Robert+Jenkins

"Poetry is the doorway to the soul." =__ My Poems __= **__Ode__** Ode to Google You know everything When I’m stuck i know your there You give me link millions links jus for one word You’re even on my phone the search engine for every app The entire world uses you ever day And your so sweet you don't even ask for me to pay Sort of like a mom and her children You’re a huge part of everyone’s success You bring the same feelings of a child learning how to ride a bike Or a male with a fresh cut Me and the world thanks you  =__**Raised By**__ = I was raised by A get up Its time for school You not sick And Ya not staying home Kinda Woman

That Your to old for this shit But When you walk in this restaurant your 12 Kinda Woman

Stop playing do your homework Go to college Get a job Make some money Kinda Woman

Actin Silly Teasing you Calling you big head Because I love You I was raised by that kinda Woman  <span style="background-color: #ffffff; color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">__**Sonnet**__ <span style="background-color: #ffffff; color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;"> O Science Leadership Academy Such a great learning Environment With all your crazy teachers and Unique Students and a principal that matches

Intellectual classmates with goals to succeed From two hours of homework to benchmarks But the rewards should be so swell

This is a story not even close to an end The story ends in two thousand and fourteen But this is only two thousand twelve Let the games begin.

Schools at 8:15 but you’ll show up at 8:30 Your Kind of Late Project due on Tuesday Lets start on Wednesday Your Kind of Late
 * __Kind of Late__**

Planted a seed In garden called your woman And now it’s a flower in your lap wanting to get to know you

Now she’s 15 years old and your tired of watering the plant In this case my friend Your more then Just Kind of Late

<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Poems from Expert Poet :Syliva Plath  ** Daddy **

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before I had time--

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

Ghastly statue with one gray toe

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich,

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of //you//,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

And your neat mustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

But no less a devil for that, no not

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I'm finally through.

The black telephone's off at the root,

The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

Analyst: In the poem Daddy the poet Syliah Prath talks about her feeling about losing her dad at such a young age and how this has affected her life. She uses imagery in order to make connections of her feeling to things such as “ In which I have lived like a footFor thirty years, poor and white,Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.” Which to me means that even at thirty years old the lost of her dad stills haunts her causeing to have bad days of health were she can’t “breath or achoo”


 * Lady Lazard **

I have done it again.

One year in every ten

I manage it--

A sort of walking miracle, my skin

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

My right foot

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine

Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin

O my enemy.

Do I terrify?--

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be

At home on me

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.

What a trash

To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.

The peanut-crunching crowd

Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot--

The big strip tease.

Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident.

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.

It's easy enough to do it and stay put.

It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute

Amused shout:

'A miracle!'

That knocks me out.

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart--

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap,

A wedding ring,

A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air. Analyst: I interpret the poem the Lady Lazard to be about her trying to tell as if she was her dad during his ventures in war. The tone very mysterious and its wrote as one huge question. This effect is largely magnified by the line breaks of the poem and how the last line is never a complete thought. Silyah Plath also uses a lot of commas to cause the reader to take pauses. Two lines that caught my attention are…

<span style="background-color: #ffffff; color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif; font-size: 70%;">Do I terrify?—

<span style="background-color: #ffffff; color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif; font-size: 70%;">The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

She asking the “Do I terrify?” to her enemies then breaks into a new stanza. To list a set of things about her physical appearance with in a question. As if she is asking are these the things that scare them.

** The Morning Song **

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.

The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry

Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.

In a drafty museum, your nakedness

Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother

Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow

Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath

Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:

A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral

In my Victorian nightgown.

Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try

Your handful of notes;

The clear vowels rise like balloons. You can make the connection that this poem is about the birth of a baby to a nervous mother. I came to this conclusion because of the imagery and the tone of the poem. The poem has a very hectic tone as if she doesn’t know what she’s going to do with her life now that she has the new born. The quote “Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.” Makes me see a doctor and mother talking in celebration of the babies birth and every repeatedly say congratulations.

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