World Poetry 6th Period

Untitled - Rupi Kaur when they buried me alive i dug my way out of the ground with palm and fist i howled so loud the earth rose in fear and the dirt began to levitate my whole life has been an uprising one burial after another In this poem, the author is talking about overcoming tribulations and levitating out of the ground. In the picture the man is levitating and coming out of the ground and he looks to be free of issues. Biographical information -She started drawing at the age of five when her mother handed her a paintbrush and said -- draw your heart out. -Her and her family immigrated to Toronto, Canada when she was a child. -She rose to fame from her popularity on Instagram and Tumblr.  -Growing up she wanted to become a visual artist. -She allows her Sikh religion to very much influence her work. In this untitled poem the author is talking about being buried with problems and having to fight through them whilst being alone, but with a turn of ev

Nothings Changed By Ismail Joubert Website with poem Small round hard stones click under my heels, seeding grasses thrust bearded seeds into trouser cuffs, cans, trodden on, crunch in tall, purple-flowering, amiable weeds. District six. No board says it is: but my feet know, and my hands, and the skin about my bones, and the soft labouring of my lungs, and the hot, white, inwards turning anger of my eyes. Brash with glass, name flaring like a flag, it squats in the grass and weeds, incipient Port Jackson trees: new, up-market, haute cuisine, guard at the gatepost, whites only inn. No sign says it is: But we know where we belong.  About  Ismail Joubert:  Info from poemhunter.com Ismail Joubert was born in Egypt in 1920 and move to South Africa when he was young. He is a world war 2 veteran and he was an activist for Umkhonto we Sizwe in the South African struggle. Ismail died on 12/23/2002 after being hit by a car. The writer was kicked o

A single fir-tree, lonely, on a northern mountain height, sleeps in a white blanket, draped in snow and ice. His dreams are of a palm-tree, who, far in eastern lands, weeps, all alone and silent, among the burning sands.   Heinrich Heine  https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/palm-tree Biography Heinrich Heine is a German author born December 13th, 1797 in Düsseldorf. He is the son of a middle class Jewish family. With financial support from his uncle, Hienrich attended the University of Bonn in 1819. A.W. von Schlegel, professor of literature encouraged his literary bent. He later moved on to the University of Berlin and attended lectures of G. W. F. Hegel. With literary sponsors it helped him publish Gedichte (Poems) in 1822. Analyzing The poem is about the contrast of winter and summer. It shows how being in one place can make you  want to be in another. This poem is about how the author is trapped in one place wishing he was in another place. His tone is soft but it sh

Zileyah Onafowora   February 06, 2019             Sometimes Silence Is The Loudest Kind Of Noise. Sometimes silence is the loudest kind of noise Like sometimes it was best when Girls were girls and boys were boys. Like back when freeze tag was a mating dance. Like back when “Do Over” meant you got another chance. Like back when anxiety was worrying if Wonder Woman would make it out alive. Like back when freedom was sliding backwards on a slide. Like back when success was jumping off a swing and Landing on your feet, then Doing it all over again. Like new shoes made you run faster. Like getting Ms. Gross again for math was a disaster. Like failure was a word we hadn’t even learned to spell yet. Like promises were sealed and kept with pinky bets. Like a challenge was a double dare. Like ugly was a cock-eyed stare. And you liked it… Like when you flipped your eyelids inside out To impress that boy across the room, ‘Cause that’s all it took. And there was no s

Death And His Brothers Sleep by Heinrich Heine There’s a mirror likeness between those two shining, youthfully-fledged figures, though one seems paler than the other and more austere, I might even say more perfect, more distinguished, than he, who would take me confidingly in his arms – how soft then and loving his smile, how blessed his glance! Then, it might well have been that his wreath of white poppies gently touched my forehead, at times, and drove the pain from my mind with its strange scent. But that is transient. I can only, now, be well,  when the other one, so serious and pale, the older brother, lowers his dark torch. – Sleep is so good, Death is better, yet surely never to have been born is best.  https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-and-his-brother-sleep-morphine/ Biographical information: This photo connects to the poem Death and His Brother Sleep by Heinrich Heine by the cemetery symbolizing death, and the beauty within the s

The poem I have chosen is “The Sad Mother” by Gabriela Mistral. Sleep, sleep, my beloved, without worry, without fear, although my soul does not sleep, although I do not rest. Sleep, sleep, and in the night may your whispers be softer than a leaf of grass, or the silken fleece of lambs. May my flesh slumber in you, my worry, my trembling. In you, may my eyes close and my heart sleep. by Gabriela Mistral https://m.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sad-mother/         This poem shows the love and stress mothers have for their child and how everything changes when you have a baby such as a lack of sleep. But also it can be so precious, with the baby’s soft skin being attached to the mothers. Mothers will do everything in their will to keep their baby safe which includes mothers having to give up things they love or love to do just so their baby can be happy. The mother in this poem wants sleep so bad but is also so happy to see her baby safe and sound asleep. It looks as to me Gabriela M

Last Dawn Octavio Paz Your hair is lost in the forest, your feet touching mine. Asleep you are bigger than the night, but your dream fits within this room. How much we are who are so little! Outside a taxi passes with its load of ghosts. The river that runs by is always running back. Will tomorrow be another day?  (www.poemhunter.com) About the author:  Born on March 31st, 1914, in Mexico City, Octavio Paz was a Mexican poet and diplomat.  Born into a family of writers, he began writing early on, however he  served as an ambassador in India from 1962 to 1968, he resigned in protest to the way the government handled student protests towards the Olympic games.  Picture connection  The light hovering over the city represents the souls of the sleeping people. There is a river, and it is going in the same direction as the light in the sky, and although it way go in one direction, the souls that are the light always return to the bodies of the sleeping people below, whom

A Dog Has Died My dog has died. I buried him in the garden next to a rusted old machine. Some day I'll join him right there, but now he's gone with his shaggy coat, his bad manners and his cold nose, and I, the materialist, who never believed in any promised heaven in the sky for any human being, I believe in a heaven I'll never enter. Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom where my dog waits for my arrival waving his fan-like tail in friendship. Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth, of having lost a companion who was never servile. His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine withholding its authority, was the friendship of a star, aloof, with no more intimacy than was called for, with no exaggerations: he never climbed all over my clothes filling me full of his hair or his mange, he never rubbed up against my knee like other dogs obsessed with sex. No, my dog used to gaze at me, paying me the attention I need, the attention required to make a vain per

In Another Word Resaq Malik   In another world I want to be a father without passing through the eternal insanity of mourning my children, without experiencing the ritual of watching my children return home as bodies folded like a prayer mat, without spending my nights telling them the stories of a hometown where natives become aliens searching for a shelter. I want my children to spread a mat outside my house and play without the walls of houses ripped by rifles. I want to watch my children grow to recite the name of their homeland like Lord’s Prayer, to frolic in the streets without being hunted like animals in the bush, without being mobbed to death. In another world I want my children to tame grasshoppers in the field, to play with their dolls in the living room, to inhale the fragrance of flowers waving as wind blows, to see the birds measure the sky with their wings. Author Biography: Resaq Malik the African poet/dreamer from Nigeria, went to the University Of Lbad

Daybreak drunkenness  (English) http://www.babelmatrix.org/works/hu/Kosztol%C3%A1nyi_Dezs%C5%91/Hajnali_r%C3%A9szegs%C3%A9g/en/1832-Daybreak_drunkenness By  Kosztolányi Dezső   I would tell you this - I hope it won’t bore you. Last night I stopped working at three. And went to bed. But the machine in the mind was rattling on, and though I tried to sleep, all I managed was tossing and turning furiously instead. Yet I went on with drugs invoking, calling out to sleep to come, imploring, counting up to a hundred - no use. With a hundred eyes the words I had written gazed at me, and the toxin of forty cigarettes were working in me, as well as other things. The darkness. Everything. So I got up, shrugging my shoulders, pacing up and down in nightgown in my room - around me the family nest with the honey of dreams on their lips they had gone to rest - and so shuffling, tumbling like a drunk on the front window I happened to look out. Hold o