Social Issues in Poetry

While nonfiction helps develop our awareness of the world through facts and information, poetry, art, performing arts, and other creative genres help us feel and experience the world in a more emotional and personal way. 

To inspire us to write the social awareness writing project, we are going to read, listen to, and write poetry then explore a few other genres. 

First read the two poems to yourselves. Focus on and annotate: what does the text make you think about issues/problems in the world.
Next, we will listen to readings of the poems. For the second reading, write down: how does the poet make you think about these issues?

 "What I Will" by Suheir Hammad

I will not dance to your war drum.
I will not lend my soul nor my bones to your war drum.
I will not dance to that beating.
I know that beat.
It is lifeless.
I know intimately that skin you are hitting.
It was alive once, hunted, stolen, stretched.
I will not dance to your drummed up war.
I will not pop, spin, break for you.
I will not hate for you or even hate you.
I will not kill for you.
Especially I will not die for you.
I will not mourn the dead with murder nor suicide.
I will not side with you or dance to bombs because everyone is dancing.
Everyone can be wrong.
Life is a right, not collateral or casual.
I will not forget where I come from.
I will craft my own drum.
Gather my beloved near, and our chanting will be dancing.
Our humming will be drumming.
I will not be played.
I will not lend my name nor my rhythm to your beat.
I will dance and resist and dance and persist and dance.
This heartbeat is louder than death.
Your war drum ain't louder than this breath.

please don't take my air jordans
by reg e. gaines

my air jordans cost a hundred with tax
my suede starters jacket says raiders on the back
i'm stylin . . . smilin . . . lookin real mean cuz
it ain't about bein heard just bein seen

my leather adidas baseball cap

matches my fake gucci backpack

there's nobody out there looks good as me

but the gear costs money it sure ain't free

and i gots no job no money at all

but it's easy to steal fresh gear from the mall

parents say i shouldn't but i know i should

gots ta do what i can to make sure i look good

and the reason i have to look real fly

well to tell ya the truth man i don't know why

i guess it makes me feel special inside

when i'm wearin fresh gear i don't have to hide

but i really must get some new gear soon

or my ego will pop like a ten cent balloon 

but security's tight at all the shops

everyday there are more and more cops

my crew's laughin at me cuz i'm wearin old gear

school's almost over summer is near

and i'm sportin torn jordans and need somethin new

there's only one thing left to do

cut school friday catch the subway downtown

check out my victims hangin around

maybe i'll get lucky and find easy prey

gots to get some new gear there's no other way

i'm ready and willin i'm packin my gun

this is serious bizness it sure ain't no fun

but i can't have my posse laughin at me

i'll cop somethin dope just wait you'll see

come out a the station west 4th near the park

brothers shootin hoops and someone remarks

HEY HOMES . . . WHERE'D YOU GET THOSE DEF NIKES

as i said to myself. . . i likes em . . . i likes

they were q-tip white bright and blinded my eyes

the red emblem of michael looked as if it could fly

not one spot of dirt the airs were brand new

had my pistol knew just what to do

followed him very closely behind

waited until it was just the right time

made a left turn on houston pulled out my gun and screamed

GIMME THEM JORDANS . . . and he tried ta run

took off fast but didn't get far

i fired (POW) he fell between two parked cars

he was coughin/cryin/blood dripped on the street

and i snatched them air jordans off a his feet

while layin there dyin all he could say was

please . . . don't take my air jordans away . . .

you think he'd be worried about stayin alive

as i took off with the jordans there were tears in his eyes

the very next day i bopped into school

with my brand new air jordans man was i cool

i killed to get them but hey . . . i don't care

cuz now. . . i needs a new jacket to wear

reading by Lemon Anderson

Activity:

1. Write a poem about an issue/problem in the world following the style of one of the poems.

2. Write a response to one of these poems.

Extra Poems:

Immigrants in Our Own Land

BY JIMMY SANTIAGO BACA

We are born with dreams in our hearts,

looking for better days ahead.

At the gates we are given new papers,

our old clothes are taken

and we are given overalls like mechanics wear.

We are given shots and doctors ask questions.

Then we gather in another room

where counselors orient us to the new land

we will now live in. We take tests.

Some of us were craftsmen in the old world,

good with our hands and proud of our work.

Others were good with their heads.

They used common sense like scholars

use glasses and books to reach the world.

But most of us didn’t finish high school.

The old men who have lived here stare at us,

from deep disturbed eyes, sulking, retreated.

We pass them as they stand around idle,

leaning on shovels and rakes or against walls.

Our expectations are high: in the old world,

they talked about rehabilitation,

about being able to finish school,

and learning an extra good trade.

But right away we are sent to work as dishwashers,

to work in fields for three cents an hour.

The administration says this is temporary

So we go about our business, blacks with blacks,

poor whites with poor whites,

chicanos and indians by themselves.

The administration says this is right,

no mixing of cultures, let them stay apart,

like in the old neighborhoods we came from.

We came here to get away from false promises,

from dictators in our neighborhoods,

who wore blue suits and broke our doors down

when they wanted, arrested us when they felt like,

swinging clubs and shooting guns as they pleased.

But it’s no different here. It’s all concentrated.

The doctors don’t care, our bodies decay,

our minds deteriorate, we learn nothing of value.

Our lives don’t get better, we go down quick.

My cell is crisscrossed with laundry lines,

my T-shirts, boxer shorts, socks and pants are drying.

Just like it used to be in my neighborhood:

from all the tenements laundry hung window to window.

Across the way Joey is sticking his hands

through the bars to hand Felipé a cigarette,

men are hollering back and forth cell to cell,

saying their sinks don’t work,

or somebody downstairs hollers angrily

about a toilet overflowing,

or that the heaters don’t work.

I ask Coyote next door to shoot me over

a little more soap to finish my laundry.

I look down and see new immigrants coming in,

mattresses rolled up and on their shoulders,

new haircuts and brogan boots,

looking around, each with a dream in their heart,

thinking they’ll get a chance to change their lives.

But in the end, some will just sit around

talking about how good the old world was.

Some of the younger ones will become gangsters.

Some will die and others will go on living

without a soul, a future, or a reason to live.

Some will make it out of here with hate in their eyes,

but so very few make it out of here as human

as they came in, they leave wondering what good they are now

as they look at their hands so long away from their tools,

as they look at themselves, so long gone from their families,

so long gone from life itself, so many things have changed.

"Immigrants in Our Own Land" by Jimmy Santiago Baca, from Immigrants in Our Own Land. Copyright © 1977, 1979, 1981, 1982, 1990 by Jimmy Santiago Baca. Used by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp., www.ndpublishing.com.


“Incident,” by Countee Cullen

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue and called me, “Nigger.”

I saw the whole of Baltimore,
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there,
That’s all that I remember.