Poetry Practice 1: Analysis

Context: Alan King is a Caribbean American, whose parents emigrated from Trinidad and Tobago to the U.S. In this poem, a speaker witnesses two boys fight. As you read, pay attention to the speaker's reaction to seeing the two boys fight. In a mob of school kids, two boys shove each other before they’re on the ground. They jab at air and grass, missing the jaw, cheek and eye. A girl standing at the edge screams at the boy straddling his opponent. Leave him alone. This won’t make me like you. I watch from my car across the street after cruising through an old ‘hood, two decades removed from my childhood. And yet this gust spirals the pinwheel of memory, whirling me back to third grade, when I obsessed2 over Tia Jones the way my friends swarmed the ice cream truck for grape Pixy Stix. She was a sixth grader, who mistook my lamppost legs and power line arms for a fifth grader. She was as old as the boys throwing grass in each other’s hair, rolling around in a kind of awkward tango towards manhood. Watching the chubby kid overpower his skinny enemy, I’m reminded of Darnell, an older boy too short for Tia. That’s when I wonder if Insecurity’s3 the biggest instigator.4 The one constantly egging you on to prove yourself, like that day Darnell kept asking, Why you so stupid? It was the day I gave Tia a Valentine’s card I made with construction paper and magic markers. She kissed my cheek, her lips flipped the switch to the streetlights inside me. Why you so stupid? Darnell said. He shoved me. You so stupid you don’t even speak. Tia’s fingers locked with mine, Let’s get out of here. I didn’t speak when he snatched her card and tore it, when I unzipped my bag, pulled out cleats,5 and smacked him. I was a nest of wasps. Each cleat stung him over and over. A woman’s yell calls me back across the street. It’s the neighbor on her front porch, wearing a blue tattered housecoat and floppy pink slippers. She holds up her phone, and the crowd scatters, Y’all need to stop! I got police on the line! I wish I had someone like her to save me from myself before Darnell’s tears streaked over welts big as bee stings. Tia nowhere in sight Why is one of the boys fighting with the other?

Context: Alan King is a Caribbean American, whose parents emigrated from Trinidad and Tobago to the U.S. In this poem, a speaker witnesses two boys fight. As you read, pay attention to the speaker's reaction to seeing the two boys fight. In a mob of school kids, two boys shove each other before they’re on the ground. They jab at air and grass, missing the jaw, cheek and eye. A girl standing at the edge screams at the boy straddling his opponent. Leave him alone. This won’t make me like you. I watch from my car across the street after cruising through an old ‘hood, two decades removed from my childhood. And yet this gust spirals the pinwheel of memory, whirling me back to third grade, when I obsessed2 over Tia Jones the way my friends swarmed the ice cream truck for grape Pixy Stix. She was a sixth grader, who mistook my lamppost legs and power line arms for a fifth grader. She was as old as the boys throwing grass in each other’s hair, rolling around in a kind of awkward tango towards manhood. Watching the chubby kid overpower his skinny enemy, I’m reminded of Darnell, an older boy too short for Tia. That’s when I wonder if Insecurity’s3 the biggest instigator.4 The one constantly egging you on to prove yourself, like that day Darnell kept asking, Why you so stupid? It was the day I gave Tia a Valentine’s card I made with construction paper and magic markers. She kissed my cheek, her lips flipped the switch to the streetlights inside me. Why you so stupid? Darnell said. He shoved me. You so stupid you don’t even speak. Tia’s fingers locked with mine, Let’s get out of here. I didn’t speak when he snatched her card and tore it, when I unzipped my bag, pulled out cleats,5 and smacked him. I was a nest of wasps. Each cleat stung him over and over. A woman’s yell calls me back across the street. It’s the neighbor on her front porch, wearing a blue tattered housecoat and floppy pink slippers. She holds up her phone, and the crowd scatters, Y’all need to stop! I got police on the line! I wish I had someone like her to save me from myself before Darnell’s tears streaked over welts big as bee stings. Tia nowhere in sight While watching the fight, the speaker...

Context: Alan King is a Caribbean American, whose parents emigrated from Trinidad and Tobago to the U.S. In this poem, a speaker witnesses two boys fight. As you read, pay attention to the speaker's reaction to seeing the two boys fight. In a mob of school kids, two boys shove each other before they’re on the ground. They jab at air and grass, missing the jaw, cheek and eye. A girl standing at the edge screams at the boy straddling his opponent. Leave him alone. This won’t make me like you. I watch from my car across the street after cruising through an old ‘hood, two decades removed from my childhood. And yet this gust spirals the pinwheel of memory, whirling me back to third grade, when I obsessed2 over Tia Jones the way my friends swarmed the ice cream truck for grape Pixy Stix. She was a sixth grader, who mistook my lamppost legs and power line arms for a fifth grader. She was as old as the boys throwing grass in each other’s hair, rolling around in a kind of awkward tango towards manhood. Watching the chubby kid overpower his skinny enemy, I’m reminded of Darnell, an older boy too short for Tia. That’s when I wonder if Insecurity’s3 the biggest instigator.4 The one constantly egging you on to prove yourself, like that day Darnell kept asking, Why you so stupid? It was the day I gave Tia a Valentine’s card I made with construction paper and magic markers. She kissed my cheek, her lips flipped the switch to the streetlights inside me. Why you so stupid? Darnell said. He shoved me. You so stupid you don’t even speak. Tia’s fingers locked with mine, Let’s get out of here. I didn’t speak when he snatched her card and tore it, when I unzipped my bag, pulled out cleats,5 and smacked him. I was a nest of wasps. Each cleat stung him over and over. A woman’s yell calls me back across the street. It’s the neighbor on her front porch, wearing a blue tattered housecoat and floppy pink slippers. She holds up her phone, and the crowd scatters, Y’all need to stop! I got police on the line! I wish I had someone like her to save me from myself before Darnell’s tears streaked over welts big as bee stings. Tia nowhere in sight Why does Darnell pick on the speaker?

Context: Alan King is a Caribbean American, whose parents emigrated from Trinidad and Tobago to the U.S. In this poem, a speaker witnesses two boys fight. As you read, pay attention to the speaker's reaction to seeing the two boys fight. In a mob of school kids, two boys shove each other before they’re on the ground. They jab at air and grass, missing the jaw, cheek and eye. A girl standing at the edge screams at the boy straddling his opponent. Leave him alone. This won’t make me like you. I watch from my car across the street after cruising through an old ‘hood, two decades removed from my childhood. And yet this gust spirals the pinwheel of memory, whirling me back to third grade, when I obsessed2 over Tia Jones the way my friends swarmed the ice cream truck for grape Pixy Stix. She was a sixth grader, who mistook my lamppost legs and power line arms for a fifth grader. She was as old as the boys throwing grass in each other’s hair, rolling around in a kind of awkward tango towards manhood. Watching the chubby kid overpower his skinny enemy, I’m reminded of Darnell, an older boy too short for Tia. That’s when I wonder if Insecurity’s3 the biggest instigator.4 The one constantly egging you on to prove yourself, like that day Darnell kept asking, Why you so stupid? It was the day I gave Tia a Valentine’s card I made with construction paper and magic markers. She kissed my cheek, her lips flipped the switch to the streetlights inside me. Why you so stupid? Darnell said. He shoved me. You so stupid you don’t even speak. Tia’s fingers locked with mine, Let’s get out of here. I didn’t speak when he snatched her card and tore it, when I unzipped my bag, pulled out cleats,5 and smacked him. I was a nest of wasps. Each cleat stung him over and over. A woman’s yell calls me back across the street. It’s the neighbor on her front porch, wearing a blue tattered housecoat and floppy pink slippers. She holds up her phone, and the crowd scatters, Y’all need to stop! I got police on the line! I wish I had someone like her to save me from myself before Darnell’s tears streaked over welts big as bee stings. Tia nowhere in sight Why does the speaker hit Darnell?

Context: Alan King is a Caribbean American, whose parents emigrated from Trinidad and Tobago to the U.S. In this poem, a speaker witnesses two boys fight. As you read, pay attention to the speaker's reaction to seeing the two boys fight. In a mob of school kids, two boys shove each other before they’re on the ground. They jab at air and grass, missing the jaw, cheek and eye. A girl standing at the edge screams at the boy straddling his opponent. Leave him alone. This won’t make me like you. I watch from my car across the street after cruising through an old ‘hood, two decades removed from my childhood. And yet this gust spirals the pinwheel of memory, whirling me back to third grade, when I obsessed2 over Tia Jones the way my friends swarmed the ice cream truck for grape Pixy Stix. She was a sixth grader, who mistook my lamppost legs and power line arms for a fifth grader. She was as old as the boys throwing grass in each other’s hair, rolling around in a kind of awkward tango towards manhood. Watching the chubby kid overpower his skinny enemy, I’m reminded of Darnell, an older boy too short for Tia. That’s when I wonder if Insecurity’s3 the biggest instigator.4 The one constantly egging you on to prove yourself, like that day Darnell kept asking, Why you so stupid? It was the day I gave Tia a Valentine’s card I made with construction paper and magic markers. She kissed my cheek, her lips flipped the switch to the streetlights inside me. Why you so stupid? Darnell said. He shoved me. You so stupid you don’t even speak. Tia’s fingers locked with mine, Let’s get out of here. I didn’t speak when he snatched her card and tore it, when I unzipped my bag, pulled out cleats,5 and smacked him. I was a nest of wasps. Each cleat stung him over and over. A woman’s yell calls me back across the street. It’s the neighbor on her front porch, wearing a blue tattered housecoat and floppy pink slippers. She holds up her phone, and the crowd scatters, Y’all need to stop! I got police on the line! I wish I had someone like her to save me from myself before Darnell’s tears streaked over welts big as bee stings. Tia nowhere in sight The woman is trying to...

Context: Alan King is a Caribbean American, whose parents emigrated from Trinidad and Tobago to the U.S. In this poem, a speaker witnesses two boys fight. As you read, pay attention to the speaker's reaction to seeing the two boys fight. In a mob of school kids, two boys shove each other before they’re on the ground. They jab at air and grass, missing the jaw, cheek and eye. A girl standing at the edge screams at the boy straddling his opponent. Leave him alone. This won’t make me like you. I watch from my car across the street after cruising through an old ‘hood, two decades removed from my childhood. And yet this gust spirals the pinwheel of memory, whirling me back to third grade, when I obsessed2 over Tia Jones the way my friends swarmed the ice cream truck for grape Pixy Stix. She was a sixth grader, who mistook my lamppost legs and power line arms for a fifth grader. She was as old as the boys throwing grass in each other’s hair, rolling around in a kind of awkward tango towards manhood. Watching the chubby kid overpower his skinny enemy, I’m reminded of Darnell, an older boy too short for Tia. That’s when I wonder if Insecurity’s3 the biggest instigator.4 The one constantly egging you on to prove yourself, like that day Darnell kept asking, Why you so stupid? It was the day I gave Tia a Valentine’s card I made with construction paper and magic markers. She kissed my cheek, her lips flipped the switch to the streetlights inside me. Why you so stupid? Darnell said. He shoved me. You so stupid you don’t even speak. Tia’s fingers locked with mine, Let’s get out of here. I didn’t speak when he snatched her card and tore it, when I unzipped my bag, pulled out cleats,5 and smacked him. I was a nest of wasps. Each cleat stung him over and over. A woman’s yell calls me back across the street. It’s the neighbor on her front porch, wearing a blue tattered housecoat and floppy pink slippers. She holds up her phone, and the crowd scatters, Y’all need to stop! I got police on the line! I wish I had someone like her to save me from myself before Darnell’s tears streaked over welts big as bee stings. Tia nowhere in sight How does the speaker feel about his past fight?

Context: Alan King is a Caribbean American, whose parents emigrated from Trinidad and Tobago to the U.S. In this poem, a speaker witnesses two boys fight. As you read, pay attention to the speaker's reaction to seeing the two boys fight. In a mob of school kids, two boys shove each other before they’re on the ground. They jab at air and grass, missing the jaw, cheek and eye. A girl standing at the edge screams at the boy straddling his opponent. Leave him alone. This won’t make me like you. I watch from my car across the street after cruising through an old ‘hood, two decades removed from my childhood. And yet this gust spirals the pinwheel of memory, whirling me back to third grade, when I obsessed2 over Tia Jones the way my friends swarmed the ice cream truck for grape Pixy Stix. She was a sixth grader, who mistook my lamppost legs and power line arms for a fifth grader. She was as old as the boys throwing grass in each other’s hair, rolling around in a kind of awkward tango towards manhood. Watching the chubby kid overpower his skinny enemy, I’m reminded of Darnell, an older boy too short for Tia. That’s when I wonder if Insecurity’s3 the biggest instigator.4 The one constantly egging you on to prove yourself, like that day Darnell kept asking, Why you so stupid? It was the day I gave Tia a Valentine’s card I made with construction paper and magic markers. She kissed my cheek, her lips flipped the switch to the streetlights inside me. Why you so stupid? Darnell said. He shoved me. You so stupid you don’t even speak. Tia’s fingers locked with mine, Let’s get out of here. I didn’t speak when he snatched her card and tore it, when I unzipped my bag, pulled out cleats,5 and smacked him. I was a nest of wasps. Each cleat stung him over and over. A woman’s yell calls me back across the street. It’s the neighbor on her front porch, wearing a blue tattered housecoat and floppy pink slippers. She holds up her phone, and the crowd scatters, Y’all need to stop! I got police on the line! I wish I had someone like her to save me from myself before Darnell’s tears streaked over welts big as bee stings. Tia nowhere in sight What is the theme of the poem?

The theme of the poem is: "Sometimes young people use violence to try to prove themselves." Which cited evidence from the text best supports the theme?

When the speaker says "I was a nest of wasps” and “stung him / over and over,” what type of figurative language is this?

When the speaker says “I was a nest of wasps” and “stung him / over and over,” what does this metaphor suggest?

Sarah Van Arsdale is an author, poet, and professor. In this poem, a speaker describes her goals. As you read, pay attention to the speaker’s goals and aspirations. If I had a trophy I’d put it on the middle shelf of my bookcase. I’d dust it every day and polish it once a week. It would have a statue of a woman holding a bat, her golden arm cocked up1 a little waiting for the pitch. When my friends came over I’d stand next to the bookcase casual-like till they said, “Is that a trophy?” I’d read the inscription2 every morning. I’d ask someone to take my picture with my trophy. My trophy would say “Softball Player” on the bottom, and everyone would know that in summer I tie on my cleats run onto the field, slapping high fives. They’d know I take third base, put my glove to the dry dirt, scatter dust in the air. They’d hear the fans shout, “Hey, some catch!” when the white ball comes slamming into my glove, and, “Watch out, she’ll steal home,” as my cleats dig and dig. They’d feel the weight of the little statue And think, “I bet she’s going out With her team tonight,” “I bet she could teach me how to throw,” “I bet she plays softball,” and I do, I do. The speaker...

Sarah Van Arsdale is an author, poet, and professor. In this poem, a speaker describes her goals. As you read, pay attention to the speaker’s goals and aspirations. If I had a trophy I’d put it on the middle shelf of my bookcase. I’d dust it every day and polish it once a week. It would have a statue of a woman holding a bat, her golden arm cocked up1 a little waiting for the pitch. When my friends came over I’d stand next to the bookcase casual-like till they said, “Is that a trophy?” I’d read the inscription2 every morning. I’d ask someone to take my picture with my trophy. My trophy would say “Softball Player” on the bottom, and everyone would know that in summer I tie on my cleats run onto the field, slapping high fives. They’d know I take third base, put my glove to the dry dirt, scatter dust in the air. They’d hear the fans shout, “Hey, some catch!” when the white ball comes slamming into my glove, and, “Watch out, she’ll steal home,” as my cleats dig and dig. They’d feel the weight of the little statue And think, “I bet she’s going out With her team tonight,” “I bet she could teach me how to throw,” “I bet she plays softball,” and I do, I do. Which of the following describes the speaker’s athletic ability?

Sarah Van Arsdale is an author, poet, and professor. In this poem, a speaker describes her goals. As you read, pay attention to the speaker’s goals and aspirations. If I had a trophy I’d put it on the middle shelf of my bookcase. I’d dust it every day and polish it once a week. It would have a statue of a woman holding a bat, her golden arm cocked up1 a little waiting for the pitch. When my friends came over I’d stand next to the bookcase casual-like till they said, “Is that a trophy?” I’d read the inscription2 every morning. I’d ask someone to take my picture with my trophy. My trophy would say “Softball Player” on the bottom, and everyone would know that in summer I tie on my cleats run onto the field, slapping high fives. They’d know I take third base, put my glove to the dry dirt, scatter dust in the air. They’d hear the fans shout, “Hey, some catch!” when the white ball comes slamming into my glove, and, “Watch out, she’ll steal home,” as my cleats dig and dig. They’d feel the weight of the little statue And think, “I bet she’s going out With her team tonight,” “I bet she could teach me how to throw,” “I bet she plays softball,” and I do, I do. What is the theme of the poem?

The theme of the poem "Most Valuable Player" is people want to be recognized. Which cited evidence from the text best supports this theme?

John P. Curtin (1967-2012) was a writing professor at DePaul University. He also led bike tours in Seattle, and on one trip he crashed and broke his neck, leaving him paralyzed. He wrote the following poem using a voice-activated computer program when he was asked to show how poetry can communicate information. As you read, pay attention to the speaker’s specific examples of technology and how they compare to one another. Knowledge and tools: Chariot into auto; Stick into shovel. It is as simple As a spoon or as complex As the space shuttle. Once it was the wheel. Now it is the microchip. What will it be next? What is the theme of the poem?