Julia,+Julie,+Sam

=Julia, Julie, Sam=

Julie (I chose this poem) Chorus Sacerdotum (by Fulke Greville) O wearisome condition of humanity! Born under one law, to another bound; Vainly begot and yet forbidden vanity; Created sick, commanded to be sound. What meaneth nature by these diverse laws? Passion and reason, self-division cause. Is it the mark or majesty of power To make offenses that it may forgive? Nature herself doth her own self deflower To hate those errors she herself doth give. For how should man think that he may not do, If nature did not fail and punish, too? Tyrant to others, to herself unjust, Only commands things difficult and hard, Forbids us all things which it knows is lust, Makes easy pains, unpossible reward. If nature did not take delight in blood, She would have made more easy ways to good. We that are bound by vows and by promotion, With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites, To teach belief in good and still devotion, To preach of heaven’s wonders and delights; Yet when each of us in his own heart looks He finds the God there, far unlike his books.

Epitaph (by Katherine Philips) What on Earth deserves our trust? Youth and Beauty both are dust. Long we gathering are with pain, What one moment calls again. Seven years childless marriage past, A Son, a son is born at last: So exactly lim’d and fair, Full of good Spirits, Meen, and Air, As a long life promised, Yet, in less than six weeks dead. Too promising, too great a mind In so small room to be confined: Therefore, as fit in Heaven to dwell, He quickly broke the Prison shell. So the subtle Alchemist, Can’t with //Hermes// Seal resist The powerful spirit’s subtler flight, But t’will bid him long good night. And so the Sun if it arise Half so glorious as his Eyes, Like this Infant, takes a shrowd, Buried in a morning Cloud. Epilogue (by Robert Lowell) Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme— why are they no help to me now I want to make something imagined, not recalled? I hear the noise of my own voice: //The painter’s vision is not a lens,// it trembles to caress the light. But sometimes everything I write with the threadbare art of my eye seems a snapshot, lurid, rapid, garish, grouped, heightened from life, yet paralyzed by fact. All’s misalliance. Yet why not say what happened? Pray for the grace of accuracy Vermeer gave to the sun’s illumination stealing like the tide across a map to his girl solid with yearning. We are poor passing facts, warned by that to give each figure in the photograph his living name. Julia Beautiful Wreckage: **chosen poem** By W.D. Ehrhart What if I didn’t shoot the old lady running away from our patrol, or the old man in the back of the head, or the boy in the marketplace? Or what if the boy—but he didn’t have a grenade, and the woman in Hue didn’t lie in the rain in a mortar pit with seven Marines just for food, Gaffney didn’t get hit in the knee, Ames didn’t die in the river, Ski didn’t die in a medevac chopper between Con Thien and Da Nang. In Vietnamese, Con Thien means //place of angels//. What if it really was instead of the place of rotting sandbags, incoming heavy artillery, rats and mud. What if the angels were Ames and Ski, or the lady, the man, and the boy, and they lifted Gaffney out of the mud and healed his shattered knee? What if none of it happened the way I said? Would it all be a lie? Would the wreckage be suddenly beautiful? Would the dead rise up and walk? [|voicethread] By Weldon Kees  September was when it began.Locusts dying in the fields; our dogsSilent, moving like shadows on a wall;And strange worms crawling; flies of a kindWe had never seen before; huge vineyard moths;Badgers and snakes, abandoningTheir holes in the field; the fruit gone rotten;Queer fungi sprouting; the fields and woodsCovered with spiderwebs; black vaporsRising from the earth - all these,And more began that fall. Ravens flew roundThe hospital in pairs. Where there was water,We could hear the sound of beating clothesAll through the night. We could not countAll the miscarriages, the quarrels, the jealousies.And one day in a field I sawA swarm of frogs, swollen and hideous,Hundreds upon hundreds, sitting on each other,Huddled together, silent, ominous,And heard the sound of rushing wind.

Sam Famous By Naomi Shihab Nye

The river is famous to the fish. The loud voice is famous to silence, which knew it would inherit the earth before anybody said so. The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds watching him from the birdhouse. The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek. The idea you carry close to your bosom is famous to your bosom. The boot is famous to the earth, more famous than the dress shoe, which is famous only to floors. The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it and not at all famous to the one who is pictured. I want to be famous to shuffling men who smile while crossing streets, sticky children in grocery lines, famous as the one who smiled back. I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous, or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular, but because it never forgot what it could do  **Tone Map Template**


 * **Section** || **Tone**  ||
 * The river is famous to the fish. || Confident  ||
 * The loud voice is famous to silence, which knew it would inherit the earth before anybody said so. ||  Neutral and thoughtful  ||
 * The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds watching him from the birdhouse. || marveling  ||
 * The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek. || Starting and ending proud

“briefly”- doubtful, cynical  ||
 * The idea you carry close to your bosom is famous to your bosom. || Stating it kind of unemotionally, just as a fact  ||
 * The boot is famous to the earth, more famous than the dress shoe, which is famous only to floors || Confident and knowledgeable, second part is boastful, and then the last part discouraged  ||
 * <span style="color: #000000; font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it and not at all famous to the one who is pictured. || <span style="color: #000000; font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">Admiring, and then quieter, less passionate  ||
 * <span style="color: #000000; font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">I want to be famous to shuffling men who smile while crossing streets, sticky children in grocery lines, famous as the one who smiled back. || <span style="color: #000000; font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">Benevolent, marveling  ||
 * <span style="color: #000000; font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous, or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular, but because it never forgot what it could do || <span style="color: #000000; font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">Thoughtful and hopeful ,sweet  ||