Theme for English B
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
poem by Langston Hughes
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Related quotes
Theme for World Lit
The instructor said,
Go home and write
A page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true.
Write about culture
She said
About heritage
About home
About you.
But who am I?
Is this where I'm supposed to figure it out?
What is my culture?
I am Africa
And oceans I've flown across
I am beaches I've walked on
Mountains I've climbed
And cultures I've spoken to
Then theirs became mine
I learned how to say "en cha Allah"
And "jambo"
And to see the simple things for their pleasures
I wear clothes made in China because virtually everything is
Is that American?
I laugh with my friends like all teenagers do
No matter where in the world they come from
I speak Colorado
We don't have an accent
I read
Because it's intoxicating
I eat French fries, Chinese food, Mexican and Italian
I guess because it's American
I'm lucky enough to live near the mountains
I'm lucky enough
I'm from America or Ireland or France
Or that's what Dad says
I've never been there
My culture is a smoothie
Everything I am turned on high and served in a chilled glass on a beach somewhere
With a little paper umbrella and a straw
This page is mine.
I let it come out of me
Is it true?
poem by Tsunami HiroshiSu
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Listen, Learn, Read On
In ages past when spells were cast
In a time of men in steel
When a man was taught no special thing
It was all done by feel
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
Hear the song of lovely joan
Her sound so sweet and clear
In the courtroom of the king
Among children and the peers
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
now hear ye the words of taliesyn,
On the foaming beach of the ocean,
In the day of trouble,
I shall be of more service to thee
Than three hundred salmon...
The hare he bounds across the page
Past castles white and fair
Past dreaming chessmen on their boards
With a fools mate as a snare
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
three times I have been born
I know this from meditation...
The bird he flies the distance
From pages two to six
Past minstrels in their boxes
To the waters of the styx
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
Dont take the pictures lightly
Listen to their sound
For from their coloured feeling
Experience is found
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
all the sciences of the world are collected in my breast,
For I know what has been, what is now,
And what hereafter will occur...
song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harlem Woman
Written by orbison/melson
The woman is out on her own.
Walking the streets, sad and alone.
Yes she sells herself for nickles and dimes.
These are hard times for a harlem woman.
Harlem woman.
Yes you work at night.i have held you tight.
But youre not aware of how much I care.
No you cant see your babys been hungry and cold.
So long nights through, go on and do what you must do,
I love you.i love you harlem woman.
Harlem woman.
Sometimes I cry, but Ill get by till your mine alone.
So carry on to other arms,tender but strong.
Till you belong to me
Harlem woman hang on.
Ill take you away.
Someday Ill set you free to be with only me.
Till then Ill know,...
Lord knows, Ill know
They can buy the body
But not the soul of my harlem woman
Harlem woman, harlem woman
Hang on
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tabula Rasa.
Rondel Prime.
A pristine page of purest white.
A challenge that I can't resist.
Although I try my muse insists.
I take my pen and start to write.
I quickly find to my delight
My muse is ready to assist.
A pristine page of purest white.
A challenge that I can't resist.
An empty page a welcome sight
To a poetic formalist
Or even to a modernist.
To anyone compelled to write.
A pristine page of purest white.
A challenge that I can't resist.
Sunday,14 October 2012.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Love Me (feat. Mase)
Do That Puff Daddy Ish Son
Mase:
Yeah Yeah Yeah
Yeah Yeah Yeah What What What
ATL Harlem World ATL
ATL Harlem World ATL
112 Harlem World 112
112 Harlem World 112
Harlem World ATL 112
112 Harlem World ATL
Yeah Kid You Don't Stop
We Won't Stop
You Don't Stop
Come On
112:
Baby Whenever I'm With You
No One Else Exists But You
Cause You're The One For Me
Every Time That We're Apart
You're Always In My Heart
And There You'll Always Be
(1) Baby Don't Go
Your Love's So Special
Can't Let Me Go
Now If I Did Wrong, I'm Sorry
No Other Love Is For Me
(2) Love Me, Hold Me (Why Don't You)
Squeeze Me (Love Me, Never Let Me Go, Baby)
Hug Me, Kiss Me (Why Don't You)
Love Me (Love Me, Never Let Go)
Whenever I'm On My Way Home
Just Can't Wait To Be Alone
With You My Baby
Anticipating How You'll Feel
Listen To Me, I'm For Real
When I Say I Love You
Repeat 1
Repeat 2
Mase:
Uh, Uh, Uh, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, What, What, What
Come On, Yeah Kid, Harlem World On The Rise
With 112 And You Don't Want No Problem With These Guys
Yo, You Cats Never Want No Problem Like We Want It
When Harlem World Doubled Up, We Put G's On It
I'm Pushin New 700 M.G.'s On It
And If You Can't See The Ice, That Means My Sleeves On It
You Know I Dress As I'm Suppose To Stretch Lex With A Chaffuer
Never Sober, Red Testarossa, Cherry Rover Baguettes In My Jehovah
Me And Puff At The Grammy's, Sittin Next To Oprah (And The Winner Is)
What We Hear Is Platinum That, Platinum This, Platinum Whips,
Nobody Got No Platinum Hits
Cats Know With Me Platinum Always Wraps My Wrist
I Come To The Awards, Quadruple Platinum Chicks
Little Ones Like Twenty Five, What Cats Get Smacked With
Big Ones Like Forty Five, What Cats Get Clap With
I React Sick Whenever My Dough Ain't Accurate
Harlem World, Jr. Mafia, Yeah And That's It
Come On
Repeat 2 Til End
song performed by by 112
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vow 2 (Right Words)
I've always been able to
now I don't even know what to do
it's never been a problem before
I've always been able to write about it
talk about it, now that it hit me
I'm somewhat speechless
I put pad to pen, nothing
an empty space on a white page
shouldn't this just write itself?
not a word or a single letter
I know it hit me, I feel it
it hurts yet I like it,
I smile at the sight of it
I've spent days and still on a blank page
it's stupid to say, but I give up
a pen is in rage to silence
to express this, these feelings
no words could describe
nor will I try
the only thing I can say for certain
that it is real, I Love you
this I vow.
poem by Kelvin Owusu
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Harlem Renaissance
he passes me a poem a love
song by Langston Hughes and
in black, the gist of our emotions so
dexteriously woven over a glossy page
snow white, the sheen of a riveting jazz
filtering from a luminuous Harlem club on
to a young heart so entertwined in romance,
all it takes is a pair of warm and reassuring hands
to make this outing at Harlem a night to cherish
and remember, this cold autumn night where
a black boy too saunters by and lavishes us
with a scintillating syncopated jazz matchings
all his own....Obama make a difference, make
a difference to this great American land
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Home Alone Happy Without Working Computer
Home alone happy without working computer
I take my pen in hand
And slowly write these words –
Let the world click and paste and post
I am out of it for now-
I have before me an evening of any book I like
Of any page I want to write
-
Peace of Mind is one place of attention at a time-
Here weighing each word as I write
I am at home with my inner self-
I hear my own thoughts
I correct them at my own pace.
So many words and so many pages
Have been written in my life-
Now in this one
I am wholly at home
Peaceful, quiet happy
Each word a small blessing
As I write it-
This is the only poem I know
The only page I see
The only place of attention
I give myself and my soul to
At this moment.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Author's Inspiration
My fingers do not type the words on the page; they do not draw delusions on a thin piece of white lined paper. They are not meant for the works of art to be used and unworthy for. My fingers are worthy enough to paint pictures inside your cognizance, more than painting a paintless sheet that means nothing to me. My fingers work as if every picture I paint in my mind, inspires them to write the unwritten page, to make it a master piece. But not every inspiration inside my mind, will take merely a second to create. It takes time, patience, and art to smear the writings onto a page. Author inspiration is from what comes from the heart; deep and dark, inspring and light - it's as if it was left inside its cage. No freedom, no light, no darkness, no being of a creature that the render of the paper, simply gave up on inspiring the little ones'. It's as if this mere creature was left within a white blank world. No colors to paint, no words to express. An author inspiration is formed when they see or hear other works of art, whether it's music to their ears, movies they wish to be in, life and feelings that they feel or positioned in, or other writings that they write something else about - but as an inspiration from them. An inspiration can be from anything from the outside world, from what happens inside one's life, to what creates such imagination within one's thoughts that coats the page with color and creativity. Anyone can be talented. Anyone can have an inspiration. You just have to feel and be it.
poem by Alicia Meyers
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Just The Way It Is....
this morning i bring a book
under a tree
and i begin to read
every page
the sun comes up
the sun comes down
I've done my duty to keep the peace of this world
to try to understand what complications
mankind has made
i am simplifying what i can do to make this world
a place for us
page by page
word to word
cover to cover
tonight i will go back to my room
sleep on my bed
it will be cold and dark
just the way it is.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Take The A Train
You must take the a train
To go to sugar hill way up in harlem
If you miss the a train
Youll find you missed the quickest way to harlem
Hurry, get on, now its coming
Listen to those rails a-thrumming
All aboard, get on the a train
Soon you will be on sugar hill in harlem
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Book Of Life
In the book of life
we learn a little
with each page we turn.
We learn a little tolerance
can go a long, long way
along with a little patience
will help us through the day.
In the book of life,
every page has something new
to give our life fulfilment
as each page we journey through.
18 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Juke Box Love Song
I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue busses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day--
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.
poem by Langston Hughes
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Spanish Harlem
There is a rose in spanish harlem
A rose that grows in spanish harlem
Its never seen the sun
It only comes up when the moon is on the run
And all the stars are leaving
Well, it grows right in the street
Up between the concrete
But soft and sweet, and (breathing? ? )
There is a rose in spanish harlem
A rose that grows in spanish harlem
Oh, with eyes as black as coal
That reach down in my soul
And start a fire I cant control
I beg your pardon
Well, I want to pick that rose
And watch her as she grows
In my garden
There is a rose in spanish harlem
There is a rose in spanish harlem
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scribbles On A Page
Scribbles on a page…
scribbles on a page…
back of a yellow notebook
torn pages out
let me go home
God!
let me go home
Scribbles on a page…
scribbles on a page…
my little black writing pad
bent cover-spine
let me go home
God!
let me go home
(i think i need a break)
(i think i need to sleep)
poem by Michael Romero
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I don't write a quick draft and then revise; instead, I work slowly page by page, revising and polishing.
quote by Dean Koontz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Golden Days
Another day of toil and strife,
Another page so white,
Within that fateful Log of Life
That I and all must write;
Another page without a stain
To make of as I may,
That done, I shall not see again
Until the Judgment Day.
Ah, could I, could I backward turn
The pages of that Book,
How often would I blench and burn!
How often loathe to look!
What pages would be meanly scrolled;
What smeared as if with mud;
A few, maybe, might gleam like gold,
Some scarlet seem as blood.
O Record grave, God guide my hand
And make me worthy be,
Since what I write to-day shall stand
To all eternity;
Aye, teach me, Lord of Life, I pray,
As I salute the sun,
To bear myself that every day
May be a Golden One.
poem by Robert William Service
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Sugar Mountain
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Its so noisy at the fair
But all your friends are there
And the candy floss you had
And your mother and your dad.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Theres a girl just down the aisle,
Oh, to turn and see her smile.
You can hear the words she wrote
As you read the hidden note.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Now youre underneath the stairs
And youre givin back some glares
To the people who you met
And its your first cigarette.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Now you say youre leavin home
cause you want to be alone.
Aint it funny how you feel
When youre findin out its real?
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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