Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The Russia’s power mad.
Thank the work of our hands:weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report,for the boss on time, stitching another wound.or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait.jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes,tired from work: some days guessing at the weather,of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love,that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother,who knew how to give, or forgiving a father,We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight.of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,always under one sky, our sky.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.
In his role, he helps champion the organization's free resources for teachers, student projects, and other education initiatives. I smoke marijuana every chance I get. Movie producers are serious. Breathe. Businessmen are serious. "America" was written in 1956 during Ginsberg's time in Berkeley, California and was included in the original publication of "Howl and Other Poems." Him make Indians learn read.
O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be! "DRY," Tío Berto complained, and proceeded,to drown the lean slices with pork fat drippings.pumpkin was a home remedy for ulcers, not a dessert.Tía María made three rounds of Cuban coffee,put on a Celia Cruz LP and the entire family,sweating rum and coffee until they remembered—.One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces,of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth.across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story.told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors.each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows,begging our praise. Why poetry is necessary and sought after during crises.Cookouts, fireworks, and history lessons recounted in poems, articles, and audio.The mid-century countercultural poets who helped define a generation.One of the most respected Beat writers and acclaimed American poets of his generation, Allen Ginsberg was born on June 3, 1926 in Newark, New Jersey and raised in nearby Paterson, the son of an English teacher and Russian expatriate.
Our ground, rooting us to every stalk,of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat,and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills,in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands,digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands.so my brother and I could have books and shoes.The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains,mingled by one wind—our breath. The mountains and the endless plain— I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet. Of grab the ways of satisfying need!Of owning everything for one's own greed!The poorest worker bartered through the years.Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream.In the Old World while still a serf of kings.Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned.That's made America the land it has become.O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas.For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore.And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,And torn from Black Africa's strand I came.Surely not me? Here is the Italian version of Saadi Youssef's poem: ''America, America'' Dio salvi l’America La mia casa dolce casa! ").And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—,And finding only the same old stupid plan.Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.I am the young man, full of strength and hope.Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!Of grab the gold!
America - Centre of equal daughters, equal sons, Centre of equal daughters, equal sons, - The Academy of American Poets is the largest membership-based nonprofit organization fostering an appreciation for contemporary poetry and supporting American poets.
For them, 'America never was america to me'. Upon the 8th line, the poem has a Volta, with a slight change in direction appearing in the verse. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.Her wants to grab Chicago. Everybody’s serious but me.I’d better consider my national resources.My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that jetplanes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfive-thousand mental institutions.I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they’re all different sexes.America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe.America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor the Silk-strikers’ Ewig-Weibliche made me cry I once saw the Yiddish orator Israel Amter plain.
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