English Homework 5/5/08

The History of Now

The recording of culture is history; but our culture is more than that.It's the world of human action, and the myths we make of the fact.The recording of history is culture, but our history is more than that.It informs a hidden agenda.Unconscious of motive we act.It's the history of now, the history of now.It's only the present that exists as endowed.It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW! That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.Through the prism of language, we know what we know.We carry our baggage and stories of woe.Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge, the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart; the music is swelling as loved ones depart.As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart, a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.The recording of history is culture, but our culture is more than that.More than the great individuals, the scholars so love in their tracts.The recording of culture is history; but our history is more than that.Not simple dates or statistics, the full horror and gore still attracts.It's the history of now, the history of now.A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.The past and the future: best fiction allowed. David Smith White (this is the history poem)

PAUL HARRYN: NEURO SERIES 1992-1993

I am in a skyscraper, negotiating with others a spiral passageway with walls of hieroglyphized plaster, down to street level. Walking in front of me is an elder woman, to whom I say, "This is my favorite place." "Why?" she asks. "Because I can't see what's around the next bend." (this is the catalog poem)

Imagination by Erwin Quah
I Am Going Away For The Day To A Land Of My Imagination a Place Filled With Splendor And Wonder Of Enchanting Beauty No Where Else Would You See Where All Trees Could Talk As They Walk What Tales Have They To Tell Me?Where Fairies Would Sing Songs Of Spring As They Dance A Dance Just For Me Where Golden Dragons Fly Fly High In The Sky And White Unicorns Run Wild , Run Free So If You Would Like To Go Too All You Have To Do Is Use Your Imagination (this is a poem on imagination)

Waiting For The Miracle by Leonard Cohen
(co-written by Sharon Robinson)Baby, I've been waiting, I've been waiting night and day. I didn't see the time, I waited half my life away. There were lots of invitations and I know you sent me some, but I was waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come. I know you really loved me. but, you see, my hands were tied. I know it must have hurt you, it must have hurt your pride to have to stand beneath my window with your bugle and your drum, and me I'm up there waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come. Ah I don't believe you'd like it, You wouldn't like it here. There ain't no entertainment and the judgements are severe. The Maestro says it's Mozart but it sounds like bubble gum when you're waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come. Waiting for the miracle There's nothing left to do. I haven't been this happy since the end of World War II. Nothing left to do when you know that you've been taken. Nothing left to do when you're begging for a crumb Nothing left to do when you've got to go on waiting waiting for the miracle to come. I dreamed about you, baby. It was just the other night. Most of you was naked Ah but some of you was light. The sands of time were falling from your fingers and your thumb, and you were waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come Ah baby, let's get married, we've been alone too long. Let's be alone together. Let's see if we're that strong. Yeah let's do something crazy, something absolutely wrong while we're waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come. Nothing left to do ... When you've fallen on the highway and you're lying in the rain, and they ask you how you're doing of course you'll say you can't complain -- If you're squeezed for information, that's when you've got to play it dumb: You just say you're out there waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come (this is a poem about miracles)


Stand-Up Comedians

Stand-up comedians so funny Joke around to earn their money They’re never funny sitting down But when standing vertically upright Their comedic humor is out of sight Funny-ing as they act like stand-up clowns They just can’t be funny or sassy Sitting on their sorry assy’perpendicular they invite loud guffaws And with their joke-around renditions In their stand-around positions They welcome all appreciative applause When they’re on stage it is behooved To have all the sit-down chairs removed So they can fill the halls with tons of laughter So these stand-up fools so funny Can earn rafts of funny money The house is filled with laughs up to the rafter Stanley Cooper (this is a fun poem)


Pleasure By The Nature

Nature brings a colourful beauty to one’s heart, It flies in our hearts like colourful butterfly, It strengthens the hearts with huge wings to fly, A beautiful creature lives in the heart of nature.A life is not enough to enjoy the whole nature, Each and every part of the Universe comes under nature, The nature is part of existence of human life, Without the nature, there will be no future.The nature survives the lives with pleasure, The beautiful nature is a creator of great desire, The fine nature lives with us and lives in us, It brings many dreams and memories to us.Oh God! We are thankful for gifting us a pleasant nature, It is one’s responsibility to save the beauty of nature, A true living in the heart of nature helps an achiever, To achieve the long life period of his splendid desire.Swaroopa Rani (this is a nature poem)


A Soldier

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.If we who sight along it round the world,See nothing worthy to have been its mark,It is because like men we look too near,Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,Our missiles always make too short an arc.They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone. Robert Frost (this is poem)