Name_______________________________9th Grade Literature Poetry Packet "The Rose that Grew from Concrete" by Tupac Amaru Shakur

Did u hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete Proving nature's law is wrong it learned 2 walk with out having feet Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams, it learned 2 breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else even cared.

"In the Event of My Demise" by Tupac Amaru Shakur

In the event of my Demisewhen my heart can beat no moreI Hope I Die For A Principleor A Belief that I had Lived 4I will die Before My TimeBecause I feel the shadow's Depthso much I wanted 2 accomplishbefore I reached my DeathI have come 2 grips with the possibilityand wiped the last tear from My eyesI Loved All who were PositiveIn the event of my Demise

"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the flusterof lost door keys, the hour badly spent.The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meantto travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, ornext-to-last, of three loved houses went.The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gestureI love) I shan't have lied. It's evidentthe art of losing's not too hard to masterthough it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

9th Poetry Unit 1

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9th Poetry Unit 2

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"If" by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt youBut make allowance for their doubting too,If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or being hated, don't give way to hating,And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breath a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;If all men count with you, but none too much,If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

"Maybe Dats Your Pwoblem Too" by James W. Hall

All my pwoblemswho knows, maybe evwybody's pwoblemsis due to da fact, due to da awful twuthdat I am SPIDERMAN.

I know.  I know.  All da dumb jokes:No flies on you, ha ha,and da ones about what do I do wit alldoze extwa legs in bed.  Well, dat's funny yeah.But you twy beingSPIDERMAN for a month or two.  Go ahead.

You get doze cwazy calls fwom daGubbener askin you to twap some booglar who'sonly twying to wip off color T.V. sets.Now, what do I cawre about T.V. sets?But I pull on da suit, da stinkin suit,wit da sucker cups on da fingers,and get my wopes and wittle bundle ofequipment and den I go flying like cwazyacwoss da town fwom woof top to woof top.

Till der he is.  Some poor dumb color T.V. sloband I fall on him and we westle a widdle until I get him all woped.  So big deal.

You tink when you SPIDERMANder's sometin big going to happen to you.Well, I tell you what.  It don't happen dat way.Nuttin happens.  Gubbener calls, I go.Bwing him to powice, Gubbener calls again,like dat over and over.

I tink I twy sometin diffunt.  I tink I twysometin excitin like wacing cawrs.  Sometin to makemy heart beat at a difwent wate.But den you just can't quit being sometin likeSPIDERMAN.You SPIDERMAN for life.  Fowever.  I can't evenbuin my suit.  It won't buin.  It's fwame wesistent.So maybe dat's youwr pwoblem too, who knows.Maybe dat's da whole pwoblem wif evwytin.Nobody can buin der suits, dey all fwame wesistent.Who knows?

9th Poetry Unit 3

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"No Scar?"by Amy Carmichael

Hast thou no scar?No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?I hear thee sung as mighty in the land;I hear them hail thy bright, ascendant star.Hast thou no scar?

Hast thou no wound?Yet I was wounded by the archers; spent,Leaned Me against a tree to die; and rentBy ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swooned.Hast thou no wound?

No wound? No scar?Yet, as the Master shall the servant be,And piercèd are the feet that follow Me.But thine are whole; can he have followed farWho hast no wound or scar? 

"The Chameleon"by Judith Otiz Cofer

I caught a chameleonin my backyard, and to amuse myselfmoved him from a green leaf to a tree's brown bark, then to my yellow porchwhere he froze as himselfhis eyes on me as if waitingfor me to change

But I stayed the same.

I stayed the same, and kept him behind a screenuntil he had shown me his rainbow, until he had given meevery color he possessed.

Then I opened the door, but he wouldn't move.He just kept his eyes on meas if waiting for me to change.

9th Poetry Unit 4

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"The Weary Blues" by Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,I heard a Negro play.Down on Lenox Avenue the other nightBy the pale dull pallor of an old gas lightHe did a lazy sway . . .He did a lazy sway . . .To the tune o' those Weary Blues.With his ebony hands on each ivory keyHe made that poor piano moan with melody.O Blues!Swaying to and fro on his rickety stoolHe played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.Sweet Blues!Coming from a black man's soul.O Blues!In a deep song voice with a melancholy toneI heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan--"Ain't got nobody in all this world,Ain't got nobody but ma self.I's gwine to quit ma frownin'And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.He played a few chords then he sang some more--"I got the Weary BluesAnd I can't be satisfied.Got the Weary BluesAnd can't be satisfied--I ain't happy no mo'And I wish that I had died."And far into the night he crooned that tune.The stars went out and so did the moon.The singer stopped playing and went to bedWhile the Weary Blues echoed through his head.He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

"Booker T. and W.E.B."By Dudley Randall

"It seems to me," said Booker T.,"It shows a mighty lot of cheekTo study chemistry and GreekWhen Mister Charlie needs a handTo hoe the cotton on his land,And when Miss Ann looks for a cook,Why stick your nose inside a book?"

"I don't agree," said W.E.B."If I should have the drive to seekKnowledge of chemistry or Greek,I'll do it. Charles and Miss can lookAnother place for hand or cook, Some men rejoice in skill of hand,And some in cultivating land,But there are others who maintainThe right to cultivate the brain."

"It seems to me," said Booker T.,"That all you folks have missed the boatWho shout about the right to vote,And spend vain days and sleepless nightsIn uproar over civil rights.Just keep your mouths shut, do not grouse,But work, and save, and buy a house."

"I don't agree," said W.E.B."For what can property availIf dignity and justice fail?Unless you help to make the laws,They'll steal your house with trumped-up clause.A rope's as tight, a fire as hot,No matter how much cash you've got.Speak soft, and try your little plan,But as for me, I'll be a man."

"It seems to me," said Booker T.--

"I don't agree,"Said W.E.B.

9th Poetry Unit 5

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"No, Thank You, John." by Christina Rossetti

I never said I loved you, John:Why will you teaze me day by day,

And wax a weariness to think uponWith always "do" and "pray"?

You know I never loved you, John; No fault of mine made me your toast:

Why will you haunt me with a face as wanAs shows an hour-old ghost?

I dare say Meg or Moll would takePity upon you, if you'd ask:

And pray don't remain single for my sakeWho can't perform that task.

I have no heart?-Perhaps I have not;But then you're mad to take offence

That I don't give you what I have not got:Use your own common sense.

Let bygones be bygones:Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:

I'd rather answer "No" to fifty JohnsThan answer "Yes" to you.

Let's mar our pleasant days no more,Song-birds of passage, days of youth:

Catch at today, forget the days before:I'll wink at your untruth.

Let us strike hands as hearty friends;No more, no less; and friendship's good:

Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,And points not understood

In open treaty. Rise aboveQuibbles and shuffling off and on:

Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,-No, thank you, John.

so you're hunting for ann well i'm looking for willby e.e. cummings

"so you're hunting for ann well i'm looking for will" "did you look for him down by the old swimminghole""i'd be worse than a fool to have never looked there"

"it seems like i just heard your annabel screechhave you hunted her down by the rasberry patch"i have hunted her low i have hunted her highand that pretty pink pinafore'd knock out your eye"

"well maybe she's up to some tricks with my billas long as there's haymows you never can tell" "as long as there's ladies my annie is onenor she wouldn't be seen with the likes of your son"

"and who but your daughter i'm asking yes whobut that sly little bitch could have showed billy how" "your bastard boy must have learned what he knowsfrom his slut of a mother i rather suppose"

"will's dad never gave me one cent in his lifebut he fell for a whore when he married his wifeand here is a riddle for you red saysit aint his daughter her father lays"

"black hell upon you and all filthy mencome annabel darling come annie come ann" "she's coming right now in the rasberry patch and 'twas me that she asked would it hurt too much

and 'twas me that looked up at my willy and youin the newmown hay and he telling you no" "then look you down through the old swimmingholethere'll be slime in his eyes and a stone on his soul"

9th Poetry Unit 6

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"Lone Dog" by Louis Rutherford McLeod

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

"The secretary chant"by Marge Piercy

My hips are a desk.From my ears hangchains of paper clips.Rubber bands form my hair.My breasts are wells of mimeograph ink. My feet bear casters.Buzz. Click.My headis a badly organized file.My head is a switchboardwhere crossed lines crackle.My head is a wastebasket of worn ideas.Press my fingersand in my eyes appearcredit and debit.Zing. Tinkle.My naval is a reject button.From my mouth issue canceled reams.Swollen, heavy, rectangularI am about to be deliveredof a babyxerox machine.File me under Wbecause I woncewasa woman.

9th Poetry Unit 7

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"The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door." 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating," 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearingDoubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore." 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

9th Poetry Unit 8

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Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before; On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf "Never---nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore                                       Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'erShe shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hathSent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

9th Poetry Unit 9

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"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted---nevermore!

9th Poetry Unit 10

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