National Poetry Month: A Poem a Day

If Only I Had Realized By: Tanisha Wallace '18 If only I had realized that I was not like the other kids With their pale skin And their freckled faces With my brown skin And curly hair I wish I realized That because of the color of our skin We would be treated differently The way we were seen The way we were treated The way I would be looked down upon That the difference between getting a ticket And being possibly murdered Was simply Black & White

April

By:  William Carlos Williams

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake was too low in the sky, there was too great a pushing against him, too much of sumac buds, pink in the head with the clear gum upon them, too many opening hearts of lilac leaves, too many, too many swollen limp poplar tassels on the bare branches! It was too strong in the air. I had no rest against that springtime! The pounding of the hoofs on the raw sods stayed with me half through the night. I awoke smiling but tired.

Paris in Spring By:  Sara Teasdale 

The city's all a-shining Beneath a fickle sun, A gay young wind's a-blowing, The little shower is done. But the rain-drops still are clinging And falling one by one -- Oh it's Paris, it's Paris, And spring-time has begun. I know the Bois is twinkling In a sort of hazy sheen, And down the Champs the gray old arch Stands cold and still between. But the walk is flecked with sunlight Where the great acacias lean, Oh it's Paris, it's Paris, And the leaves are growing green. The sun's gone in, the sparkle's dead, There falls a dash of rain, But who would care when such an air Comes blowing up the Seine? And still Ninette sits sewing Beside her window-pane, When it's Paris, it's Paris, And spring-time's come again.

The Rainy Day By:  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains,and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains,and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

Long Point Light By:  Mark Doty Long Point's apparitional this warm spring morning, the strand a blur of sandy light, and the square white of the lighthouse--separated from us by the bay's ultramarine as if it were nowhere we could ever go--gleams like a tower's ghost, hazing into the rinsed blue of March, our last outpost in the huge indetermination of sea. It seems cheerful enough, in the strengthening sunlight, fixed point accompanying our walk along the shore. Sometimes I think it's the where-we-will-be, only not yet, like some visible outcropping of the afterlife. In the dark its deeper invitations emerge: green witness at night's end, flickering margin of horizon, marker of safety and limit. But limitless, the way it calls us, and where it seems to want us to come. And so I invite it into the poem, to speak, and the lighthouse says: Here is the world you asked for, gorgeous and opportune, here is nine o'clock, harbor-wide, and a glinting code: promise and warning. The morning's the size of heaven. What will you do with it?  

Sonnet 98

By:  William Shakespeare

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,

Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,

That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odour and in hue,

Could make me any summer’s story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:

Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

They were but sweet, but figures of delight

Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.

    Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,

    As with your shadow I with these did play

The Enkindled Spring By:  D.H. Lawrence

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,

Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,

Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between

Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration

Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze

Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,

Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

And I, what fountain of fire am I among

This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed

About like a shadow buffeted in the throng

Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.

Advice to Writers By:  Billy Collins Even if it keeps you up all night, wash down the walls and scrub the floor of your study before composing a syllable. Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way. Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration. The more you clean, the more brilliant your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take to the open fields to scour the undersides of rocks or swab in the dark forest upper branches, nests full of eggs. When you find your way back home and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink, you will behold in the light of dawn the immaculate altar of your desk, a clean surface in the middle of a clean world. From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet, and cover pages with tiny sentences like long rows of devoted ants that followed you in from the woods.

Sweet Jail By:  Jens Reyes '19 Poetry deep in the seams of her thighs, I made rivers with the folds of her joints s she locked me in with her ankles. I have been incarcerated long before the pipestone Thought of rusting. A sweet jail. Warmth on my neck, whilst cameras shutter painted smiles. Fingerprinted identity on the back of our necks, And how she put me in chains until I heard the rattle Of her heart on my chest. And when they released me; I felt the warmth stroke my face. I knew evil was within me. I knew I would be back to my darkness Once more.  

Love Is By:  Lily Wall '18 Love is accepting… the other person’s kind of crazy, while being aware… of yours.    

Dear Persephone By :  Megan Grossi Dearest, Oh, my dear Persephone! How I wish that you were here In the shades – my moist shades Hidden by the darkened wear Of the shadows in the past. So close to me, and then at last You slip past my fingertips Into the light of daytime’s flask. But if I give you my seed – A juicy part of me – To manifest inside of you, Then we will never have to part| Regardless of your heart. I’ll steal your beaut And be your guard. Always your own, Hades

Paul Revere's Ride By:  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend, — "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light, — One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm."Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somersett, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, — Up the light ladder, slender and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still, That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, — A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns!A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat.It was twelve by the village-clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises when the sun goes down.It was one by the village-clock, When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.It was two by the village-clock, When be came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning-breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled, — How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance, and not of fear, — A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed, And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

Easter, 1916 By:  William Butler Yeats

We have met them at close of day   

Coming with vivid faces

From counter or desk among grey

Eighteenth-century houses.

I have passed with a nod of the head

Or polite meaningless words,

Or have lingered awhile and said

Polite meaningless words,

And thought before I had done

Of a mocking tale or a gibe

To please a companion

Around the fire at the club,

Being certain that they and I

But lived where motley is worn:

All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent

In ignorant good-will,

Her nights in argument

Until her voice grew shrill.

What voice more sweet than hers

When, young and beautiful,

She rode to harriers?

This man had kept a school

And rode our wingèd horse;

This other his helper and friend

Was coming into his force;

He might have won fame in the end,

So sensitive his nature seemed,

So daring and sweet his thought.

This other man I had dreamed

A drunken, vainglorious lout.

He had done most bitter wrong

To some who are near my heart,

Yet I number him in the song;

He, too, has resigned his part

In the casual comedy;

He, too, has been changed in his turn,

Transformed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone

Through summer and winter seem

Enchanted to a stone

To trouble the living stream.

The horse that comes from the road,

The rider, the birds that range

From cloud to tumbling cloud,

Minute by minute they change;

A shadow of cloud on the stream

Changes minute by minute;

A horse-hoof slides on the brim,

And a horse plashes within it;

The long-legged moor-hens dive,

And hens to moor-cocks call;

Minute by minute they live:

The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice

Can make a stone of the heart.

O when may it suffice?

That is Heaven's part, our part

To murmur name upon name,

As a mother names her child

When sleep at last has come

On limbs that had run wild.

What is it but nightfall?

No, no, not night but death;

Was it needless death after all?

For England may keep faith

For all that is done and said.

We know their dream; enough

To know they dreamed and are dead;

And what if excess of love

Bewildered them till they died?

I write it out in a verse—

MacDonagh and MacBride

And Connolly and Pearse

Now and in time to be,

Wherever green is worn,

Are changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

O Captain! My Captain! By:  Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.   President Lincoln died on April 15th, 1865.

  Fantasy By:  Laurie Fontile Do you know what it is to live in fear, constantly wanting to disappear? Walking for miles with no destination, every decision made is full of hesitation. Have you ever dreamed a dream you know will never come true, but kept dreaming? The dream possesses treasures you want to hold, a customized version of the tales you were told. Your house is your castle and your crush is your prince, Unlike reality where facts make you wince. Success is your mission, life your adventure. Love your Bible, dreams your scripture. Reality is your disease, but your dreams are your cure, So don’t worry, because in life there is no need to be sure.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud By:  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 show 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.

Price Paid for Freedom By:  Anh Nguyen ‘18 A teenager eager to find freedom. Longing to escape from the communists They are like blood suckers. They suck you dry until you die. Abandoned my parents, eight sisters, and a brother with only clothes on my back. A sweet home where we would fight over who’s doing the chores. A place where the aroma of rice, vegetables, and fish filled the room at meal time. A place where we would eat fast to have chance for seconds because food is not abundant. Hid in bushes so they can’t see me The pain from hungry mosquito bites. With every bite, I remained soundless. My hair raised and my heart beat fast for the fear of getting caught The smell mud and fear intertwined me In search for freedom, I gathered my courage and moved on ward. Price paid for freedom. I made it to the boat alone. My heart filled with fear and joy. Fear of the dangers my journey lies ahead And the joy of getting closer to freedom. An orphan in a boat full of strangers and forever distanced from my family. Smoke came out of the engine because the captain was forcing it to run faster. The smell of the smoke was overwhelming and we choked. The engine stopped within few hours of my journey. The boat drifted with no direction for days. Price paid for freedom. Out on the open sea, I can hear the sound of people crying for salvation, eery wind whistling, and the beating of the waves that push and pull the boat. Hope seems so out of our reach. Price paid for freedom. Three spoons of fresh water allowance to keep us alive for water was scarce. The scorching sun beating down on us. I jumped into the ocean to keep cool. To quench my thirst, I tried to drink the ocean’s water but it was too salty. In desperation, I tried to drink my own urine. The taste of my urine was harsh and over bearing. Even my urine was thirsting for fresh water. Price paid for freedom We made it to the foreign land They spoke to us in their mother’s tongue. Words were spoken to the deaf ears. They detained us in the refugee camp with very limited food and water. I had to stay in the minor center. A hot cottage filled with minors sleeping close to each other on the floor. Eerie sound of people crying at night. The crying sound of one’s face burried in the pillow to avoid waking others. Sleepless nights, I missed my family. Uncontrollable tears can’t seem to stop rolling down my face. I cried myself to sleep and dreamt of the beautiful place called America! Price paid for freedom America accepted me after many heart wrenching interviews. I nervously boarded the plane. My stomach turned with excitement. It was the new beginning from that point on. My first plane ride and my first sweet taste of the Washington Red Delicious apple. The plane landed and I set my foot onto the American soil, a placed called California. Ahhh! Freedom at last.

Emotional Connection By:  Jens Reyes '19

When I met her, she had no idea what it was. To be completely fair, I didn’t know either. And you know what, looking back I’m glad we didn’t. Now, relationships are built off some sort of past. Either she dated your boy, you heard of her from somewhere, or she was the center of attention. But this wasn’t it…there was no information on her. I knew absolutely nothing. Blank canvas. We ourselves bought hammers and nails and built the relationship from scratch. It was a foundation carved with our initials. It was how it should’ve been, natural. I didn’t like her until I found myself thinking about her involuntarily. It was when it ended where I realized how special that kind of love was…and it can never be reached again. There is something more important than the loss of a virginity. Something a lot more fun than sex. It’s the luxury of having your first emotional connection. The moment before you connect and the moments after. It’s not knowing what you are and then realizing you just “are”. It’s knowing you can love from a distance. It’s knowing you can love her and watch her be with someone else. In fact, it’s even knowing you loved her in the first place. An emotional connection. The spark.

The Lament of Eurydice By:  Rachel Lesch ‘18 En Francais J’aimais l’automne, si tu le croirais. Tout ce que j’ai toujours voulu était que le temps accélérerait  et de ne passer si      lentement. Mais maintenant qu’il est passé, je ne le récupérerai jamais. Je me souviens de marcher dans un champ de fleurs, En marchant côte à côte, main dans la main. Maintenant, il n’y a que des  tas de feuilles mortes Et des serpents dans l’herbe. Je suis toute seule. Mon coeur appartiendra toujours à celui que j’ai laissé derrière moi Je voulais rester; j’espère qu’il souvient de cela. Sa chanson ne peut plus me réveiller Il restera seul  ici Les feuilles sont vertes sur l’arbre, jusqu’à ce qu’ils Deviennent marron et souffler loin Les fleurs fleurissent jusqu’à ce qu’elles pourrissent C’est le chemin de toutes choses; Même la mienne. In English To think, I used to like the fall. All I ever want was for time to speed up and not go by so slowly. But now that it was passed, I will never get it back. I remember walking through a field of flowers, walking side by side, hand in hand. Now, there is only piles of dead leaves and snakes in the grass. I am all alone. My heart will always belong to the one I left behind me. I wished to stay; I hope he remembers that. His song cannot wake me anymore. He will stay here all alone. Leaves are green on the trees until they turn brown and blow away Flowers bloom until they rot It is the way of all things; even mine.

Beat On By:  Thomas Laasar '20 Beat on, Boats against the current Beat on, America, Like the heart of the Lover you are Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. Land of my Father, Beaten in the schoolyard for not speaking English, forgetting home and acting Red, White, and Blue. Home of that man, whose number was called, Who game some and fought with those who gave all Beat on. Land of the man, beaten for that fight Home of him who fought for what you said was right Spit on and yelled at, Saigon beating in his brain Beat on. Beat on against that current that pulls you back. That wants you on the schoolyard ground or in some foreign grave, beating to                      get out. Beat on America. Red, White, and Blue, You passionate lover of sacred and taboo. Land of the freedom that has a sweetness to me paid with a piece of myself buried across the sea That beating heart that keeps calling to me from its sandy grave through dreams I ignore Beat on. Beat on against the current pulling you back Land of my sons who play outside with stick guns pretending to be soldiers like their father once was Home of those boys who suffer my pain, who beat against that heart beating in my brain Land of my boys who speak Spanish, English, and Laughter in schoolyards That beating red American blood giving them life Living in this home bought with our blood on schoolyards and battlefields beaten out of us| So Beat, America. You beautiful abusive lover whose heart beat on as the Red pours out who loves without ceasing while the wounds grow Beat on America. Against the current of us Beat on.

Polter-Heist By:  Sam Trullo '18 Like a bride’s veil billowing in the wind She stood, translucent and beautiful by the sea, tiptoeing silently then hiding away much like the floating spots in my eyes - barely visible - but much more haunting, She visits me only in passing - passing between here and beyond - Like a forest river, constantly moving, She follows me, leaving without a trace only to return to breathe down my neck - Just like that, And then she’s back, Sitting, on the ground instead of at the table, Surrounded by her sins - the demons that summon her to this plain and banish her away like your mother’s lost linen from the clothesline.

Drifting By:  Samantha Orluk '18 somedays i am asomatous; no body just thoughts spectoral, incorporeal i float between the future and the now my hands are not my hands a body is trying to lock these fingers together with yours its trying to meet your lips its trying to make you love it its choking its dying its soul is up in the clouds trying not to feel anymore

Mutiny By:  James Paraskevasli ‘18 The mountain tops and open steams Of faraway photography, In wooden frames upon the wall Show us where we want to be. The Albatross of Broken Dreams Remind us how we used to be: Aloof beneath a poet’s tree, Readying for Mutiny. You lose your hair and decay fast, And hide your face behind a mask Of Happiness and Gratitude Feeling that the world has shafted you. Your souvenirs of decades past Sit idle by the hour glass That dwindles down at crucial speed To Help put down the Mutiny. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IA052y131gc By:  Paul Simon (Lyrics) April come she will When streams are ripe and swelled with rain May she will stay Resting in my arms again June she'll change her tune In restless walks she'll prowl the night July she will fly And give no warning to her flight August die she must The autumn winds blow chilly and cold September I remember A love once new has now grown old  

Staring at The Sun By:  Angelica G. Schlieff '20 Her lipstick was everywhere but her lips She tucked her blonde- sun soaked hair back Her red acrylic nails were tapping on the wood Her eyes seemed blinding, Like the light when I die. Her pink dress was imperial silk, It looked like the silkworms made it just for her As the straps slipped, and the eyes move around the room like a lighthouse Like the police’s flashlight in your eyes at two a.m. Her knees were completely soft when I slipped my hands over them Her shins glistened like honey, Her toes were red, but the polish was chipping She tipped my head back up to her face. Her cheek was flushed scarlet, I couldn’t tell if the blush was real Then I caught her eyes, A flash of white and then it was all black Like when you stare at the sun too long.

A Force to be Reckoned With By:  Makayla Bridges '20 To Feel Free of Judgement< To be Free of Imperfections- To Walk Amongst an Untouched Utopia- It’s like the Ocean, Calm and Mysterious, With Corners to still be Discovered- Beauty like an  Egyptian Princess, Grace of a Grecian Goddess, A Force to be Reckoned with-

Massachusetts By:  Andrew Ahern ‘17 Down a paved city street I walk Alone and destitute No passengers pass by me Except cars cruising at speeds Not kin to walking man's feet I hope for a soul Animate and homunculus with the potential to speak,| whose eyes will not elevate upon some cloud Nor find a pebble more interesting than me, But will find the time in their day to say the simple “Hello”, and I will recite the same line And we can move on from that So finally on a walk where there is no rain No snow to rush us each home I spot a stranger A friend to be I widen my eyes, chisel my chin Prepare myself with an unwrinkled shirt And a countenance that may appear friendly And I wait. I wait for our shoulders to bridge together Our feet in a possible tangle Our extremely precious and unprepared existence To emerge in this moment by contingencies plan As if God were on a smoke break, Where two strangers can act as if they care for one another Even for just a second’s time. She's approaching closer I check my cheeks Smile and look right in her eyes I start, “hel...” And that's as far as I can get. She continues to walk on still looking at her feet And I am still alone, walking the road.

April Rain By:  Langston Hughes Let the rain kiss you Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops Let the rain sing you a lullaby The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk The rain makes running pools in the gutter The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night And I love the rain.