English

Miniver Cheevy

MINIVER CHEEVY, child of scorn,

  Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

  And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

  When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold

  Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

  And dreamed, and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,

  And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

  That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

  And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

  Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

  Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace

  And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediaeval grace

  Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,

  But sore annoyed was he without it;

Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,

  And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

  Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

  And kept on drinking.

Langston Hughes (1901-1967)

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. (1951)

Thomas Hardy

"Had he and I but met

            By some old ancient inn,

We should have sat us down to wet

            Right many a nipperkin!

            "But ranged as infantry,

            And staring face to face,

I shot at him as he at me,

            And killed him in his place.

            "I shot him dead because —

            Because he was my foe,

Just so: my foe of course he was;

            That's clear enough; although

            "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,

            Off-hand like — just as I —

Was out of work — had sold his traps —

            No other reason why.

            "Yes; quaint and curious war is!

            You shoot a fellow down

You'd treat if met where any bar is,

            Or help to half-a-crown."

The Man He Killed

Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have set us down to wet Right many a nipperkin! But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place. I shot him dead because-- Because he was my foe, Just so: my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, Off-hand like--just as I-- Was out of work--had sold his traps-- No other reason why. Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat, if met where any bar is, Or help to half a crown.

Stephen Crane

War is Kind

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.

Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky

And the affrighted steed ran on alone,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die. The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom -- A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.

Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,

Raged at his breast, gulped and died,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

Swift blazing flag of the regiment, Eagle with crest of red and gold, These men were born to drill and die. Point for them the virtue of slaughter, Make plain to them the excellence of killing And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button

On the bright splendid shroud of your son,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

Facing It

Yusef Komunyakaa  - 1947-

My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't, dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way—the stone lets me go. I turn that way—I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman's trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

From Dien Cai Dau by Yusef Komunyakaa. Copyright © 1988 by Yusef Komunyakaa. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press. All rights reserved.

Icarus John Updike O.K., you are sitting in an airplane and the person in the seat next to you is a sweaty, swarthy gentleman of Middle Eastern origin whose carry-on luggage consists of a bulky black briefcase he stashes, in compliance with airline regulations, underneath the seat ahead. He keeps looking at his watch and closing his eyes in prayer, resting his profusely dank forehead against the seatback ahead of him, just above the black briefcase, which if you listen through the droning of the engines seems to be ticking, ticking softly, softer than your heartbeat in your ears. Who wants to have all their careful packing—the travellers’ checks, the folded underwear— end as floating sea-wrack five miles below, drifting in a rainbow scum of jet fuel, and their docile hopes of a plastic-wrapped meal dashed in a concussion whiter than the sun? I say to my companion, "Smooth flight so far." "So far." "That’s quite a briefcase you’ve got there." He shrugs and says, "It contains my life’s work." "And what is it, exactly, that you do?" "You could say I am a lobbyist." He does not want to talk. He wants to keep praying. His hands, with their silky beige backs and their nails cut close like a technician’s, tremble and jump in handling the plastic glass of Sprite when it comes with its exploding bubbles. Ah, but one gets swept up in the airport throng, all those workaday faces, faintly pampered and spoiled in the boomer style, and those elders dressed like children for flying in hi-tech sneakers and polychrome catsuits, and those gum-chewing attendants taking tickets while keeping up a running flirtation with a uniformed bystander, a stoic blond pilot -- all so normal, who could resist this vault into the impossible? Your sweat has slowly dried. Your praying neighbor has fallen asleep, emitting an odor of cardamom. His briefcase seems to have deflated. Perhaps not this time, then. But the possibility of impossibility will keep drawing us back to this scrape against the numbed sky, to this sleek sheathed tangle of color-coded wires, these million rivets, the wing like a frozen lake at your elbow.

Wislawa Szymborska

            The Terrorist, He Watches

The bomb will explode in the bar at twenty past one. Now it's only sixteen minutes past. Some will still have time to enter, some to leave. The terrorist's already on the other side. That distance protects him from all harm and well it's like the pictures: A woman in a yellow jacket, she enters. A man in dark glasses, he leaves. Boys in jeans, they're talking. Sixteen minutes past and four seconds. The smaller one he's lucky, mounts his scooter, but the taller chap he walks in. Seventeen minutes and forty seconds. A girl, she walks by, a green ribbon in her hair. But that bus suddenly hides her. Eighteen minutes past. The girl's disappeared. Was she stupid enough to go in, or wasn't she. We shall see when they bring out the bodies. Nineteen minutes past. No one else appears to be going in. On the other hand, a fat bald man leaves. But seems to search his pockets and at ten seconds to twenty past one he returns to look for his wretched gloves. It's twenty past one. Time, how it drags. Surely, it's now. No, not quite. Yes, now. The bomb, it explodes.          Polish; trans. Adam Czermiawski

The Man He Killed

The Man He Killed