Sample Companion Poetry
Original Poem Companion Poem
Making a Fist
Mothers Hand
by Naomi Shihab Nye
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.
"How do you know if you are going to die?"
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist.
" Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.
Nikitha Gubbi
For the first time, on a Train in the middle of India
I felt the tracks rattle under me.
I was nine, I sat still in the hard seat,
whizzing past the crowded streets.
My brain was shattered, glass piercing the inside of my skin.
“When will we stop rocking so much?”
I questioned my mother, trying to hide the fear in my voice.
We’ve been shaking uncontrollably for a while.
With assuring confidence she answered,
“Just close your eyes, and squeeze my hand. We will be there soon.”
I look back on this memory and smile;
The warmth and comfort of my mothers hand
holding mine whenever I needed it.
To this day whenever I am scared,
my mothers hand is always there.
Original Poem Companion Poem
Making a Fist
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.
"How do you know if you are going to die?"
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist.
" Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.
Grinding My Teeth
By: John Johnson
For the first time, in the sky to Florida
I felt the ground shift below me,
like an earthquake in Haiti.
I was five, I lay sit in my seat still,
gazing at the puffy clouds passing by.
My head was a mess like a pig’s pen.
“How do you know if we are going to crash and die?”
I questioned my father.
We had been flying through this storm for hours.
With complete calmness he answered
“Just close your eyes, they know what they are doing.”
I look back on that day and smile,
the lighting bolts we dodged,
filled with energy and death.
I did not die on my first plane ride.
Still flying wherever I go,
closing my eyes when something goes wrong.
Original Poem Companion Poem
White Apples
By: Donald Hall
when my father had been dead a week I woke with his voice in my ear
I sat up in bed and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door
white apples and the taste of stone
if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes
Tiny Feet
By: Spencer Campbell
when I looked in the cage he was a statue
I cried remembering his silky fur
I stepped towards the metal bars
and stared at his beady black eyes
tiny feet and a pink moist nose
if he were here again I would cherish my time with him
Original Poem Companion Poem
Thanks
by W. S. Merwin
Please
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions.
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
looking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
By: Kelsey Adam
Respond
With the sound of my stomach aching we are saying please
we are laying there close to freezing
we are listening to the noises of the night
with the emptiness in our stomachs we say please
we sit in the cave thinking it could be worse but still we say please
swollen eyes, closed and cracking, we look out in the night and say please
Back from a day of searching for food and shelter
after the struggle to make it we say please
after 5 haven't made it
20 of us are still fighting, we say please
In the woods we are saying please
in what's left of our homes and in the pitch black smoky darkness,
trying to forget every nightmare, and hoping it will get better we say please
in our caves we are saying please
in the lives of the upper class we are saying please
for anyone who has potential to help
and for anyone that will we say please
we go on saying please please
with the rich and the poor
our hopes and dreams we are saying please
with everything out of reach moving farther by the minute
of who we want to become we say please
with the words screeching threw our yellow teeth
with our voices getting weaker
we are saying please softer and softer
with no one hearing our cries we are saying please
we are saying please and hoping for an answer
Original Poem Companion Poem
Out Out
By Robert Frost
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!"
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
Red Handed
By Emily Dougherty
Needles and medical knives mocked him
And made the future seem that much more grim.
The smell of hospital cleaning products filled the air,
From there I thought he’d be fine.
Though that’s where it went wrong.
The doctor proceeded with high hopes;
Dirty needles and knives penetrated skin.
Unaware, the surgeon just kept going,
Did someone disinfect the needles?
I wish they might have said.
To the surgeons eye, it was just another day;
He didn't care as long as his job was done.
Little did he know his one mistake had almost taken a life,
But for my Dad it was clear to see
The pain in his eyes
He saw me sitting, waiting for a glimmer of hope.
Things down a hill of despair
unable to move.
Nurses surrounded him as if they knew
the pain he was in.
No one but us could understand.
Out walked one of the doctors,
Only bringing unfortunate news.
He had a deadly blood infection;
unsanitary needles and knives.
The infection spread faster than his heart could bare,
burning through his veins
Like fire through a dry forest.
Spreading, burning
It had the power to burn him down at any given moment.
Weeks went by and nothing seemed to change.
A month he was home with dedicated nurses.
Working long hours, unaware of how much it really meant,
My mother and I serving him.
IV’s filled with hope to make this stop.
Something, Anything to make the pain dissipate.
The surgeon, unaware of what he’d done or forgot to do.
The nurses and doctors left the picture,
after all it wasn’t them who’d come close to death.