I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

by Maya Angelou

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind

and floats downstream till the current ends

and dips his wing in the orange sun’s rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage

can seldom see through his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill

of things unknown but longed for still

and his tune is heard on the distant hill

for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill

of things unknown but longed for still

and his tune is heard on the distant hill

for the caged bird sings of freedom.

A Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Dream Variations

by Langston Hughes

To fling my arms wide

In some place of the sun,

To whirl and to dance

Till the white day is done.

Then rest at cool evening

Beneath a tall tree

While night comes on gently,

Dark like me-

That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide

In the face of the sun,

Dance! Whirl! Whirl!

Till the quick day is done.

Rest at pale evening...

A tall, slim tree...

Night coming tenderly

Black like me.

Mother to Son

by Langston Hughes

Video of the poem’s words and poet’s reading.

http://www.earwshs.net/ted/mother2son.mov

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor --
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now --
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

Source: Read "Mother to Son" and answer the following questions.

  1. What is the poem about?
  2. What is the theme?
  3. What does the mother want the son to do?
  4. What is the metaphor of the poem?

Read "Mother to Son" and answer the following questions.

  1. What is the poem about?
  2. What is the theme?
  3. What does the mother want the son to do?
  4. What is the metaphor of the poem?

Source: THEODORE D. NELLEN - http://www.tnellen.com/cybereng/matoson.html

Video of the poem’s words and poet’s reading.

http://www.earwshs.net/ted/mother2son.mov

Expect Nothing

by Alice Walker

Expect nothing. Live frugally

On surprise.

Become a stranger

To need of pity

Or, if compassion be freely

Given out

Take only enough

Stop short of urge to plead

Then purge away the need.

Wish for nothing larger

Than your own small heart

Or greater than a star;

Tame wild disappointment

With caress unmoved and cold

Make of it a parka

For your soul.

Discover the reason why

So tiny human midget

Exists at all

So scared unwise

But expect nothing. Live frugally

On surprise.

We real Cool

by Gwendolyn Brooks

We real cool. We

Left School. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.

Balances

by Nikki Giovanni

in life

one is always

balancing

like we juggle our mothers

against our fathers

or one teacher

against another

(only to balance our grade average)

3 grains of salt

to one ounce truth

our sweet black essence

or the funky honkies down the street

and lately i've begun wondering

if you're trying to tell me something

we used to talk all night

and do things alone together

and i've begun

(as a reaction to a feeling)

to balance

the pleasure of loneliness

against the pain

of loving you

Conversation

by Ai

We smile at each other

and I lean back against the wicker couch.

How does it feel to be dead? I say.

You touch my knees with your blue fingers.

And when you open your mouth,

a ball of yellow light falls to the floor

and burns a hole through it.

Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.

Did you ever, you start,

wear a certain kind of dress

and just by accident,

so inconsequential you barely notice it,

your fingers graze that dress

and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,

you see it too

and you realize how that image

is simply the extension of another image,

that your own life

is a chain of words

that one day will snap.

Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,

and beginning to rise heavenward

in their confirmation dresses,

like white helium balloons,

the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,

and above all that,

that's where I'm floating,

and that's what it's like

only ten times clearer,

ten times more horrible.

Could anyone alive survive it?

I’m a Fool to Love You

by Cornelius Eady

Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,

Some type of supernatural creature.

My mother would tell you, if she could,

About her life with my father,

A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.

She would tell you about the choices

A young black woman faces.

Is falling in love with some man

A deal with the devil

In blue terms, the tongue we use

When we don't want nuance

To get in the way,

When we need to talk straight.

My mother chooses my father

After choosing a man

Who was, as we sing it,

Of no account.

This man made my father look good,

That's how bad it was.

He made my father seem like an island

In the middle of a stormy sea,

He made my father look like a rock.

And is the blues the moment you realize

You exist in a stacked deck,

You look in a mirror at your young face,

The face my sister carries,

And you know it's the only leverage

You've got.

Does this create a hurt that whispers

How you going to do?

Is the blues the moment

You shrug your shoulders

And agree, a girl without money

Is nothing, dust

To be pushed around by any old breeze.

Compared to this,

My father seems, briefly,

To be a fire escape.

This is the way the blues works

Its sorry wonders,

Makes trouble look like

A feather bed,

Makes the wrong man's kisses

A healing.

Lesson

By Forrest Hamer

It was 1963 or 4, summer,

and my father was driving our family

from Ft. Hood to North Carolina in our 56 Buick.

We'd been hearing about Klan attacks, and we knew

Mississippi to be more dangerous than usual.

Dark lay hanging from the trees the way moss did,

and when it moaned light against the windows

that night, my father pulled off the road to sleep.

Noises

that usually woke me from rest afraid of monsters

kept my father awake that night, too,

and I lay in the quiet noticing him listen, learning

that he might not be able always to protect us

from everything and the creatures besides;

perhaps not even from the fury suddenly loud

through my body about his trip from Texas

to settle us home before he would go away

to a place no place in the world

he named Viet Nam. A boy needs a father

with him, I kept thinking, fixed against noise

from the dark.