“i carry your heart” (1952)

By ee cummings (1894–1962)

From Collected Poems: 1904-1962 (1962)

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in

my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

For further reading: Analysis

“Sonnet 18: Shall I compare the to a summer’s day?” (1600)

By William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

From Shake-speare’s Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609)

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimm’d;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st;

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

For further reading: Analysis, Who was the “Fair Youth”?

“Sonnet 130: My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun” (1608)

By William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

From Shake-speare’s Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609)

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

For further reading: Analysis, Who is Shakespeare’s ‘Dark Lady’?

“The Raven” (1844)

By Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

From Evening Mirror (1845)

https://vimeo.com/29733360

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door-

Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-

This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”- here I opened wide the door;-

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”-

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-

‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-

Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before-

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never- nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-

On this home by Horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-

Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting-

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted- nevermore!

For further reading: Meet Grip, Facts About Ravens

“Annabel Lee” (1849)

By Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

From Sartain’s Union Magazine of Literature and Art (1849)

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

For further reading: Analysis

“Amethyst Rocks” (2003)

By Saul Williams (1972-)

From The Dead Emcee Scrolls (2006)

What I got, come and get some,

get on up, hustler of culture.

I stand on the corner of the block slinging amethyst rocks,

drinking 40s of mother earth’s private nectar stock,

dodging cops, cuz 50 be the 666 and I need a fix of that purple rain:

the type of shit that drives membranes insane.

Oh yeah, I’m in the fast lane snorting candy yams

that free my body and soul and send me like Shazaam,

never question who I am. God knows, and I know God personally,

in fact he lets me call him “me,”

I be one with rain and stars and things

with dancing feet and watermelon rings,

I brings the sunshine and the moon,

and the wind blows my tune.

Meanwhile I spoon powdered drumbeats into plastic bags,

selling kilos of Kintae skag, taking drags off of collards

and cornbread, freebasing through saxophones and flutes like mad.

The high notes make me space-float,

I be exhaling in rings that circle Saturn,

leaving stains in my veins in astrological patterns.

Yeah I’m serious B, doggone niggers plotted shit lovely,

but the feds is also plotting me,

they’re trying to imprison my astrology,

put my stars behind bars, my stars and stripes,

using blood-splattered banners as nationalist kites,

but I control the wind, that’s why they call it the hawk.

I am Horus, son of Isis, son of Osirus, worshipped as Jesus,

resurrected like Lazarus, but you can call me Lazzy, lazy,

yeah I’m lazy because I’d rather sit and build

than work on top of a field and worship the

daily yield of cash green crops,

your evolution stopped the evolution of your technology:

a society of automatic tellers and money machines.

Nigga’ what, my culture is lima beans and tambourines,

dreams, manifest dreams real, not consistent with rationale,

I dance for no reason, for reasons you can’t dance,

call me an activist of intellectualized circumstance,

you can’t learn my steps until you unlearn your thoughts,

spirit, soul, can be store-bought, fuck thought,

leads to naught, simply leads to you trying to figure me out,

your intellect’s disfiguring your soul,

your being’s not whole, check your flagpole,

stars and stripes, your astrology’s

imprisoned by your concept of white, of self,

what’s your plan for spiritual health? Calling reality unreal,

your line of thought is tangled, the star

spangled got your soul mangled, your being’s angled,

forbidding you to be real and feel, you can’t find truth

with an axe or a drill in a white house on a hill or

in factories or plants made of steel. Stealing us was the

smartest thing they ever did, too bad you don’t teach the

truth to your kids. My influence on user reflection you

see when you look in your minstrel mirror and talk about

your culture, your existence is that of a schizophrenic

vulture who thinks he has enough life in him to prey on the dead,

not knowing that the dead ain’t dead, that he ain’t got enough

spirituality to know how to pray. Yeah, there’s no repentance,

you’re bound to live in infinite consecutive executive life sentence.

So while you’re busy serving time I’ll be in sync with the

moon while you run from the sun. Life of the moon,

reflected by guns, worship of moons, I am the sun,

and I am public enemy number one, one one one, one one one,

that’s seven. And I’ll be out on the block, hustling culture,

slinging amethyst rocks.

For further reading: Performance, Interview

“for women who are ‘difficult’ to love” (2010)

By Warsan Shire (1988-)

From the seven stages of being lonely (2011)

you are a horse running alone

and he tries to tame you

compares you to an impossible highway

to a burning house

says you are blinding him

that he could never leave you

forget you

want anything but you

you dizzy him, you are unbearable

every woman before or after you

is doused in your name

you fill his mouth

his teeth ache with memory of taste

his body just a long shadow seeking yours

but you are always too intense

frightening in the way you want him

unashamed and sacrificial

he tells you that no man can live up to the one who

lives in your head

and you tried to change didn’t you?

closed your mouth more

tried to be softer

prettier

less volatile, less awake

but even when sleeping you could feel

him travelling away from you in his dreams

so what did you want to do, love

split his head open?

you can’t make homes out of human beings

someone should have already told you that

and if he wants to leave

then let him leave

you are terrifying

and strange and beautiful

something not everyone knows how to love.

For further reference: Article 1, Article 2

“Page 59”

By Rupi Kaur (1992-)

From milk and honey (2014)

For further reading:  Profile

“The Keeper”

By Lang Leav (1980-)

From Love & Misadventure (2013)

For further reading: Interview