Thirst

Reflection, my enemy

Perfection, my goal

Rejection, my worst fear

Deflection of words, my best skill

Slowly but surely the mirror points out

All of my marks, scratches, scars

I’m never gonna be enough

Ugliness surrounds me

I need to be tougher
I need to be stronger

I need to be a looker

I need to be perfect

Slowly the obsession eats at me

It devours the light and replaces it

With a dark and unquenchable

Thirst for perfection

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Sorry Ms. Leong I could not format this correctly 

First Lesson by Philip Booth

Lie back daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man's float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

Mother to Son by Langston Hughes

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                               

 1. This poem is about a mother explaining to her son how life will not be easy but we should never turn back or give up.

2. A harsh, rough, dark staircase that is challenging to climb.

3. It shows how life isn't a beautiful crystal stair case but a bare splintery path. I find these images very effective because it shows a comfortable way through life in which we all dream of and the harsh reality we wake up to each passing day.

4. The images depict splintery, dark, bare passages. I think these images work well to describe the life in which we all live in.

5. The mother sees life as a harsh hell that she lives in. She does not however describe the good things about life only the bad.

6. The mother is trying to show the son how life is all unicorns and rainbows but can be a stressful hellhole at times.

7."life for me ain't been no crystal stair"

8. A stairway.

9. The language is in a southern accent which I like because the author is providing a realism to the way he  "speaks" in the poem.

10. The author affected the poem by writing in his accent.

The Day

On that early saturday morning
I looked upon your face for the first time
Your little arms and legs thrashing from side to side
A combination of all that is good
And inside that day I broke

You killed what I was
But brought out what I am
An ever watchful guardian
By just existing I knew
That from that day on I would love you child

That empty space filled
With a new purpose and reason for being
I was with you that day
And until death take me away
By god I will never leave you

The will to crush all that threaten you
The will to accept the most excruciatingly painful fate
To protect you, my baby, my child, my daughter
From that day on no matter the condition or cost
When you need me...

I'll be here.

Father’s Day and Mother’s Day

By Catherine Lim

Today is Father’s Day

His turn to visit me.

Last week was Mother’s.

I hope it will be all right

Today.

It wasen’t all right last week.

So later Mother said,

“Why didn’t you tell me

He was coming?”

She slammed out

As he came in.

And Father said,

“Why didn’t you tell me

She was coming?”

But he didn’t slam out,

He still held me close.

So now they’re properly marked on the calendar,

Father’s Days and Mother’s Days,

So there won’t be any more confusion,

The telephone helps, thank God;

I never forget to ring Mother

To tell her of Father’s Day;

And I never forget to ring Father

To tell him of Mother’s Day;

So that they will never, will never

Have to look at each other again.

And reproach me

For my neglect

Father’s Day

Mother’s Day

How can they be

Days of celebration?

the fire
by Cyril Wong
Mother cried softly
to herself afterwards,
while sister pretended

nothing was happening
and dumped her boyfriend
on the phone

while I sat before
the computer and built
a poem like a fire.

first stoking, then rising
to enter it, while father
fled this burning house

like an arsonist

1. Like "Mothers Day And Fathers Day" this poem had a vague and misleading title which in this case was a good thing. I like these kinds of titles because they make the readers interested and wanting to know more about the poem itself. This poem is very symbolic and serious and in a way disturbed the readers and left an impact which, in my opinion is what a poem should do.

2. The extended metaphor in this poem describes how the father is the arsonist causing problems within the family. He leaves the mother crying, the sister in a bad mood, and the author frustrated. The fathers effects spread like a fire burning and eating at everyone in the house. "while father fled this burning house like an arsonist".

Catrin

By Gillian Clarke

I can remember you, child,

As I stood in a hot, white

Room at the window watching

The people and cars taking

Turn at the traffic lights.

I can remember you, our first

Fierce confrontation, the tight

Red rope of love which we both

Fought over. It was a square

Environmental blank, disinfected

Of paintings or toys. I wrote

All over the walls with my

Words, coloured the clean squares

With the wild, tender circles

Of our struggle to become

Separate. We want, we shouted,

To be two, to be ourselves.

Neither won nor lost the struggle

In the glass tank clouded with feelings

Which changed us both. Still I am fighting

You off, as you stand there

With your straight, strong, long

Brown hair and your rosy,

Defiant glare, bringing up

From the heart's pool that old rope,

Tightening about my life,

Trailing love and conflict,

As you ask may you skate

In the dark, for one more hour.

1.    number.

The language and structure amplified the emotions that the author is trying to express in this poem. It makes the poem harder to understand but makes the reader appreciate this poem a lot more. The author used the elements of poetry well and entertained all of the readers.