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An Unedited Anthology of Poems by Jake Meyer

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S: An Unedited Anthology

FC: An Unedited Anthology of Poems Jake Meyer

3: AN UNEDITED ANTHOLOGY BY JAKE MEYER Meyer Publishing Stillwater, OK 4/18/2011

4: “Sometimes I Cry” By Tupac Shakur Sometimes when I’m alone I cry because I’m on my own The tears I cry R bitter and warm They flow with life but take no form I cry because my heart is torn and I find it difficult 2 carry on If I had an ear 2 confide in I would cry among my treasure friends But who do u know that stops that long to help another carry on The worlds moves fast and it would rather pass u by than 2 stop and c what makes you cry It’s painful and sad and sometimes I cry and no one cares about why

5: I like the message this poem conveyed because it shows that Tupac Shakur was very sensitive. He was mainly known for his rap music, but this poem and book show that he loved like any other person. This poem lets the reader have an inside look at his heart. Tupac Shakur poured his heart out into this poem by showing how his friends could help him even through his hardest times. I think that any friend of mine could help me through my hardest times.

6: “God” By Tupac Shakur when I was alone and had nothing I asked 4 a friend 2 help me bear the pain no one came except . . . GOD when I needed a breath 2 rise from my sleep no one could help me except . . . . GOD when all I saw was sadness and I needed answers no one heard me except . . . . GOD so when I am asked who I give my unconditional love 2 look for no other name except . . . . . GOD!

7: The mood of this poem reminded me of the poem “George Gray,” in the sense that the author is forlorn and lonely. The difference between the poems is that in “God,” the author finds refuge in God, and in “George Gray” the author says he doesn’t ever find peace in anything. Tupac Shakur in this poem really stressed the importance of having somebody who will always listen to what you have to say. One thing Tupac and I have in common is that we both turn to God with our problems. This poem is inspirational to me because it helps me know that Tupac is in Heaven, if he is actually dead.

8: “The Little Blue Engine” By Shel Silverstein The little blue engine looked up at the hill. His light was weak, his whistle was shrill. He was tired and small, and the hill was tall, And his face blushed red as he softly said, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” So he started up with a chug and a strain, And he puffed and pulled with might and main. And slowly he climbed, a foot at a time, And his engine coughed as he whispered soft, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!” With a squeak and a creak and a toot and a sigh, With an extra hope and an extra try, He would not stop--now he neared the top— And strong and proud he cried out loud, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!” He was almost there, when—CRASH! SMASH! BASH! He slid down and mashed into engine hash On the rocks below . . . which goes to show If the track is tough and the hill is rough, THINKING you can just ain’t enough!

9: This poem reminded me of The Little Engine that Could, because both Silverstein and the other author describe a little engine that thinks it could. The difference is, that Silverstein is just a little bit more harsh than the other author. Silverstein uses onomatopoeia’s that really enhance the weight of the last stanza. The use of capital letters also helps give sound imagery that the falling down off the mountain was very loud, and a horrendous sight to witness. I really like the use of rhyming words that all relate to each other in some way or another. This poem shows that it not only takes the want-to to accomplish something, but it also takes some talent and some size.

10: “The the impotence of proofreading” By Taylor Mali Has this even happened to you? You work very horde on a paper for English clash and then get a very glow raid (like a D or even a D=) and all because you are the liverwurst spoiler in the hole wide word. Proofreading your peppers is a matter of the utmost impotence. This is a problem that affects manly, manly students. I myself was such a bed spiller once upon a term that my English torturer in my sophomoric year, Mrs. Myth, said I would never get into a good colleague. And that’s all I wanted, just to get into a good colleague. Not just anal community colleague – because I’m not the kind of guy who would be happy at just anal community colleague. I needed a place that would offer me intellectual stimulation, I really need to be challenged, challenged dentally. I know this makes me sound like a stereo, but I really wanted to go to an ivory legal colleague. So I needed to improvement or gone would be my dream of going to Harvard, Jail, or Prison (in Prison, New Jersey).

11: So I got myself a spell checker and figured I was on Sleazy Street. But there are several missed aches that a spell chukker can’t can’t catch catch, For instant, if you accidentally leave out word, your spell exchequer won’t put it in you. And God for billing purposes only you should have serial problems with Tori Spelling, your spell Chekhov might replace a word with one you had absolutely no detention of using. Because what do you want it to douche? It only does what you tell in to douche, You’re the one with your hand on the mouth going clique, clique, clique. It just goes to show you how embargo one careless clique of the mouth can be. Which reminds me of this one time during my Junior Mint. The teacher read my entire paper on A Sale of Two Titties out loud to all of my assmates. It was the most humidifying experience of my life, being laughed at pubically.

12: So do yourself a flavor and follow these two Pisces of advice: One: There is no prostitute for careful editing, no prostitute whatsoever. And three: When it comes to proofreading, the red penis your friend.

13: I like the way Mali insists on the “impotence” of proofreading. This poem has seventy-one grammatical, word confusion, and spelling mistakes; seventy-three if you count the title. I would be horrified if I made this many mistakes. When I read this poem, I imagined Ms. Berlin at the Junior High when she used to say “And there will be lots of bloodshed from my red pen on your paper.” This poem, if read in the wrong manner, would surely have lots of bloodshed on the paper.

14: “The Sculptor” I took a piece of plastic clay And idly fashioned it one day, And as my fingers pressed it, still It bent and yielded to my will. I came again, when days were passed, The bit of clay was hard at last, The form I gave it, still it bore, But I could change that form no more. Then I took a piece of living clay And gently formed it, day by day And molded with my power and art, A young child’s soft and yielding heart. I came again when years were gone, It was a man I looked upon. He still that early impress bore, and I could change it, nevermore.

15: The mood of this poem is so different from many of the movies and songs we see and hear today. In the media today, we see movies about fathers who wish they had raised their sons better. For instance, in the movie Inception, the father of the man they take into the dream with them, tells the son that he wishes that he had raised him better. He also states that if he would have another chance, he would raise the son to be not like him, the father. This poem makes me realize how short life is, and that when I get married and have a child, I have to do a good job because their childhood normally affects how the rest of their life pans out.

16: "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe 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!"

17: 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 blest 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 my sad 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."

18: 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 foot-falls 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!

19: I enjoy reading “The Raven” because of the rhyme scheme. I also wonder what was meant by “Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore” in some parts of this poem. For example, in the eighth stanza, Poe writes about the “Night’s Plutonian shore,” the Raven answers with Nevermore. I don’t understand how the question of what the imagery of the night brings can be answered with nevermore. I do understand, though, how Poe can visualize himself saying “This it is and nothing more,” because when I am scared I do the same thing.

20: “Sailing on the Deep, Blue Sky” Paul Betz The sky is as a vast blue sea. White clouds roll forth as waves. The moon it shines for all to see, As lighthouses beam rays. The planes become ships of the sky. Swift breeze becomes the mist. A bird floats through the clouds on high, Like nothing else exists. Both oceans hold their jewels grand, Like treasure chests and stars. They both contain uncharted land, The unknown isle and Mars.

21: When I read this poem, I think of summer in Oklahoma, when the sky is dotted with clouds that almost look like the clouds from Toy Story. The setting of this poem is not important, because the sky can look like this anywhere in the world. The fantastic thing about the sky is that the sky can be so different in only a few miles of ground space. I love how Betz uses so many literary elements that enhance the imagery portrayed in the poem. I also fancy the way he compares the sky to the sea, a comparison you don’t hear very often.

22: “Afternoon in February” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o’er the plain; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell; Shadows are trailing My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell.

23: I really liked this poem's idea because Longfellow goes from describing an afternoon in February, to describing the sighting of a funeral procession. "Like fearful shadows" uses good imagery to describe how softly the procession, or train, moved. The description of the sun, how it is peeking through the clouds and reflecting off windows shows that the time this poem is set at is either at sunrise or sunset, the two most common times for a red-hued sun to occur. This poem reminds me of driving in a funeral procession, how solemn everything seemed. The procession was quiet, and I remember everybody drove with their lights on, even though it was the middle of the day. | This photograph was taken of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt's funeral train.

24: “Rainy Days” By Jake Meyer Rainy days are so relaxing. Especially when there is only one a month, they are fascinating. They make me want to take a nap. Rain brings plants to life. No matter what, rain helps plants through their strife. It also makes the grass as green as can be. Watching the rainfall is so cool. It’s even cooler watching the rain make rings in a swimming pool. Cold rain reels good on a hot summer day.

25: I got my inspiration for this poem while listening to “Rainy Day” by Coldplay on their Prospekt’s March [EP] album. Rainy days make everything better. It is very interesting to watch the rain fall. I like this poem’s idea of how rain helps everything. If we didn’t have rain, then we wouldn’t have any food! Food is what keeps everybody alive. Therefore, rain does help everything in the world.

26: “The Early Riser” By Jake Meyer An early riser, I am not. For years and years My mom and I have fought About me getting out of bed. It almost drives me to tears. Every now and then, I can get out of bed on time. Those mornings come almost as often as pigs flying. When I do get up, I almost always feel like slime. Does going to bed too late make me feel like this? Yes, and I always feel like sleeping. Finally, my parents got tired of me sleeping in, So they did something cruel. To do this, I almost have to go to bed around 10. Now, when I am not up by 7 a.m. My dad drives me to school.

27: I wrote this poem because I absolutely hate getting up in the mornings. Once I get up I am pleasant, but I am very grumpy when I wake up. I can’t wait for summer, when I can sleep in until I have to go to work. This poem reminds me of the movie Big Fat Liar, because Jason Shepherd in the beginning of that movie falls asleep late and is late to school. The only difference between he and I is that I can drive, and he has to ride a skateboard. Driving greatly assists me in getting to school on time.

28: Works Cited 20060408rainonwindow.jpg. Digital image. Dead Man's Bones. 18 June 2010. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. . Betz, Paul. "Nature Poems." Inspirational Poems. Inspirational Poems. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. . Blue Sunset. Digital image. Angel Cross. Angel Cross. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. . Coelho, Joe. Gloria's Rooster Crowing. Digital image. Picasa Web Albums. Google, 10 June 2010. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. . Franklin D. Roosevelt Picture: FDR's Funeral Train. Digital image. About.com. New York Times Company. Web. 18 Apr. 2011. . Little Engine That Could. Digital image. Look At My Happy Rainbow! 4 Jan. 2011. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. . Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. "Afternoon in February by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow." PoemHunter.Com - Thousands of Poems and Poets.. Poetry Search Engine. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. . McPhee, Nic. 2008-01-26 (Editing a Paper) - 31. Digital image. Flickr. Yahoo!, 26 Jan. 2008. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. . Meyer, Jacob Allen. EasyBib: Free Bibliography Maker - MLA, APA, Chicago Citation Styles. ImagineEasy Solutions, LLC, 18 Apr. 2011. Web. 18 Apr. 2011. . Mali, Taylor. “The the impotence of proofreading.” What Learning Leaves. Newtown, CT: Hanover, 2002. Page 32-33. Print. Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Raven." 1849. Complete Poems. New York: Gramercy, 1992. 32-37. Print.

29: Works Cited (cont.) Quoth the Raven. Digital image. Shirt.Woot! Woot Services LLC. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. . Tears Don't Stop The Rain, Rain Doesn't Hide The Tears I've Cried... Digital image. Flickr. Yahoo!, 21 Feb. 2009. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. . Shakur, Tupac. "God." The Rose That Grew From Concrete. New York: Pocket, 1999. 33. Print. Shakur, Tupac. "Sometimes I Cry." The Rose That Grew from Concrete. New York: Pocket, 1999. 7. Print. Silverstein, Shel. "The Little Blue Engine." Where the Sidewalk Ends: the Poems & Drawings of Shel Silverstein. New York: Harper and Row, 1974. 158. Print. Unknown. "The Sculptor." Poems That Touch the Heart. Ed. Albert Louis Alexander. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1956. 26-27. Print. We Are the Clay and You Are the Potter. Digital image. Franciscan Community Volunteers. Franciscan Community Volunteers, 16 Nov. 2010. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. .

31: About the Author Jake Meyer is a high school student at Stillwater High School. He loves fresh strawberrries and long walks on the beach. He also enjoys sitting by a fire wearing a backwards snuggie, drinking a glass of water, and checking his stocks. After high school Jake plans to attend Oklahoma State University on a baseball and academic scholarship.

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  • Title: An Unedited Anthology of Poems by Jake Meyer
  • Poetry Project Mrs. Dawson English II 3rd Hour
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  • Published: almost 9 years ago