|Best Poems About / On CHICAGO
Moment like this
To the man
That makes him quiet
To say good-bye
And with the last
The eyes close
The most beautiful face
Without a smile
This is the end
Of your path
You are out
Of circulation This poem is dedicated to my friend,
Boguslawa Gladkowska, who suddenly died
in Chicago on June 9, 1997
Read more poems from Michelle Derzkowa >>>
Read more: june poems, sunshine poems, poem poems, beautiful poems, friend poems, smile poems
Chicago Teachers Union To March On Washington In Support Of Travon?
First of all, did not 3 Black teens savagely beat & stomp a kid who is White?
On a Public School Bus no less in Florida while the driver watched the fight?
This innocent 13 year old kid received two black eyes and a fractured hand,
No Al Sharpton, no Jesse Jackson but the march on D.C they helped plan.
Of all indignities, The Chicago Teachers Union is going in unified support,
The Travyon killing but not Black murders in Chicago, they should abort,
Because for every 1 young Martin since that fateful Sanford, Florida day,
Hundreds of Blacks in their city have been shot close to 100 passed away.
Does Al’s, “National Action Network” & Jesse’s, “Rainbow Coalition, ”
Really have a united cause or do they only supply Racist ammunition?
Whereas, this White youth viciously attacked by three older Black teens,
Sparked very little if any outrage by these guys seeking support in green.
Donations to the cause are sought online, in church, in person, at rallies,
Nationally, Blacks killing Blacks in the thousands, the death toll tallies,
The four children of Martin Luther King Jr. also will be hosting as well,
Wondering if the senseless beating by 3 Blacks on 1 White any will tell?
August 21-28, is celebrating 50 years since MLK’s, “I Have A Dream, ”
Would Martin not berate those responsible for killing and beating a teen?
The Chicago Labor Freedom Riders bus trip is merely a slap in the face,
School begins August 26, yet some teachers are absent, what a disgrace.
A mass email sent to the entire Chicago Teachers Union, urges a protest,
Attend the march for foreclosures, the verdict, not students doing their best?
“We are marching for Trayvon, jobs, schools, health care, justice & dignity, ”
Ok, should not these educators begin not in D.C. but their own community?
A Black Cleveland RTA Bus Driver left his seat when a girl spit in his face,
But the Black school bus driver sat on his butt in Florida, what a disgrace,
This driver in Cleveland stood up for his rights and he should be rehired,
Yet the coward in Florida who barely raised his voice needs to be fired.
“Highlights the structural racism in our society, ” the email beseeches as well,
May they be referring to the continued attack on the White teen after he fell?
“Mass incarceration of our youth, ” is another of the Teachers Union concerns,
Possibly they’ll begin by teaching respect is only given after it’s been earned.
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Pure poets think poetic thoughts,
and never write them down,
subjecting them to poet courts
to bury with a frown,
but I write nearly all of mine
in verses all the world
can read, and do not wilt or whine
when some abuse is hurled,
because the purpose of my writing
poetic thoughts is not
to be regarded as exciting,
sensitive and hot,
but to engage with my own mind,
and what is overheard
are shades of thoughts I leave behind
to bury, word by word.
Dana Goodyear writes in the New Yorker (“The Moneyed Muse: What can two hundred million dollars do for poetry? ” February 19 and 26,2007) , about Ruth Lilly’s two hundred million dollar bequest to Poetry, and the problems facing the boar in its quest to promote poetry to the general audience rather than to people within the poetic academy:
The Wayfarers’ Club, a century-old organization that John Barr joined when he moved to Chicago, meets in a formidable stone building with a large awning across from the Art Institute. The Wayfarers’ membership typically includes the presidents of both the University of Chicago and Northwestern, the director of the Art Institute, business leaders, and, in the past, according to David Hilliard, the club’s secretary and treasurer, “real moguls.” The smell of cigar smoke lingers in the halls. On a foggy, chilly night late last year, Barr was scheduled to make a twenty-minute PowerPoint presentation about the foundation and the Lilly gift. Hilliard’s wife, Celia, a Chicago historian, has been on the board of Poetry for nearly thirty years and is on the committee to select an architect for the new building. “The magazine was always a very important anchor for poetry in Chicago—with Carl Sandburg and the hog butchers and all that, and Gwendolyn Brooks and Bronzeville, ” she said. “It was a headquarters for poets, even if they didn’t come from Chicago. There used to be a little restaurant called Le Petit Gourmet, on Michigan Avenue. Harriet Monroe would have readings, with Sandburg playing his guitar.”
A server hit a glockenspiel to signal that dinner was prepared, and the Wayfarers and their guests adjourned to a panelled room with casement windows and heavy upholstered valances. Barr arrived in a crisp white shirt, navy blazer, and striped tie, and sat at a table with Penny—petite, blond, coral lipstick, gold watch—the Hilliards, and a couple of other board members and foundation employees. Conversation turned to the controversy over Barr’s essay. Celia politely said that she still hadn’t read the latest letters to the editor. “Make sure you’re sitting down, ” John said. “We got a lot of mail—it was one of the higher mail-drawers yet.”
Ethel Kaplan, the chair of the board, said, “It’s exciting to me that people are excited about it. Whether they’re for us or against us. They feel passionate about it and are talking passionately about it. I’ve been on the board for thirty years. For so many of those years, Poetry was a quaint little oddity. If we’ve been part of stimulating this debate and starting the conversation, that’s wonderful.”
As dinner was served, David Hilliard went up to a podium and began an introduction. He joked that the foundation, seeing as it was so flush, might dedicate a new award to “Pure Poets”—those who think poetic thoughts but never write them down. “Nothing lavish—say, fifty thousand dollars to the Pure Poet of the year.” Then he asked for some investment tips, perhaps something in natural gas. Barr rose and stood before the room. “Thank you for a unique introduction, ” he said. “I have been called the world’s largest supply of natural gas in the past.” Chuckle.
Read more poems from gershon hepner >>>
The Great Chicago Fire
The great Chicago Fire, friends,
Will never be forgot;
In the history of Chicago
It will remain a darken spot.
It was a dreadful horrid sight
To see that City in flames;
But no human aid could save it,
For all skill was tried in vain.
In the year of 1871,
In October on the 8th,
The people in that City, then
Was full of life, and great.
Less than four days it lay in ruins,
That garden City, so great
Lay smouldering in ashes,
In a sad and pitiful state.
It was a sad, sad scene indeed,
To see the fire arise,
And hear the crackling of the flames
As it almost reached the skies,
And sadder still, to hear the moans,
Of people in the flames
Cry for help, and none could get,
Ah, die where they remained.
To see the people run for life;
Up and down the blazing streets,
To find then, their escape cut off
By the fiery flaming sheets,
And others hunting for some friend
That perhaps they never found,
Such weeping, wailing, never was known,
For a thousands miles around.
Some people were very wealthy
On the morning of the 10th.
But at the close of the evening,
Was poor, but felt content,
Glad to escape from harm with life
With friends they loved so well,
Some will try to gain more wisdom,
By the sad sight they beheld.
Five thousand people were homeless,
Sad wanderers in the streets,
With no shelter to cover them,
And no food had they to eat.
They wandered down by the lake side,
Lay down on the cold damp ground,
So tired and weary and homeless,
So the rich, the poor, was found.
Mothers with dear little infants,
Some clinging to the breast.
People of every description
All laid down there to rest,
With the sky as their covering,
Ah, pillows they had none.
Sad, oh sad, it must have been,
For those poor homeless ones.
Neighboring Cities sent comfort,
To the poor lone helpless ones,
And God will not forget them
In all the years to come.
Now the City of Chicago
Is built up anew once more,
And may it never be visited
With such a great fire no more.
Julia A Moore
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