English II Honors Poetry PortfolioMrs. Orihuela | 1A

Assigned: January 30, 2015 | Due: March 11, 2015

For this assignment, you will be analyzing 10 pre-selected poems and 5 poems that you select yourself, for a total of 15 poems. All 10 of the pre-selected poems feature issues and perspectives concerning diversity and multiculturalism, and 7 of them are by poets from outside of the United States. The 5 additional poems that you select should follow the same guidelines.

When analyzing all 15 poems:• Identify 5 different literary devices (each device may be used more than once within the poem).• Please handwrite these annotations on the sheets given in this packet.• Distinguish each individual device (i.e. by highlighting each one in a different color).• Define the devices being used.• Describe how the poet is using them (i.e. their purpose in the poem).• Explain the overall affect that the devices have on the poem as a whole.

• Further analyze your poems.• Please type these on a separate sheet of paper and place it directly behind the original poem sheet.• Identify the tone and mood of the poem and provide evidence.• Identify the speaker/point of view of the poem and provide evidence.• Identify a single, main theme and provide evidence.• Identify the intended audience of the poem and provide evidence.• Explain your overall understanding of the poem’s meaning and give evidence for your reasoning.

When selecting your 5 additional poems:• All 5 of them must focus on diversity, multiculturalism, or issues dealing with cultural clash.• At least 3 of them must have been written by poets from outside of the United States.• All 5 must be at least 15 lines long.

When typing the other elements out:• Use 12 point Times New Roman font.• Clearly label what each element is and use double spacing.• Also, provide the names and origins of all 15 poets.

When assembling your portfolio:• Include a title page with your name, my name, the class title (English II Honors | 1A), the date, the assignment

title (Poetry Portfolio), and at least 5 pictures that represent some of the poems.• Follow each original poem sheet (which should be annotated with the 5 different literary devices) with typed

additional elements (mood and tone, speaker/POV, theme, audience, and meaning).• Paper clip everything together and place it inside your folder (provided by me).

Lastly, is the presentation aspect. Once you’ve completed your portfolio, you will select 1 of your 5 additional poems to present to the class. Your presentation should include:

• At least 2 photos (1 of the poet and 1 of your choice that is appropriate and applicable to the poem and assignment).• A copy of the poem.• Background information about the poet (i.e. dates of birth and death [if applicable], where they’re from, any other

publications, at least 3 interesting facts, and what specifically influences his or her work).• Your analysis and understanding of the poem.• All of this must be neatly presented in some kind of visual aid (either a poster board, PowerPoint, or Prezi).

SAMPLE TITLE PAGE

Poetry Portfolio

John Smith

Mrs. Orihuela

English II Honors | 1A

18 January 2014

SAMPLE ADDITIONAL ELEMENTS PAGE

Poet: Julia Alvarez

Origin: New York City, NY

Tone: The tone of this poem is...because...

Mood: The mood of this poem is...because...

Speaker/POV: This poem is from the _________ point of view, and the speaker is...

Theme: A theme of this poem is...because...

Audience: The intended audience for this poem is...because...

Meaning: My overall understanding of the meaning of this poem is...because...

The StayerBy: Virgil Suárez

Simply, my uncle Chico stayedback in Cuba, against the family’sadvice, because everyone left

and he chose to stay, and this actof staying marked him as “crazy”with most of the men, and he stayed

there in a shack behind my aunt’sclapboard house, sat in the darkof most days in the middle

of the packed-dirt floor and noddedat the insistence of light, the wayit darted through holes in the tin

root where the rain drummed like the gallop of spooked horses.This is where he was born, he chanted

under his breath to no one, why shouldhe leave, live in perpetual longingwithin exile? He learned long ago

to count the passing of timein how motes danced in the shaftof white light, the chicharras echoed

their trill against the emptiness of life, against the wake of resistance in this place he knew as a child,

as a man, as an hombre, bend against the ideaof leaving his country, call him loco.What nobody counted on was that answers

come on to those who sit in thequiet of their own countries, tranquil in the penumbra, intent on hearing the song

of a tomegüín as it calls for a mateto come nest in the shrubs out there, while in here, he witnesses how light

fills the emptiness with the meaning of stay.____________________________________________motes: specks of dustchicharras: cicadas, insects that create loud buzzing noises loco: crazypenumbra: half-shadowtomegüín: a small bird that is native to Cuba

Sugarcane By: Achy Obejas

can’t cutcut the caneazuca’ in chicagodig it down to the roots sprouting spray paint on thewalls on the hard coldstone of the great gritty cityslums in chicagowith the mansions in the holein the head ofthe old rich left behindfrom other times lopsidedgangster walls overgrown takenover by the darkand poor overgrown with nosugarcane but youcan’t can’t cut

cut the waterbro’from the flow andyou can’t can’t cutcut the bloodlines from this islandtrain one by one throwing offthe chains siguaraya no nono se pue’e cortarpan con ajo quisqueyacuba y borinquen nose pue’en parar

I saw itsaw black a-fricadown in the citywalking in chicago yla cuba cubagritando en el solarI saw itsaw quisqueyabrownuptown in the citycrin’ in chicago y borinquenbro’sin unchavo igual butyou can’t can’t cutcut the waterbro’ from the flow and

you can’t can’t cutcut the bloodlines from this islandtrain one by one throwing offthe chains siguarayano nono se pue’e cortarpan con ajo quisqueyacuba y borinquen nose pue’en parar

¡azuca’!

Lexicon of Exile

By: Aleida Rodríguez

There is no way I can crank a dial,

scroll back the scenery,

perch sinsontes outside my windows

instead of scrub jays and mockingbirds and linnets.

There is no way the brightly lit film

of childhood’s cerulean sky, fat with meringue clouds,

can play out its reel unbroken by the hypnotist’s snap:

You will not remember this.

There is no way I can make that Pan American plane

fly backward, halt the tanks of the Cuban revolution,

grow old in Güines, smelling the sour blend of rice and milk

fermenting in a pan by the chicken coop.

There is no way I can pull the harsh tongue

from my mouth, replace it with lambent

turquoise on a white sand palate,

the cluck of coconuts high in the arc of the palm trees.

The trees fingering their dresses outside my windows now

are live oak, mock orange, pine, eucalyptus.

Gone are the ciruelas, naranjas agrias,

the mamoncillos with their crisp green shells

concealing the pink tenderness of lips.

Earth’s language is a continuous current,

translating the voices of my early trees along the ground.

I can’t afford not to listen.

They find me islanded in Los Angeles,

surrounded by a moat filled with glare,

and deliver a lost dictionary of delight.

A lingual bridge lowers into my backyard,

where Fuju persimmon beams in late summer

and the fig’s gnarled silver limbs become conduits

for all the ants of the world; where the downy woodpecker teletypes

a greeting on the lightpost and the overripe sapotes fall

with a squishy thud; where the lemon, pointillistically studded

with fruit, glows like a celebration; where the loquat drops

yellow vowels and the scrub jays nesting in the lime

chisel them noisily with their hard black beaks

high in the branches, and the red-throated hummingbird—

mistaking me for a flower—suspends just inches from my face,

deciding whether or not to dip into the nectar of my eyes

until I blink, and it sweeps all my questions into the single sky.

AmericaBy: Richard Blanco

I.Although Tía Miriam boasted she discoveredat least half a dozen uses for peanut butter—topping for guava shells in syrup,butter substitute for Cuban toast,hair conditioner and relaxer—Mamá never knew what to makeof the monthly five-pound jarshanded out by the immigration departmentuntil my friend, Jeff, mentioned jelly. II.There was always pork though,for every birthday and wedding,whole ones on Christmas and New Year’s Eve,even on Thanksgiving day—pork,fried, broiled, or crispy skin roasted—as well as cauldrons of black beans,fried plantain chips, and yuca con mojito.These items required a special visitto Antonio’s Mercado on the corner of Eighth Streetwhere men in guayaberas stood in senateblaming Kennedy for everything—“Ese hijo de puta!”the bile of Cuban coffee and cigar residuefilling the creases of their wrinkled lips;clinging to one another’s lies of lost wealth,ashamed and empty as hollow trees. III.By seven I had grown suspicious—we were still here.Overheard conversations about returninghad grown wistful and less frequent.I spoke English; my parent’s didn’t.We didn’t live in a two-story housewith a maid or a wood-panel station wagonnor vacation camping in Colorado.None of the girls had hair of gold;none of my brothers or cousinswere named Greg, Peter, or Marcia;we were not the Brady Bunch.None of the black and white characterson Donna Reed or on the Dick Van Dyke Showwere named Guadalupe, Lázaro, or Mercedes.Patty Duke’s family wasn’t like us either—they didn’t have pork on Thanksgiving,they ate turkey with cranberry sauce;they didn’t have yuca, they had yamslike the dittos of Pilgrims I colored in class.

IV. A week before ThanksgivingI explained to my abuelitaabout the Indians and the Mayflower,how Lincoln set the slaves free;I explained to my parents aboutthe purple mountain’s majesty,“one if by land, two if by sea,”the cherry tree, the tea party,the amber waves of grain,the “masses yearning to be free,”liberty and justice for all, untilfinally they agreed:this Thanksgiving we would have turkey,as well as pork. V.Abuelita prepared the poor fowlas if committing an act of treason,faking her enthusiasm for my sake.Mamá set a frozen pumpkin pie in the ovenand prepared candied yams following instructionsI translated from the marshmallow bag.The table was arrayed with gladiolas,the plattered turkey loomed at the centeron plastic silver from Woolworth’s.Everyone sat in green velvet chairswe had upholstered with clear vinyl,except Tío Carlos and Toti, seatedin the folding chairs from the Salvation Army.I uttered a bilingual blessingand the turkey was passed aroundlike a game of Russian Roulette.“DRY,” Tío Berto complained, and proceededto drown the lean slices with pork fat drippingsand cranberry jelly—“esa mierda roja,” he called it.Faces fell when Mamá presented her ochre pie—pumpkin was a home remedy for ulcers, not a dessert.Tía María made three rounds of Cuban coffeethen Abuelo and Pepe cleared the living room furniture,put on a Celia Cruz LP and the entire familybegan to merengue over the linoleum of our apartment,sweating rum and coffee until they remembered—it was 1970 and 46 degrees—in América.After repositioning the furniture,an appropriate darkness filled the room.Tío Berto was the last to leave.

Luxembourg 1939By: Léopold Sédar Senghor

This Luxembourg morning, this Luxembourg autumn,As I walk back and forth upon my youth,No strollers, no fountains, no boats in the water,No children, no flowers.Ah! September flowers and the sunburnt shouts of childrenDefying the coming winter.Now only two old fellows trying to play tennis.This autumn morning without children—the children’s theater closed!This Luxembourg where I no longer find my youth,The years as fresh as cut grass.Comrades, my dreams are vanquished in despair, are they not?Here they fall like leaves with other leaves,Older, mortally wounded, trampled, bitter with blood,Gathered together for what common grave?

I no longer know this Luxembourg, those soldiers at attention.They set up cannons to protect the Senators’ aimless retirementThey dig trenches under the bench where I learned aboutThe sweet budding of lips.This sign, ah! yes, of dangerous youth! . . .I watch the leaves fall into these false shelters, into gravesInto trenches where the blood of an entire generation flowsEurope is burying the nations’ leavenAnd the hope of new races.

Durban, South Africa -- Some Notations of ValueBy: Chris Abani

Metal giraffes march up the blufftoward the lighthouse. In the moonlight,whales, or their ghosts, litter the sand.

There is a museum by the park that housesapartheid; contained in stiff wax dummies.

The tour bus stops on the road’s edge.On the right a black town, the left Indian.Pointing he says: This is the racial divide.

Stopping at the bar, the drink menu offers—Red’s Divas only five rand each.

Each night the pounding sea reminds methat, here, women are older than God.

These people carry their dead with them,plastering them onto every met face.

Yet love hums like turning forksand the fading spreading soundis the growth of something more.

Their absence is loud and I longfor the confetti flutter of butterflies.

Abattoirs litter the landscape with the sinisterair of murder, signs proclaiming: Zumba Butchery,as though this is where the Zumba’s blood-lust got the better of them.

The air conditioner in my room humsa dirge to a sea too busy spreading rumors.

Death skips between street childrenplaying hopscotch in the traffic.

The woman singing in Zulu, in a Jamaican bar,is calling down fire, calling down fire.There is no contradiction.

AmericaBy: Kofi Awoonor

A name only oncecrammed into the child's fitful memoryin malnourished villages,vast deliriums like the galloping foothills of the Colorado:of Mohawks and the Chippewa,horsey penny-moviesbrought cheap at the tail of the warto Africa. Where indeed is the Mississippi panoramaand the girl that played the piano andkept her hand on her heartas Flanagan drank a quart of moonshinebefore the eyes of the town's gentlemen?What happened to your locomotive in Winter, Walt,and my ride across the prairies in the trailof the stage-coach, the gold-rush and the Swanee River?Where did they bury Geronimo,heroic chieftain, lonely horseman of this apocalypsewho led his tribesmen across deserts of chollaand emerald hillsin pursuit of despoilers,half-starved immigrantsfrom a despoiled Europe?What happened to Archibald'ssoul's harvest on this raw earthof raw hates?To those that have nonea festival is preparing at graves' endswhere the mockingbird's hymncloses evening of prayersand supplication asnew winds blow from gravesflowered in multi-colored cemeteries evenwhere they say the races are intact.

Heritage (excerpt) By: Countee Cullen

What is Africa to me:Copper sun or scarlet sea,Jungle star or jungle track,Strong bronzed men, or regal blackWomen from whose loins I sprangWhen the birds of Eden sang?One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?

So I lie, who all day longWant no sound except the songSung by wild barbaric birdsGoading massive jungle herds,Juggernauts of flesh that passTrampling tall defiant grassWhere young forest lovers lie,Plighting troth beneath the sky.So I lie, who always hear,Though I cram against my earBoth my thumbs, and keep them there,Great drums throbbing through the air.So I lie, whose fount of pride,Dear distress, and joy allied,Is my somber flesh and skin,With the dark blood dammed withinLike great pulsing tides of wineThat, I fear, must burst the fineChannels of the chafing netWhere they surge and foam and fret.

Africa?A book one thumbsListlessly, till slumber comes.Unremembered are her batsCircling through the night, her catsCrouching in the river reeds,

Stalking gentle flesh that feedsBy the river brink; no moreDoes the bugle-throated roarCry that monarch claws have leaptFrom the scabbards where they slept.Silver snakes that once a yearDoff the lovely coats you wear,Seek no covert in your fearLest a mortal eye should see;What's your nakedness to me?Here no leprous flowers rearFierce corollas in the air;Here no bodies sleek and wet,Dripping mingled rain and sweat,Tread the savage measures of Jungle boys and girls in love.What is last year's snow to me,Last year's anything? The treeBudding yearly must forgetHow its past arose or set--Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,Even what shy bird with muteWonder at her travail there,Meekly labored in its hair.One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?

PersimmonsBy: Li-Young Lee

In sixth grade Mrs. Walkerslapped the back of my headand made me stand in the corner for not knowing the difference between persimmon and precision. How to choose

persimmons. This is precision.Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted. Sniff the bottoms. The sweet onewill be fragrant. How to eat:put the knife away, lay down newspaper. Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat. Chew the skin, suck it,and swallow. Now, eatthe meat of the fruit,so sweet,all of it, to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white. In the yard, dewy and shiveringwith crickets, we lie naked,face-up, face-down.I teach her Chinese.Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten. Naked: I’ve forgotten.Ni, wo: you and me.I part her legs,remember to tell hershe is beautiful as the moon.

Other wordsthat got me into trouble werefight and fright, wren and yarn.Fight was what I did when I was frightened, Fright was what I felt when I was fighting. Wrens are small, plain birds, yarn is what one knits with.Wrens are soft as yarn.My mother made birds out of yarn. I loved to watch her tie the stuff; a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class and cut it upso everyone could tastea Chinese apple. Knowingit wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eatbut watched the other faces.

My mother said every persimmon has a sun

inside, something golden, glowing, warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper, forgotten and not yet ripe.I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill, where each morning a cardinalsang, The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding he was going blind,my father sat up all one night waiting for a song, a ghost. I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness, and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lightingof my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking for something I lost.My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs, black cane between his knees,hand over hand, gripping the handle.He’s so happy that I’ve come home.I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question. All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find a box.Inside the box I find three scrolls.I sit beside him and untiethree paintings by my father:Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.Two cats preening.Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth, asks, Which is this?

This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk, the strength, the tenseprecision in the wrist.I painted them hundreds of times eyes closed. These I painted blind. Some things never leave a person:scent of the hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons,in your palm, the ripe weight.

The Negro Speaks of RiversBy: Langston Hughes

I’ve known rivers:I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.