Poems and Ads for Diction Study

1. Poems and Ads for Diction Study IB Literature

2. Alone with Everybody (Bukowski, Charles) the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.  there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. nobody ever finds the one. the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills. 

3. Child Beater (Ai) Outside, the rain, pinafore of gray water, dresses the townand I stroke the leather belt,as she sits in the rocking chair,holding a crushed paper cup to her lips.I yell at her, but she keeps rocking;back, her eyes open, forward, they close.Her body, somehow fat, though I feed her only once a day,reminds me of my own just after she was born.It's been seven years, but I still can't forget how I felt.How heavy it feels to look at her.I lay the belt on a chairand get her dinner bowl. I hit the spoon against it, set it downand watch her crawl to it, pausing after each forward thrust of the legsand when she takes her first bite,I grab the belt and beat her across the backuntil her tears, beads of salt-filled glass, falling,shatter on the floor.I move off, let her eat,while I get my dog's chain leash from the closet.I whirl it around my head.O daughter, so far, you've only had a taste of icing,are you ready now for some cake?

4. November 1968 (Rich, Adrienne) Strippedyou’re beginning to float freeup through the smoke of brushfiresand incineratorsthe unleafed branches won’t hold younor the radar aerials You’re what the autumn knew would happenafter the last collapseof primary coloronce the last absolutes were torn to piecesyou could begin How you broke open, what sheathed youuntil this momentI know nothing about itmy ignorance of you amazes menow that I watch youstarting to give yourself awayto the wind

5. For My Lover Returning to His Wife (Sexton, Anne) She is all there.She was melted carefully down for youand cast up from your childhood,cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies. She has always been there, my darling.She is, in fact, exquisite.Fireworks in the dull middle of Februaryand as real as a cast-iron pot. Let's face it, I have been momentary.A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.My hair rising like smoke from the car window.Littleneck clams out of season. She is more than that. She is your have to have,has grown you your practical your tropical growth.This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy, has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,sat by the potter's wheel at midday,set forth three children under the moon,three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo, done this with her legs spread outin the terrible months in the chapel.If you glance up, the children are therelike delicate balloons resting on the ceiling. She has also carried each one down the hallafter supper, their heads privately bent,two legs protesting, person to personher face flushed with a song and their little sleep. I give you back your heart.I give you permission— for the fuse inside her, throbbingangrily in the dirt, for the bitch in herand the burying of her wound—for the burying of her small red wound alive— for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,for the mother's knee, for the stockings,for the garter belt, for the call— the curious callwhen you will burrow in arms and breastsand tug at the orange ribbon in her hairand answer the call, the curious call. She is so naked and singular.She is the sum of yourself and your dream.Climb her like a monument, step after step.She is solid. As for me, I am a watercolor.I wash off.