A Poison TreeBY WILLIAM BLAKE

A Poison TreeBY WILLIAM BLAKE

I was angry with my friend; 

I told my wrath, my wrath did end. 

I was angry with my foe: 

I told it not, my wrath did grow. 

And I waterd it in fears, 

Night & morning with my tears: 

And I sunned it with smiles, 

And with soft deceitful wiles. 

And it grew both day and night. 

Till it bore an apple bright. 

And my foe beheld it shine, 

And he knew that it was mine. 

And into my garden stole, 

When the night had veild the pole; 

In the morning glad I see; 

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

O Captain! My Captain!BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

After AbolitionBy Kyle Carrero Lopez

Prisons and cops survive only in tales for the young

like twin Atlantises or two drowned boogeymen.

A cop’s as harmless a Halloween getup as any

monster, while a prisoner costume’s as taboo as a slave one

now that schools teach what makes them kin.

A prison is the far-off past of a structure

turned free housing, each cell wall knocked to sandcastle

ruin, halls reshaped and re-dyed in green paints,

former floor plans carved out like shores

into spacious homes, laundry and A/C a given in each.

Though prisons and cops won’t be found anywhere,

our youths still learn of them, and they know what they mean,

how they look, how they function, what it will take to stop them

if they return with new names.

on the ideas in the two  poetry. They have different ideas about what poems are and why they matter. Do you agree? Disagree? Maybe there are parts that you agree with and parts that you don’t. Explain! What impact do you think poems can have in the real world? What is the point of a poem? You don’t have to respond to all of these questions, but I want you to think deeply about how you feel about poetry and its place in the world. Along the way, please tie in your thoughts about one (or both, but at least one) of the two examples poems from this week. What events is it responding to? Do you think it is an effective, important, or interesting response? Why or why not?