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MetalPencil

can some body suggest me a poem to share in class ?

  • 2 years ago
  • 2 years ago

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  1. Laura*
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    What kind of poems are you wanting?

    • 2 years ago
  2. MetalPencil
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    anykind ~

    • 2 years ago
  3. Laura*
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    Well, there's happy poems, epic poems, lyrical poems, haikus, poems for younger kids, poems for adults...

    • 2 years ago
  4. MetalPencil
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    ummm ... poems for teens like 7 grade ~ thx~

    • 2 years ago
  5. Laura*
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    anything by Robert Frost should be good then. He's a personal favorite of mine.

    • 2 years ago
  6. jagatuba
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    What about: Fable by Ralph Waldo Emerson The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter, "little prig": Bun replied, You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year, And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry: I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.

    • 2 years ago
  7. Chicki
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    Break, Break, Break by Alfred Lord Tennyson its a sad one, but its good. Try going on www.shmoop.com they have TONS of stuff.

    • 2 years ago
  8. hardequalsmath
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    Shel silverstein's poems!

    • 2 years ago
  9. capooza
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    I love Stings by Sylvia Plath, but that's a difficult one. I also really like Litany by Billy Collins, but again, may not be 7th grade level. Do you have any topics or anything particular in mind?

    • 2 years ago
  10. Redwood_Girl
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    Are you up for poems that are thought-provoking, that lead to discussion? There's this one for instance (which is best understood while looking at an image of the painting that is referenced) -- Museé des Beaux Arts 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 Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the plowman 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. There's a short poem by Gwendolyn Brooks called "We real cool" which is striking, and rather dark. Good for discussion. We Real Cool The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon. If you want something a little lighter than that, you might consider this one -- The Centaur May Swenson The summer that I was ten -- Can it be there was only one   summer that I was ten? It must have been a long one then --   each day I'd go out to choose   a fresh horse from my stable which was a willow grove   down by the old canal. I'd go on my two bare feet.   But when, with my brother's jack-knife,   I had cut me a long limber horse   with a good thick knob for a head, and peeled him slick and clean   except a few leaves for the tail,   and cinched my brother's belt around his head for a rein,   I'd straddle and canter him fast up the grass bank to the path, trot along in the lovely dust   that talcumed over his hoofs,   hiding my toes, and turning his feet to swift half-moons.   The willow knob with the strap   jouncing between my thighs was the pommel and yet the poll   of my nickering pony's head.   My head and my neck were mine, yet they were shaped like a horse.   My hair flopped to the side   like the mane of a horse in the wind. My forelock swung in my eyes,   my neck arched and I snorted.   I shied and skittered and reared,   stopped and raised my knees, pawed at the ground and quivered.   My teeth bared as we wheeled and swished through the dust again.   I was the horse and the rider,   and the leather I slapped to his rump   spanked my own behind. Doubled, my two hoofs beat   a gallop along the bank, the wind twanged in my mane,   my mouth squared to the bit.   And yet I sat on my steed   quiet, negligent riding,   my toes standing the stirrups, my thighs hugging his ribs.   At a walk we drew up to the porch.   I tethered him to a paling.   Dismounting, I smoothed my skirt and entered the dusky hall. My feet on the clean linoleum   left ghostly toes in the hall. Where have you been? said my mother.   Been riding, I said from the sink,   and filled me a glass of water. What's that in your pocket? she said. Just my knife. It weighted my pocket   and stretched my dress awry. Go tie back your hair, said my mother,   and Why Is your mouth all green? Rob Roy, he pulled some clover   as we crossed the field, I told her.  

    • 2 years ago
  11. KinaLanay
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    I Write Poems If You Want One Of Mines

    • 2 years ago
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