TAKE ME OUT TONIGHT BY CALLIE KIMBALL
Characters
DEB is an average-looking woman, 30s.
BILLY is DEB’s husband, handsome, fit, late 20s.
Setting
DEB and BILLY’s apartment, early evening.
TAKE ME OUT TONIGHT
Lights up on BILLY in an easy chair, wearing boxers and a T-shirt, snacking
on junk food, tv is on mute, talking on the phone, flipping through a copy of
Cosmopolitan or Maxim magazine—only this issue’s cover model is a hunky,
nearly nude male—headlines read: “Give her mor(e)gasms—learn from the
pros,” “Five sure-fire flirting tricks you must know to snag your dream girl”
“Great date hair—get it NOW,” “Is she a cheater? Find out now,” and the
like.
BILLY. I know, I know, Cosmo. I’m gonna ask her. It just hasn’t been the
right time… What channel? (he clicks the remote) Shit, the remote battery’s
dead. Here she comes. Bye. (he hangs up quickly, stuffs junk food under
chair, turns off tv as we hear keys rattling in the lock, starts flipping through
magazine)
DEB enters with briefcase, unopened mail, grabs a beer from the fridge,
sorts through the mail during below.
DEB. Hey, hon. (no response) I got tied up at the office. (no response) Sorry
I’m late.
BILLY. No prob.
DEB. What, you’re not gonna read me the riot act? Hey, shouldn’t you be
getting ready? It takes you forever.
BILLY. It’ll just take me a minute to throw something on.
DEB. Yeah, sure.
BILLY. So how was your day?
DEB. (sorting through mail) Fine.
BILLY. Did you eat the lunch I made you?
DEB. What? Oh. No.
BILLY. Did you work through lunch?
DEB. What is this, the third degree?
BILLY. I’m just asking about your day. If you didn’t eat the lunch I made
you, I wondered what you ate—I don’t want you going hungry. Jesus Christ,
forget it. (he flips magazine pages)
DEB. Oh, hon, I got ballet tickets for Friday.
BILLY. This Friday or next Friday?
DEB. Next Friday.
BILLY. Next Friday.
DEB. Yes, next Friday.
BILLY. Did you forget about the hockey game?
DEB. No.
BILLY. Jesus, you did. You promised. Fine, we’ll go to the ballet.
DEB. I thought you loved the ballet. C’mon, it’ll be just you and me—I won’t
even ask the girls if they want to come along.
BILLY. Really?
DEB. And I promise the next hockey game you want to go to, we’ll go.
BILLY. Okay.
DEB. I’m sorry, honey. (tries to kiss him—BILLY turns away) What’s wrong
now?
BILLY. Nothing.
DEB. Honey? (no response) Please, honey, we don’t have time for this.
We’ve got to be there by eight. (no response) Fine, I’m gonna shower. Be
ready in five minutes.
BILLY. MmmmmHM. (flips magazine)
DEB. We can’t be late.
BILLY. I know.
DEB. You know, I don’t ask much of you. You sit around all day doing God
knows what, watching tv, talking on the phone, eating those rice cakes that
give you godzilla breath and now you’re flipping that goddamn magazine in
my face.
BILLY. I can’t go on like this!
DEB. Like what?
BILLY. Like this—you don’t pay any attention to me. You just breeze in and
out of here with no idea of what I do to keep this place running. All I asked
was that you take this stupid magazine quiz with me to see what areas of
our relationship need a boost.
DEB. Okay, so tell me. Tell me every little thing you do around here. And tell
me every little thing I do wrong in our relationship, please, tell me. But do it
in 30 seconds or we’re gonna be late.
BILLY. Neverfuckingmind. (flips magazine)
DEB. Look, baby, I’m sorry. When I get home from the office, I need
some me time, ya know? I need to decompress. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be
taking out my stress on you. I know you’re sensitive and I just forget
sometimes. What the fuck, we can be late—why don’t I draw you a nice hot
bath. You can use that Bath and Body gift set Cosmo gave you for your
birthday. Spoil yourself a little.
BILLY. FUCK BATH AND BODY WORKS AND FUCK YOU!!!
DEB. Fine. (goes off to bedroom) WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? (storms back
into the living room holding a pair of crumpled animal print bikini men’s
underwear)
BILLY. You tell me.
DEB. You little snoop.
BILLY. I don’t know what you’re so upset about. It’s not a gift for me? A
surprise?
DEB. Well…if it was…you’re not getting it now.
BILLY. You lying cheat. You
know I wear boxers. (silence) Who is it? (silence) Deb, don’t be shy, who are
you screwing on your lunch hour? Hmmm, imagine my surprise when the
dry cleaners pulled those skankyass things out of your suit pocket. I sat in
that car and cried for forty-five minutes. What? I’m not enough for you? I
work out, I buy new outfits. I wear cologne-DEB. SO WHAT!? So what if I did have an affair? Who’s gonna blame me
with all of your whining. I don’t ask much—a little affection now and then.
It’s always, “Oh, Deb, turn the lights off, I feel fat.” “Oh, Deb, don’t do
that—I’m all gross down there.” It’s like everything I want is off-limits. Don’t
you get it? I want you. I love you. I seriously think you need help.
BILLY Oh, that’s ripe. I need help. You’re off fooling around and I need help.
You’re a sociopath.
DEB. A WHAT?!
BILLY. A sociopath—an antisocial asshole with no compunction for the
horrible things she does.
DEB. I know what a sociopath is. Listen. I just get a little screwy sometimes
about my priorities. But you are it for me, baby. I love you. I may look now
and then. I may even flirt, but I promise you this won’t happen again.
BILLY. Ever?
DEB. Ever.
BILLY. Who was it?
DEB. You really wanna know?
BILLY. Yes, I do. It would give me closure.
DEB. It was Cosmo. (dead silence)
BILLY. Cosmo? Cosmo Moretti?
DEB. You wanted closure.
BILLY. Jesus Christ, I gave him that underwear as a joke. When?
DEB. When you were in Akron.
BILLY. I was taking care of my dying father and you were banging my best
friend? He was best man at our wedding.
DEB. Well, actually…
BILLY. What? (dawns on him) You were fucking him then?!
DEB. We were drunk. He threw himself at me. It was when you insisted on
no sex for a month before the wedding. I’d had this fantasy about the three
of us getting together. Look, I made a mistake. Okay, I made a
few mistakes. I’m human. But, baby, the important thing is, I love you.
BILLY. And that’s supposed to make it all better?
DEB. Look, let’s blow off this whole art gallery thing and go out for ribs. You
love ribs. We can talk and, you know, reconnect with our emotions like you
always want.
BILLY. I don’t want ribs. You said I was fat.
DEB. When?
BILLY. Last night at the movies.
DEB. No, I did not say you were fat. I said those pants were looser on you
last month. That’s all. Jesus, I gotta watch everything I say around you. I’m
just trying to help you because I know you’re unhappy with the way you
look. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.
BILLY. Well…how about that bubble bath later?
DEB. Okay.
BILLY. And a foot massage?
DEB. Okay.
BILLY. And you cook for a whole week?
DEB. Okay.
BILLY. And clean up?
DEB. Okay.
BILLY. And we go to that hockey game Friday instead of the ballet?
DEB. But those tickets are paid for. Fuck. Okay. I’ll watch a bunch of
overpaid boys hammer a puck with a stick.
BILLY. And…take me to Vegas on your business trip.
DEB. But… Okaaay. Anything else?
BILLY. We could have a baby.
DEB. Jesus! Can we just eat dinner now and talk about this later?
BILLY. You asked what would fix it.
DEB. A baby will fix it.
BILLY. It’d give me something to do all day.
DEB. Can’t you take an art class?
BILLY. You asked what would fix it.
DEB. Fine. You want a baby I’ll give you a baby.
BILLY. It’s what I really want. A little girl, just like you, to love and play
with.
DEB. I am not changing my life for this.
BILLY. You won’t have to. I’ll take care of everything. I really need this, Deb.
I’m a nurturer.
DEB. All right. Okay. All right. All right. A baby. Can we go eat now?
BILLY. Sure. Be right back. (phone rings)
DEB. I’ll get it. Hello? Cosmo? Jesus, Cosmo, he knows…Yeah, but he knows
it was with
you. Yes, I’m fucking serious… I don’t know. Listen, did you leave your
underwear in my suit pocket?
BILLY. Who is it?
DEB. Christ. I’m gonna have to get pregnant now to get outta this one. I
don’t know, I guess I’ll just keep taking the Pill until your divorce is final.
Yes, I’m serious…Honey, I l
ove kids…I told him it was when he was in Ohio…I didn’t say anything about
Seattle…You should have seen him, he wasn’t sad at all, he just started
squeezingwhatever he could out of me…But I can’t take you to Vegas
now...Do you think I like it? Look, I gotta go...I gotta go...Okay, okay, I’ll
call you on the cell if I can get away. (hangs up)
BILLY. (
enters looking fabulous) Who was that?
DEB. Telemarketer.
BILLY. Honey, how many times do I have to ask, please leave the lid up?
DEB. Oh. Sorry.
BILLY. I’m ready.
DEB.
Oh. Honey, you gonna wear that?
BILLY. Why wouldn’t I wear this? You gave it to me.
DEB. I did? It looks great on you.
BILLY. Well, now I want to change.
DEB. Don’t be a silly billy, you look fanfuckingtastic.(
grabs him and squeezes, tickles, kisses, etc) Come on before I pass out from
hunger (grabs keys).
BILLY. Deb, did you really mean it? About the baby?
DEB. Yes, honey, I really meant it. I love you and I want you to be happy.
BILLY. Oh, Deb, this means everything to me. So…you wanna get
started…tonight?
DEB. Oh, yeah, baby. Come on. The sooner I eat, the sooner we can hit it. (
lights out as they leave)
End of play.
A MATTER OF HUSBANDS
a play in one-act
by Ferenc Molnar
translated by Benjamin Glazer
CHARACTERS
Famous Actress
Earnest Young Woman
[The scene is a drawing room, but a screen, a sofa and a chair will do, provided that the design and
colorings are exotic and suggestive of the apartment of the famous Hungarian actress in which this
dialogue takes place. The time is late afternoon, and when the curtain rises the Earnest Young Woman is
discovered, poised nervously on the edge of a gilt chair. It is plain she has been sitting there a long time.
For perhaps the fiftieth time she is studying the furnishings of the room and regarding the curtained
door with a glance that would be impatient if it were not so palpably frightened. And now and then she
licks her lips as if her mouth was dry. She is dressed in a very modest frock and wears her hat and furs.
At last the Famous Actress enters through the curtained door at the right which leads to her boudoir.]
FAMOUS ACTRESS: You wished to see me?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: [She gulps emotionally] Yes.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: What can I do for you?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: [Extends her arms in a beseeching gesture] Give me back my husband!
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Give you back your husband!
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Yes. [The FAMOUS ACTRESS only stares at her in speechless bewilderment.]
You are wondering which one he is.... He is a blond man, not very tall, wears spectacles. He is a lawyer,
your manager's lawyer. Alfred is his first name.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Oh! I have met him--yes.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: I know you have. I implore you, give him back to me.
[There is a long pause.]
FAMOUS ACTRESS: You mustn't mistake my silence for embarrassment. I am at a loss because--I don't
quite see how I can give you back your husband when I haven't got him to give.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: You just admitted that you knew him.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: That scarcely implies that I have taken him from you. Of course I know him. He drew
up my last contract. And it seems to me I have seen him once or twice since then--backstage. A rather
nice-spoken, fair-haired man. Did you say he wore spectacles?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Yes.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: I don't remember him with spectacles.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: He probably took them off. He wanted to look his best to you. He is in love
with you. He never takes them off when I'm around. He doesn't care how he looks when I'm around. He
doesn't love me. I implore you, give him back to me!
FAMOUS ACTRESS: If you weren't such a very foolish young woman I should be very angry with you.
Wherever did you get the idea that I have taken your husband from you?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: He sends you flowers all the time.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: That's not true.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: It is!
FAMOUS ACTRESS: It isn't. He never sent me a flower in all his life. Did he tell you he did?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: No. I found out at the florist's. The flowers are sent to your dressing room
twice a week and charged to him.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: That's a lie.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Do you mean to say that I am lying?
FAMOUS ACTRESS: I mean to say that someone is lying to you.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: [Fumbles in her bag for a letter] And what about this letter?
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Letter?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: He wrote it to you. And he said-FAMOUS ACTRESS: He wrote it to me? Let me see.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: No. I'll read it to you. [She opens it and reads mournfully] "My darling,
Shan't be able to call for you at the theater tonight. Urgent business. A thousand apologies. Ten
thousand kisses. Alfred."
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Oh!
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: I found it on his desk this morning. He probably intended to send it to the
theater by messenger. But he forgot it. And I opened it. [She weeps.]
FAMOUS ACTRESS: You mustn't cry.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: [Sobbing] Why mustn't I? You steal my husband and I mustn't cry! Oh, I
know how little it means to you. And how easy it is for you. One night you dress like a royal princess, and
the next night you undress like a Greek goddess. You blacken your eyebrows and redden your lips and
wax your lashes and paint your face. You have cosmetics and bright lights to make you seem beautiful.
An author's lines to make you seem witty and wise. No wonder a poor, simple-minded lawyer falls in
love with you. What chance have I against you in my cheap little frock, my own lips and eyebrows, my
own unstudied ways? I don't know how to strut and pose and lure a man. I haven't got Mr. Shakespeare
to write beautiful speeches for me. In reality you may be more stupid than I am, but I admit that when it
comes to alluring men I am no match for you.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: [Without anger, slowly, regards her appraisingly] This is a very interesting case.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: What is?
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Yours.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Mine? What do you mean?
FAMOUS ACTRESS: I mean that I never received a flower, or a letter, or anything else from your
husband. Tell me, haven't you and your husband been getting on rather badly of late?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Yes, of course.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: You used to be very affectionate to each other?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Why, yes.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: And of late you have been quite cold?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Yes.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Of course! A typical case.... My dear, if you knew how often we actresses meet this
sort of thing! It is perfectly clear that your husband has been playing a little comedy to make you
jealous, to revive your interest in him.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: [Dumbfounded, staring] Do you really think that? Do you mean to say such a
thing has happened to you before?
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Endless times. It happens to every actress who is moderately pretty and successful. It
is one of the oldest expedients in the world, and we actresses are such conspicuous targets for it! There
is scarcely a man connected with the theater who doesn't make use of us in that way some time or
another--authors, composers, scene designers, lawyers, orchestra leaders, even the managers
themselves. To regain a wife or sweetheart's affections all they need to do is invent a love affair with
one of us. The wife is always so ready to believe it. Usually we don't know a thing about it. But even
when it is brought to our notice we don't mind so much. At least we have the consolation of knowing
that we are the means of making many a marriage happy which might otherwise have ended in the
divorce court.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: But how--how could I know?
FAMOUS ACTRESS: [With a gracious little laugh] There, dear, you mustn't apologize. You couldn't know,
of course. It seems so plausible. You fancy your husband in an atmosphere of perpetual temptation, in a
backstage world full of beautiful sirens without scruples or morals. One actress, you suppose, is more
dangerous than a hundred ordinary women. You hate us and fear us. None understands that better than
your husband, who is evidently a very cunning lawyer. And so he plays on your fear and jealousy to
regain the love you deny him. He writes a letter and leaves it behind him on the desk. Trust a lawyer
never to do that unintentionally. He orders flowers for me by telephone in the morning and probably
cancels the order the moment he reaches his office. By the way, hasn't he a lock of my hair?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Yes. In his desk drawer. I brought it with me.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Yes. They bribe my hair-dresser to steal from me. It is a wonder I have any hair left at
all.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: [Happily] Is that how he got it?
FAMOUS ACTRESS: I can't imagine how else. Tell me, hasn't he left any of my love letters lying around?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: [In alarm] No.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Don't be alarmed. I haven't written him any.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Then what made you--?
FAMOUS ACTRESS: I might have if he had come to me frankly and said: "I say, Sara, will you do
something for me? My wife and I aren't getting on so well. Would you write me a passionate love letter
that I can leave lying around at home where she may find it?" I should certainly have done it for him. I'd
have written a letter that would have made you weep into your pillow for a fortnight. I wrote ten like
that for a very eminent playwright once. But he had no luck with them. His wife was such a proper
person she returned them all to him unread.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: How clever you are! How good!
FAMOUS ACTRESS: I'm neither better nor worse than any other girl in the theater. Even though you do
consider us such monsters.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: [Contritely] I have been a perfect fool.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Well, you do look a bit silly, standing there with tears in your eyes, and your face
flushed with happiness because you have discovered that a little blond man with spectacles loves you,
after all. My dear, no man deserves to be adored as much as that. But then it's your own affair, isn't it?
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: Yes.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Yet I want to give you a parting bit of advice: don't let him fool you like this again.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: He won't. Never fear!
FAMOUS ACTRESS: No matter what you may find in his pockets--letters, handkerchiefs, my photograph,
no matter what flowers he sends, or letters he writes, or appointments he makes--don't be taken in a
second time.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: You may be sure of that. And you won't say anything to him about my
coming here, will you?
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Not a word. I'm angry with him for not having come to me frankly for permission to
use my name the way he did.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: You are a dear, and I don't know how to thank you.
FAMOUS ACTRESS: Now you mustn't begin crying all over again.
EARNEST YOUNG WOMAN: You have made me so happy!
[She kisses the FAMOUS ACTRESS impetuously, wetting her cheek with tears; then she rushes out. The
door closes behind her. There is a pause.]
FAMOUS ACTRESS: [Goes to the door of her boudoir, calls] All right, Alfred. You can come in now. She
has gone.
THE CURTAIN FALLS
Uccello, Paolo. Saint George and the Dragon.
1470. Oil on Canvas. National Gallery,
London. Wikipedia. Web. 10 June 201
"Not my Best Side "
by U. A. Fanthorpe
I
Not my best side, I'm afraid.
The artist didn't give me a chance to
Pose properly, and as you can see,
Poor chap, he had this obsession with
Triangles, so he left off two of my
Feet. I didn't comment at the time
(What, after all, are two feet
To a monster?) but afterwards
I was sorry for the bad publicity.
Why, I said to myself, should my conqueror
Be so ostentatiously beardless, and ride
A horse with a deformed neck and square
hoofs?
Why should my victim be so
Unattractive as to be inedible,
And why should she have me literally
On a string? I don't mind dying
Ritually, since I always rise again,
But I should have liked a little more blood
To show they were taking me seriously.
II
It's hard for a girl to be sure if
She wants to be rescued. I mean, I quite
Took to the dragon. It's nice to be
Liked, if you know what I mean. He was
So nicely physical, with his claws
And lovely green skin, and that sexy tail,
And the way he looked at me,
_________________________
Packet 2: Poetry
He made me feel he was all ready to
Eat me. And any girl enjoys that.
So when this boy turned up, wearing machinery,
On a really dangerous horse, to be honest
I didn't much fancy him. I mean,
What was he like underneath the hardware?
He might have acne, blackheads or even
Bad breath for all I could tell, but the dragon-Well, you could see all his equipment
At a glance. Still, what could I do?
The dragon got himself beaten by the boy,
And a girl's got to think of her future.
III
I have diplomas in Dragon
Management and Virgin Reclamation.
My horse is the latest model, with
Automatic transmission and built-in
Obsolescence. My spear is custom-built,
And my prototype armour
Still on the secret list. You can't
Do better than me at the moment.
I'm qualified and equipped to the
Eyebrow. So why be difficult?
Don't you want to be killed and/or rescued
In the most contemporary way? Don't
You want to carry out the roles
That sociology and myth have designed for
you?
Don't you realize that, by being choosy,
You are endangering job prospects
In the spear- and horse-building industries?
What, in any case, does it matter what
You want? You're in my way.
________________
1
To cite this poem:
Fanthorpe, U.A. "Not My Best Side" (?). CUNY Composers. Ed. Corbett Treece. Web. [Day Mon. Year].
.
To see a video of the text and hear the poem read by the YouTube contributor who posts under the name "Tom
O'Bedlam" read this poem click here.
Questions for Thinking, Discussing:
1) What is the tone or mood of this poem?
2) Who is the speaker of each stanza? Do you find any single stanza or speaker to be more
sympathetic, or interesting, or fully drawn? From Fanthorpe's shifting points of view
here, do you get the sense that she favors any single character over the others?
3) In the third stanza, what or who is Fanthorpe speaking as? What kind of a person or what
sort of attitude does this speaker have of the opposite sex? Based on the details given and
the tone or stance of the speaker in this poem, what do you think is Fanthorpe's opinion
of this attitude?
4) In the second stanza, what is the speaker's attitude or opinion or perspective on the
dragon? Do you find this odd or, given the options, perfectly natural? Why or why not?
5) Would you call this a feminist poem or not? Why or why not? (You may want to look
this term up before you answer this question, you may even want to look it up in your
literary terms dictionary. )
6) Look at diction and word choice. What pops out at you?
7) Think about conquering. Who conquers? Who is conquered? Who refuses to be
conquered? Who resists being conquered? Is the issue of conquering the same in the
painting as in the poem?
8) Think of triangles and how triangles relate these characters. Think also of the word
"gaze." Who gazes at whom? Who sees whom? Who relates to whom? What do they try
to see and what do they not see? Why do you suppose that is? And, considering the
above, how can "gaze" and "seeing" and being seen or looked upon, be related to
conquering? Can looking conquer? Can being looked at make you the object of
conquering, or a victim even?
9) And ultimately, as the viewer of the painting and the reader of the poem, who do we see?
Where is our gaze directed? Do we conquer as the viewer or reader? And how does that
make us feel?
10)
Poetry Project Option 1:
Look up “The Experiment” by Symborska. Present both, “Not My Best Side” and “The
Experiment” to the class through a Power Point, focusing on how the poems respond to other
medians and what the audience can get from this. Are the poems new art forms? Are they
dependent on other art forms for meaning?
Packet 2: Poetry
2
from Don't Let Me Be Lonely: “I don't usually talk to strangers...”
By Claudia Rankine
I don't usually talk to strangers, but it is four o'clock and I can't get a cab. I need a cab because I
have packages, but it's four o'clock and all the cabs are off duty. They are making a shift change.
At the bus stop I say, It's hard to get a cab now. The woman standing next to me glances over
without turning her head. She faces the street where cab after cab drives by with its light off. She
says, as if to anyone, It's hard to live now. I don't respond. Hers is an Operation Iraqi Freedom
answer. The war is on and the Department of Homeland Security has decided we have an
elevated national-threat level, a code-orange alert. I could say something, but my packages are
getting heavier by the minute and besides, what is there to say since rhetorically it's not about our
oil under their sand but about freeing Iraqis from Iraqis and Osama is Saddam and Saddam is
“that man who tried to kill my father” and the weapons of mass destruction are, well, invisible
and Afghanistan is Iraq and Iraq is Syria and we see ourselves only through our own eyes and the
British, but not the French, and Germany won't and Turkey won't join us but the coalition is
inside Baghdad where the future is the threat the Americans feel they can escape though there is
no escaping the Americans because war, this war, is about peace: “The war in Iraq is really about
peace. Trying to make the world more peaceful. This victory in Iraq, when it happens, will make
the world more peaceful.”
Claudia Rankine, “I don’t normally talk to strangers… (p. 113)" from Don’t Let Me Be Lonely. Copyright © 2004
by Claudia Rankine. Reprinted by permission of Graywolf Press.
Source: Don't Let Me Be Lonely (Graywolf Press, 2004)
Poetry Project Option 2:
Research “I don't usually talk to strangers...” and all the topics it involves. Using this research,
give the class a political history lesson and teach the poem. Present your work in a Power Point.
Packet 2: Poetry
3
I am Trying to Break Your Heart
By Kevin Young
I am hoping
to hang your head
on my wall
in shame—
the slightest taxidermy
thrills me. Fish
forever leaping
on the living-room wall—
paperweights made
from skulls
of small animals.
I want to wear
Put me down.
I want to call you thine
to tattoo mercy
along my knuckles. I assassin
down the avenue
I hope
to have you forgotten
by noon. To know you
by your knees
palsied by prayer.
Loneliness is a science—
your smile on my sleeve
& break
your heart like a horse
or its leg. Weeks of being
bucked off, then
all at once, you're mine—
consider the taxidermist's
tender hands
trying to keep from losing
skin, the bobcat grin
of the living.
Kevin Young, "I am Trying to Break Your Heart" from Dear Darkness. Copyright © 2008 by Kevin Young. Used
by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random
House LLC. All Rights Reserved.
Source: Dear Darkness (Alfred A. Knopf, 2008)
Poetry Project Option 3:
Compare this poems topic to the Taylor Swift song “Blank Space.” Present both to the class
discussing the difference between poetry and music. Present your work in a Power Point.
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Who Burns for the Perfection of Paper
By Martín Espada
At sixteen, I worked after high school hours
at a printing plant
that manufactured legal pads:
Yellow paper
stacked seven feet high
and leaning
as I slipped cardboard
between the pages,
then brushed red glue
up and down the stack.
No gloves: fingertips required
for the perfection of paper,
smoothing the exact rectangle.
Sluggish by 9 PM, the hands
would slide along suddenly sharp paper,
and gather slits thinner than the crevices
of the skin, hidden.
Then the glue would sting,
hands oozing
till both palms burned
at the punchclock.
Ten years later, in law school,
I knew that every legal pad
was glued with the sting of hidden cuts,
that every open lawbook
was a pair of hands
upturned and burning.
Martin Espada, "Who Burns for the Perfection of Paper" from City of Coughing and Dead Radiators. Copyright ©
1993 by Martin Espada. Used by permission of the author W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
Source: City of Coughing and Dead Radiators (W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1993)
Confessional Poetry
Muckraker
By Cate Marvin
As one in dowte, thys ys my ssayyng:
Have I dysplesed yow in any thyng?
—Thomas Wyatt
That greasy letter into which my legs entered,
its tone conspiratorial as his wink, a linguistic
wriggling of the eyebrows, a heh heh—it may
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as well have appeared before my door chafing
the air with the stiff noise of its cheap leather
jacket. Am I not chagrined by his proposition
to put it all behind us and begin again as friends?
How do I reply? And how shall I contend with
the fact, Reader, that this matter cannot mean
much to you, and that I, as author, am required
to consider how to tell this tale in a manner that
will entertain you, despite having never met you
and having no way of knowing how to affect you,
get you to let me touch you all over, kiss your lips
then tongue your mouth open, move my mouth
down your neck to the valley of your chest, pluck
buttons off you with my teeth. I have thought of
this for a great, long time. I have sat here hunched,
feeling sick; I have paced rugs bare. Why should
you care? His door opened, selves spilled out my
heart's bucket, flopped their silvers across a floor.
He was too poor to enter a store, too poor to pay
postage for a letter, so poor he'd have stolen crumbs
from a mouse, so poor he'd have sold his cadaver
if he could. Yet, consider the man: his deep voice
began to work away at my inhibitions like sandpaper.
Before I knew it, I'd moved right into him, wiped
the eyes of windows clear, mended the tears in his
screens, made our bed with sheets so icy clean—
but you do not want me to give too much away.
What fun would that be? Here, as with any tale,
the moral's like a molar, set far back in the mouth
of the story. Open wider, let me stick my pliers in,
wrench it out. Left unattended, anything's prone
to spoil, go bad, turn rotten, sink into itself, stink
up the whole house. And how shall I begin to make
my account? Dig through the junk heap. Start small.
He grew over me calmly as a vine climbs a trellis.
Your nightgown is unbecoming. A few small terrorisms.
Eyes wide at my wince, incredulous. You thought I'd
hit you? Loom large. His question was rhetorical.
You have a disease. Or aim dead center and toss my
dart. Tell it plain, an expensive watch, rent checks,
designer sunglasses, a ring, a student named Nadine,
Prozac, Visa, Harold Bloom, Jim Beam. But this is not
the stuff of poesy, is it? Shall I shut up and return to
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my book? Details! Only details can raise this story's
sail. Money's one thing, but this is another poverty
altogether. We had an agreement, pills plucked daily
from a dial. Lawns in August, plot after plot of green,
the warm hiss of sprinklers arcing rainbows, children's
delighted screams. It was a fault to desire these things.
Junk heap! Wrench the cumbersome thing out, heavy
and foul as a discarded couch, his omission. Hadn't
I known his books were his children? Adding up all
the hours I'd breathed beside him, years handed over
as if on a platter, it is simply too much, all that while,
how each night he partook of his clean, black sleep—
Reader, do I border on the obscene? Have I forced
you to give up your sympathies in exchange for more
lurid curiosities? I am reminded of a trip I took long
ago to a small city in Mexico. How carefully I listened
to a man tell us the only means by which to recognize
real silver was from a number stamped on the jewelry's
side. Only later, arriving home, would I realize that
lowly guide contrived to have the van arrive at stores
run by his friends, bracelets and rings sweating off
their dull green circlets onto my wrists, my fingers.
Counterfeit! This is war, this is two spiders a child's
dropped into a jar, scrabbling at the glass and flinging
their webs, each so intent on killing the other, the fact
they are both trapped has ceased to matter. O, blood,
blood, blood! Shall I, Reader, be a tad more explicit?
Here's my problem: I must be very, very careful with
what I say. He always complained that I caused a scene—
even at the courthouse, after I'd paid the processing
fee, when asked whether he could spare some change
to pay the parking attendant, he growled keep your voice
down as if it had jumped on his legs. To speak of money
in public is impolite, or so his mother had taught him.
His wisdom tooth was rotting, the infection was liable
to spread to his brain, and he was too poor to have it
extracted. He stated this over and over, slowly, as if he
believed I was having trouble understanding English
or had suddenly turned mentally deficient. A problem:
If you can't trust people, you can't trust books, since
books are people and people are books. Shall I ask him
to sign it? Beautiful dreamer, may all your beginnings be true
beginnings. You think this unseemly for me to confide?
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Reader, don't mistake me for someone who gives a shit,
or your bride. I have no loyalty and I have no pride.
Source: Poetry (February 2007).
Cate Marvin
b. 1969
http://www.catemarvin.com
Rex Lott
Raised in Washington, DC, Cate Marvin uses her work to explore what it means to be an “American poet.” Marvin
is interested in how American identity collides with the English language, focusing heavily on language play and on
the intersection of identity, language, and the natural landscape. An accomplished poet and fiction writer as well as
an academic, Marvin holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Houston, an MFA in fiction from the Iowa
Writers’ Workshop, and a PhD in English and comparative literature from the University of Cincinnati.
Her poetry collections include World’s Tallest Disaster (2001), which won the Kathryn A. Morton Prize in Poetry,
Fragment of the Head of a Queen (2007), and Oracle (2015). Marvin co-edited, with Michael Dumanis, the
anthology Legitimate Dangers: American Poets of the New Century (2006). With poet Erin Belieu, she is the cofounder and co-director of VIDA: Women in the Literary Arts, an organization that seeks to “explore critical and
cultural perceptions of writing by women” in contemporary culture.
Marvin’s many honors include the Kate Tufts Discovery Prize and a Whiting Award. Marvin has taught poetry at
Lesley University’s Low-Residency MFA program and is associate professor of creative writing at the College of
Staten Island of the City University of New York.
Poetry Project Option 4:
Compare Marvin and Espada’s poetry. Present the poems to the class in a narrative structure:
memorize, act out, draw out—etc. Based on what you learned, talk to the class about how
narration is used to write a poem.
Nature Poetry
Rain
By Kazim Ali
With thick strokes of ink the sky fills with rain.
Pretending to run for cover but secretly praying for more rain.
Over the echo of the water, I hear a voice saying my name.
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No one in the city moves under the quick sightless rain.
The pages of my notebook soak, then curl. I’ve written:
“Yogis opened their mouths for hours to drink the rain.”
The sky is a bowl of dark water, rinsing your face.
The window trembles; liquid glass could shatter into rain.
I am a dark bowl, waiting to be filled.
If I open my mouth now, I could drown in the rain.
I hurry home as though someone is there waiting for me.
The night collapses into your skin. I am the rain.
Kazim Ali
b. 1971
http://www.kazimali.com
Poet, editor, and prose writer Kazim Ali was born in the United Kingdom to Muslim parents of
Indian descent. He received a BA and MA from the University of Albany-SUNY, and an MFA
from New York University.Ali’s poetry collections include The Far Mosque (2005), which won
Alice James Books’ New England/New York Award, and The Fortieth Day (2008). Ali’s poems,
both lyric and musical, explore the intersection of faith and daily life. In a review of The Fortieth
Day, Library Journal noted that Ali “continues his task of creating a rejuvenated language that
longs to be liberated from the weight of daily routine and the power of dogmatic usage . . .
writing in the tradition of Wallace Stevens, Ali is clearly a poet of ideas and symbols, yet his
words remain living entities within the texture of the poem.”His prose includes The
Disappearance of Seth (2009) and Bright Felon: Autobiography and Cities (2009), as well as the
novel Quinn’s Passage (2005), which was named one of the Best Books of 2005 by Chronogram
magazine.In 2003 Ali co-founded Nightboat Books and served as the press’s publisher until
2007.He has received an Individual Excellence Award from the Ohio Arts Council, and his
poetry has been featured in Best American Poetry. Ali has been a regular columnist for the
American Poetry Review and a contributing editor for the Association of Writers and Writing
Programs’ Writer’s Chronicle. He is a former member of the Cocoon Theatre Modern Dance
Company.Ali has taught at Oberlin College and the low-residency Stonecoast MFA program at
the University of Southern Maine. He lives in Oberlin, Ohio.
In January 2014, Ali was a featured writer for Harriet.
Guest House
This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
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Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
- Rumi
Poetry Project Option 5:
Research the “Rain” and “Guest House.” Present them to the class in a way that makes them
understand their meanings/ the metaphor. You can use drawing, Powerpoint, charting—etc.
Explain to the class how these poems are using metaphor.
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Imagist Poetry
The crowd at the ball game
By William Carlos Williams
it smiles grimly
its words cut—
The flashy female with her
mother, gets it—
The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly
The Jew gets it straight— it
is deadly, terrifying—
by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them—
It is the Inquisition, the
Revolution
all the exciting detail
of the chase
It is beauty itself
that lives
and the escape, the error
the flash of genius—
day by day in them
idly—
all to no end save beauty
the eternal—
This is
the power of their faces
So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful
It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is
for this
to be warned against
cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail
saluted and defied—
It is alive, venomous
permanently, seriously
without thought
William Carlos Williams, “The crowd at the ball game” from The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams,
Volume I, 1909-1939, edited by Christopher MacGowan. Copyright 1938 by New Directions Publishing
Corporation. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Source: The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams Vol 1:1909-1939 (New Directions Publishing
Corporation, )
Victorian Poetry/Refrain
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Topsy-Turvy World
By William Brighty Rands
IF the butterfly courted the bee,
And the owl the porcupine;
If churches were built in the sea,
And three times one was nine;
If the pony rode his master,
If the buttercups ate the cows,
If the cats had the dire disaster
To be worried, sir, by the mouse;
If mamma, sir, sold the baby
To a gypsy for half a crown;
If a gentleman, sir, was a lady,—
The world would be Upside-down!
If any or all of these wonders
Should ever come about,
I should not consider them blunders,
For I should be Inside-out!
Chorus
Ba-ba, black wool,
Have you any sheep?
Yes, sir, a packfull,
Creep, mouse, creep!
Four-and-twenty little maids
Hanging out the pie,
Out jump’d the honey-pot,
Guy Fawkes, Guy!
Cross latch, cross latch,
Sit and spin the fire;
When the pie was open’d,
The bird was on the brier!
Source: A Victorian Anthology 1837–1895 ()
Poetry Project Option 6:
Draw the imagist poem above line by and line and perform the Victorian Poem in which you use
the refrain in a creative way. Discuss what you learned from doing this with the class after you
present your work.
Language Poetry
The Tragic Condition of the Statue of Liberty
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By Bernadette Mayer
A collaboration with Emma Lazarus
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
Give me your gentrificatees of the Lower East Side including all the well-heeled young
Europeans who’ll take apartments without leases
Give me your landlords, give me your cooperators
Give me the guys who sell the food and the computers to the public schools in District One
Give me the IRS-FBI-CIA men who don’t take election day off
Give me the certain members of the school board & give me the district superintendent
Give me all the greedy members of both american & foreign capitalist religious sects
Give me the parents of the punk people
Give me the guy who puts those stickers in the Rice Krispies
Give me the doctor who thinks his time is more valuable than mine and my daughter’s & the
time of all the other non-doctors in this world
Give me the mayor, his mansion, and the president & his white house
Give me the cops who laugh and sneer at meetings where they demonstrate the new uses of mace
and robots instead of the old murder against people who are being evicted
Give me the landlord’s sleazy lawyers and the deal-making judges in housing court & give me
the landlord’s arsonist
Give me the known & unknown big important rich guys who now bank on our quaint
neighborhood
Give me, forgive me, the writers who have already or want to write bestsellers in this country
Together we will go to restore Ellis Island, ravaged for years by wind, weather and vandals
I was surprised and saddened when I heard that the Statue of Liberty was in such a serious state
of disrepair & I want to help
This is the most generous contribution I can afford.
Bernadette Mayer, “The Tragic Condition of the Statue of Liberty” from Up Late: American Poetry Since 1970.
Copyright © 1987 by Bernadette Mayer. Reprinted by permission of Bernadette Mayer.
Source: Up Late: American Poetry Since 1970 (Four Walls Eight Windows Press, 1987)
Self-Help
By Charles Bernstein
Home team suffers string of losses.—Time to change loyalties.
Quadruple bypass.—Hold the bacon on that next cheeseburger.
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Poems tanking.—After stormiest days, sun comes out from behind clouds, or used to.
Marriage on rocks.—Nothing like Coke.
Election going the wrong direction.—Kick off slippers, take deep breathe, be here now.
Boss says your performance needs boost.—A long hot bath smoothes wrinkles.
War toll tops 100,000.—Get your mind off it, switch to reality TV.
Lake Tang Woo Chin Chicken with Lobster and Sweet Clam Sauce still not served and
everyone else got their orders twenty minutes back.—Savor the water, feast on the company.
Subway floods and late for audition.—Start being the author of your own performance. Take a
walk.
Slip on ice, break arm.—In moments like this, the preciousness of life reveals itself.
Wages down in non-union shop.—You’re a sales associate, not a worker; so proud to be part of
the company.
Miss the train?—Great chance to explore the station!
Suicide bombers wrecks neighborhood.—Time to pitch in!
Nothing doing.—Take a break!
Partner in life finds another partner.—Now you can begin the journey of life anew.
Bald?—Finally, you can touch the sky with the top of your head.
Short-term recall shot.—Old memories are sweetest.
Hard drive crashes and novel not backed up.—Nothing like a fresh start.
Severe stomach cramps all morning.—Boy are these back issues of Field and Stream
engrossing.
Hurricane crushes house.—You never seemed so resilient.
Brother-in-law completes second year in coma.—He seems so muchmore relaxed than he used
to.
$75 ticket for Sunday meter violation on an empty street in residential neighborhood.—The
city needs the money to make us safe and educate our kids.
Missed last episode of favorite murder mystery because you misprogrammed VCR.—Write
your own ending!
Blue cashmere pullover has three big moth holes.—What a great looking shirt!
Son joins skinhead brigade of Jews for Jesus.—At least he’s following his bliss.
Your new play receives scathing reviews and closes after a single night.—What a glorious
performance!
Pungent stench of homeless man on subway, asking for food.—Such kindness in his eyes, as I
turn toward home.
Retirement savings lost on Enron and WorldCom.—They almost rhyme.
Oil spill kills seals.—The workings of the Lord are inscrutable.
Global warming swamps land masses.—Learn to accept change.
Bike going fast in wrong direction knocks you over.—A few weeks off your feet, just what the
doctor ordered.
AIDS ravaging Africa.—Wasn’t Jeffrey Wright fabulous in Angels in America?
Muffler shot.—There’s this great pizza place next to the shop.
Income gap becomes crater.—Good motivation to get rich.
Abu Ghraib prisoners tortured.—Let’s face it, shit happens.
Oscar wins Emmy.—Award shows are da bomb.
FBI checking your library check-outs.—I also recommend books on Amazon.
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Gay marriages annulled.—Who needs the state to sanctify our love?
President’s lies kill GIs.—He’s so decisive about his core values.
Self-Help.—Other drowns.
Charles Bernstein, “Self-Help” from Girly Man (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2007).
Source: Girly Man (The University of Chicago Press, 2007)
Poetry Project Option 7:
“Self Help” and “The Tragic Condition of the Statue of Liberty” are both poems that are written
like a manifesto. Present the poems to the class through dramatic reading or performance and
then write your own manifesto poem as a group and present it as well.
Gender Bender
By Jennifer Michael Hecht
Evolution settles for a while on various stable balances.
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One is that some of the girls like cute boys and some
like ugly older men and sometimes women. The difference
between them is the ones who like older men were felt up
by their fathers or uncles or older brothers, or if he didn't
touch you, still you lived in his cauldron of curses and
urges which could be just as worse. They grow already old,
angry, and wise, they get rich, get mean, get theirs.
The untouched/uncursed others are happy never needing
to do much, and never do much more than good. They envy
their mean, rich, talented, drunk sisters. Good girls drink milk
and make milk and know they've missed out and know they're
better off. They might dance and design but won't rip out lungs
for a flag. Bad ones write books and slash red paint on canvas;
they've rage to vent, they've fault lines and will rip a toga off
a Caesar and stab a goat for the ether. It's as simple as that.
Either, deep in the dark of your history, someone showed you
that you could be used as a cash machine, as a popcorn popper,
as a rocket launch, as a coin-slot jackpot spunker, or they didn't
and you grew up unused and clueless. Either you got a clue
and spiked lunch or you got zilch but no punch. And you
never knew. It's exactly not anyone's fault. If it happened
and you don't like older men that's just because you like
them so much you won't let yourself have one. If you did
everyone would see. Then they would know what happened
a long time ago, with you and with that original him, whose eyes
you've been avoiding for decades gone forgotten. That's why
you date men smaller than you or not at all. Or maybe you've
turned into a man. It isn't anyone's fault, it is just human
and it is what happens. Or doesn't happen. That's that. Any
questions? If you see a girl dressed to say No one tells me
what to do, you know someone once told her what to do.
Jennifer Michael Hecht, "Gender Bender" from Who Said. Copyright © 2013 by
Jennifer Michael Hecht. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press.
The End and the Beginning
By Wisława Szymborska
Translated By Joanna Trzeciak
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After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
16
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.
Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
We’ll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.
From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
Wislawa Szymborska, "The End and the Beginning " from Miracle Fair, translated by Joanna Trzeciak. Copyright
© 2001 by Joanna Trzeciak. Used by permission of the author and W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. This
selection may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means
without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Source: Miracle Fair: selected poems of Wisława Szymborska (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 2001)
Poetry Project Option 8:
Consider the poet’s agendas in “Gender Bender” and “The End and the Beginning.” What
argument are the poet’s making? What about these arguments make the poem work or not work?
How can argument be used effectively in a poem?
The Cowboy
By James Tate
Someone had spread an elaborate rumor about me, that I was
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in possession of an extraterrestrial being, and I thought I knew who
it was. It was Roger Lawson. Roger was a practical joker of the
worst sort, and up till now I had not been one of his victims, so
I kind of knew my time had come. People parked in front of my
house for hours and took pictures. I had to draw all my blinds
and only went out when I had to. Then there was a barrage of
questions. “What does he look like?" “What do you feed him?” “How
did you capture him?” And I simply denied the presence of an
extraterrestrial in my house. And, of course, this excited them
all the more. The press showed up and started creeping around
my yard. It got to be very irritating. More and more came and
parked up and down the street. Roger was really working overtime
on this one. I had to do something. Finally, I made an announcement.
I said, “The little fellow died peacefully in his sleep at 11:02
last night.” “Let us see the body,” they clamored. “He went up
in smoke instantly,” I said. “I don’t believe you,” one of them
said. “There is no body in the house or I would have buried it
myself,” I said. About half of them got in their cars and drove
off. The rest of them kept their vigil, but more solemnly now.
I went out and bought some groceries. When I came back about an
hour later another half of them had gone. When I went into the kitchen
I nearly dropped the groceries. There was a nearly transparent
fellow with large pink eyes standing about three feet tall. “Why
did you tell them I was dead? That was a lie,” he said. “You
speak English,” I said. “I listen to the radio. It wasn’t very
hard to learn. Also we have television. We get all your channels.
I like cowboys, especially John Ford movies. They’re the best,”
he said. “What am I going to do with you?” I said. “Take me
to meet a real cowboy. That would make me happy,” he said. “I
don’t know any real cowboys, but maybe we could find one. But
people will go crazy if they see you. We’d have press following
us everywhere. It would be the story of the century,” I said.
“I can be invisible. It’s not hard for me to do,” he said.
“I’ll think about it. Wyoming or Montana would be our best bet, but
they’re a long way from here,” I said. “Please, I won’t cause
you any trouble,” he said. “It would take some planning,” I said.
I put the groceries down and started putting them away. I tried
not to think of the cosmic meaning of all this. Instead, I
treated him like a smart little kid. “Do you have any sarsaparilla?”
he said. “No, but I have some orange juice. It’s good for you,”
I said. He drank it and made a face. “I’m going to get the maps
out,” I said. “We’ll see how we could get there.” When I came
back he was dancing on the kitchen table, a sort of ballet, but
very sad. “I have the maps,” I said. “We won’t need them. I just
received word. I’m going to die tonight. It’s really a joyous
occasion, and I hope you’ll help me celebrate by watching The
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Magnificent Seven,” he said. I stood there with the maps in my
hand. I felt an unbearable sadness come over me. “Why must
you die?” I said. “Father decides these things. It is probably
my reward for coming here safely and meeting you,” he said. “But
I was going to take you to meet a real cowboy,” I said. “Let’s
pretend you are my cowboy,” he said.
James Tate, "The Cowboy" from The Ghost Soldiers. Copyright © 2008 by James Tate. Reprinted by permission of
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Source: The Ghost Soldiers (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 2008)
Poetry Project Option: Pick one of the following assignments to do in variation.
Using “The Cowboy” to launch a discussion, get student opinions about the role of
humor in poetry. Perhaps gather examples of funny poems from the Poetry Foundation
website. Contemporary poets known for being funny include Patricia Lockwood,
Dorothea Lasky, and Michael Robbins, to name just a few.
2) Read excerpts from the interview with Lockwood, or think about the essay by
Michaelanne Petrella. Read widely and take notes on what poetry is generally funny
about; how it creates humor; what poets themselves think about funny poetry; and
whether they as readers are ever moved to laughter by the poems or poets they’re reading.
3) Have students remediate Tate’s poem. Create an interpretation of “The Cowboy”; this
could be a drawing, a skit, a comic, or some other kind of representation. Think about
what makes Tate’s poem so open to “staging” exercises; how does it differ from other
kinds of poems you may have looked at or read together?
1)
Slam Poetry
Prologue—And Then She Owns You
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By Patricia Smith
This is not morning. There is a nastiness
slowing your shoes, something you shouldn’t step in.
It’s shattered beads, stomped flowers, vomit—
such stupid beauty,
beauty you can stick a manicured finger
into and through, beauty that doesn’t rely
on any sentence the sun chants, it’s whiskey
swelter blown scarlet.
Call this something else. Last night it had a name,
a name wedged between an organ’s teeth, a name
pumping a virgin unawares, a curse word.
Wail it, regardless,
Weak light, bleakly triumphant, will unveil scabs,
snippets of filth music, cars on collapsed veins.
The whole of gray doubt slithers on solemn skin.
Call her New Orleans.
Each day she wavers, not knowing how long she
can stomach the introduction of needles,
the brash, boozed warbling of bums with neon crowns,
necklaces raining.
She tries on her voice, which sounds like cigarettes,
pubic sweat, brown spittle lining a sax bell
the broken heel on a drag queen’s scarlet slings.
Your kind of singing.
Weirdly in love, you rhumba her edges, drink
fuming concoctions, lick your lukewarm breakfast
directly from her crust. Go on, admit it.
You are addicted
to her brick hips, the thick swerve she elicits,
the way she kisses you, her lies wide open.
She prefers alleys, crevices, basement floors.
Hell, let her woo you.
This kind of romance dims the worth of soldiers,
bends and breaks the back, sips manna from muscle,
tells you Leave your life. Pack your little suitcase,
flee what is rigid
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and duly prescribed. Let her touch that raw space
between cock and calm, the place that scripts such jazz.
Let her pen letters addressed to your asking.
You s-s-stutter.
New Orleans’s, p-please. Don’t. Blue is the color
stunning your tongue. At least the city pretends
to remember to be listening.
She grins with glint tooth,
wiping your mind blind of the wife, the children,
the numb ritual of job and garden plot.
Gently, she leads you out into the darkness
and makes you drink rain.
Patricia Smith, “Prologue—And Then She Owns You” from Blood Dazzler. Copyright © 2008 by Patricia Smith.
Reprinted by permission of Coffee House Press. www.coffeehousepress.org
Source: Blood Dazzler (Coffee House Press, 2008)
Poetry Project Option 9:
Research slam poetry. Go to a slam competition (or find a way to read your work/ publish your
work to a larger group of readings and writers of poetry) and slam your work. Have someone
record the process of you slamming an original piece. Be sure to give document your reading for
the class. Present you work in a video presentation embedded in a Power Point that contains your
relevant research.
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Pick ONE Poetry Project to Complete
All Projects Must Contain the following:
-7-10 Slides if you are doing a Power Point
-Well Edited work.
-MLA Citations and Works Cited page when Necessary
-Application of the deconstruction tools we have been learning
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