reindeer,
he feels as if a monster fist
has grabbed his heart and won't

stop squeezing. He can't
breathe, and the beautiful white
world he loves goes black,

and he drops on his jelly belly
in the snow and Mrs. Claus
tears out of the toy factory

wailing, and the elves wring
their little hands, and Rudolph's
nose blinks like a sad ambulance

light, and in a tract house
in Houston, Texas, I'm 8,
telling my mom that stupid

kids at school say Santa's a big
fake, and she sits with me
on our purple-flowered couch,

and takes my hand, tears
in her throat, the terrible
news rising in her eyes.

Works Cited

Wanek, Connie. "“After Us” by Connie WanekPoetry 180: A Poem a Day for American High Schools, Hosted by Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate, 2001-2003." After Us, by Connie Wanek. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.

Levi, Jon Heller. "Not Bad, Dad, Not Bad -- Poetry For Organizational Change." Not Bad, Dad, Not Bad -- Poetry For Organizational Change. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.

Locklin, Gerald. "The Iceberg Theory by Gerald Locklin | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor." The Iceberg Theory. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.

Cox, Jimmie. "Nobody Knows You by Jimmie Cox | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor." Nobody Knows You. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.

Taylor, Henry. "Elevator Music." Elevator Music by Henry Taylor | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.

Jones, Richard. "The Bell." The Bell. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.

Hunter, Robert Phillips - Poem. "The Panic Bird Poem." Poemhunter.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.

Pollit, Katha. "“Small Comfort”." Small Comfort, by Katha Pollitt. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.

McNair, Wesley. "Goodbye to the Old Life." Goodbye to the Old Life. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.

Webb, Charles. "“The Death of Santa Claus”." The Death of Santa Claus. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2016.