1. Poetry Out Loud—Recitation Options “Ways of Talking” By Ha JinHa Jin We used to like talking about grief Our journals and letters were packed with losses, complaints, and sorrows. Even if there was no grief we wouldn’t stop lamenting as though longing for the charm of a distressed face. Then we couldn’t help expressing grief So many things descended without warning: labor wasted, loves lost, houses gone, marriages broken, friends estranged, ambitions worn away by immediate needs. Words lined up in our throats for a good whining. Grief seemed like an endless river— the only immortal flow of life. After losing a land and then giving up a tongue, we stopped talking of grief Smiles began to brighten our faces. We laugh a lot, at our own mess. Things become beautiful, even hailstones in the strawberry fields. “Kitchenette Building” By: Gwendolyn Brooks We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan, Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.” But could a dream send up through onion fumes Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall, Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms Even if we were willing to let it in, Had time to warm it, keep it very clean, Anticipate a message, let it begin? We wonder. But not well! not for a minute! Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now, We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.

2. “Faith” By David BakerDavid Baker It was midday before we noticed it was morning. The boy cousins brought us a tray—soup and cheese, warm soda, and a soft cloth and candy for her fever. They wouldn’t come in, the tray weighing between them. They stood like woodwork inside the door frame. By afternoon the old procession—silence at the lip of a dozen night travelers tired and grieving, one by one, or pairs floating to the bed and back with a touching of hands like humming, and the one we gathered for slipping farther for all the good we could do. She lay in her shadow. She looked to no one. Her daylilies bobbed wide open out in the wild, blue sun and the same bee kept nosing her window to reach them. Dusk: even the boys were back watching it try. “Here Is an Ear Hear” By Victor Hernández CruzVictor Hernández Cruz Is the ocean really inside seashells or is it all in your mind? —PICHON DE LA ONCE Behold and soak like a sponge. I have discovered that the island of Puerto Rico is the ears of Saru-Saru, a poet reputed to have lived in Atlantis. On the day that the water kissed and embraced and filled all the holes of that giant missing link, this bard’s curiosity was the greatest for he kept swimming and listening for causes. He picked up rocks before they sank and blew wind viciously into them. Finally he blew so hard into a rock that he busted his ear drums; angry, he recited poems as he tried turning into a bird to fly to green Brazil. His left ear opened up like a canal and a rock lodged in it. Rock attracts rock and many rocks attached to this rock. It got like a rocket. His ear stayed with it in a horizontal position. Finally after so many generations he got to hear what he most wanted: the sounds made by flowers as they stretched into the light. Behold, I have discovered that the island of Puerto Rico is the ears of Saru-Saru.