Yesterday was the anniversary of the Boston Marathon bombings. Here’s an incredible “Dear World” site with messages and photos of survivors. It’s just moving to see . . . there are longer messages accompanying the pictures, but the main message is written on the bodies of the survivors. Might be interesting to share with students and open up a dialogue about strength, survival, grief, and moving on.
And a few poems that might suit those discussions:
Still Start by Kay RyanAs if engineparts could bewrenched outat random andthe car wouldstill start andsound even,hearts can gowith chambersbroken open.
Source: Poetry (May 2013).
A Nation’s Strength by Ralph Waldo Emerson
What makes a nation’s pillars high
And its foundations strong?
What makes it mighty to defy
The foes that round it throng?
It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand
Go down in battle shock;
Its shafts are laid on sinking sand,
Not on abiding rock.
Is it the sword? Ask the red dust
Of empires passed away;
The blood has turned their stones to rust,
Their glory to decay.
And is it pride? Ah, that bright crown
Has seemed to nations sweet;
But God has struck its luster down
In ashes at his feet.
Not gold but only men can make
A people great and strong;
Men who for truth and honor’s sake
Stand fast and suffer long.
Brave men who work while others sleep,
Who dare while others fly…
They build a nation’s pillars deep
And lift them to the sky.
I Have to Tell you by Dorothea Grossman
I have to tell you,
there are times when
the sun strikes me
like a gong,
and I remember everything,
even your ears.
Source: Poetry (March 2010)
We Are Seven by William Wordsworth———A simple Child,That lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad:Her eyes were fair, and very fair;—Her beauty made me glad.
“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,How many may you be?”“How many? Seven in all,” she said,And wondering looked at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.”She answered, “Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.
“Two of us in the church-yard lie,My sister and my brother;And, in the church-yard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother.”
“You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,Sweet Maid, how this may be.”
Then did the little Maid reply,“Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the church-yard lie,Beneath the church-yard tree.”
“You run about, my little Maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the church-yard laid,Then ye are only five.”
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”The little Maid replied,“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,And they are side by side.
“My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit,And sing a song to them.
“And often after sun-set, Sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there.
“The first that dies was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain;And then she went away.
“So in the church-yard she was laid;And, when the grass was dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I.
“And when the ground was white with snow,And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side.”
“How many are you, then,” said I,“If they two are in heaven?”Quick was the little Maid’s reply,“O Master! we are seven.”
“But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!”’Twas throwing words away; for stillThe little Maid would have her will,And said, “Nay, we are seven!”