A Suitcase of Seaweed and Other Poems by Janet S. WongFrom the author of the well-received Good Luck Gold and Other Poems comes this new collection of perceptive, touching, often amusing poems.With a sense of pride in her Korean, Chinese, and American background, Janet Wongs poetry reflects some of the differences between Chinese and Korean customs and culture and the American way of life. Divided into three sections -- Korean, Chinese, and American -- and with the authors own explanation as to how the poems developed from experiences in her own life, these poems speak directly and simply to young people of many ethnic backgrounds, providing insights into the different kinds of prejudice that many children confront today. Here is Poetry:
What you study in school? my grandfather asks./ Poetry, I say, climbing high to pick a large ripe lemon off the top limb./ Po-tree, he says. It got fruit?
Loving Poems about Family
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Heritage - Poem by Countee Cullen
Our family is the proverbial egg that we were hatched from. Everything about who we are, both our nature and nurture comes from our family. Often in western society, we stray far from our family and may not talk to them for years at a time. We may feel that we have nothing in common with them. We may choose to run away from our roots because they are too painful to face. Ultimately however, our past holds the key to our future.
That hearts once warmed with love grow cold;. And brings the heart wealth all untold. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. Written for the "Evening Bulletin. For the Evening Bulletin.
What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang? One three centuries removed From the scenes his fathers loved, Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me? So I lie, who all day long Want no sound except the song Sung by wild barbaric birds Goading massive jungle herds, Juggernauts of flesh that pass Trampling tall defiant grass Where young forest lovers lie, Plighting troth beneath the sky. So I lie, who always hear, Though I cram against my ear Both my thumbs, and keep them there, Great drums throbbing through the air. So I lie, whose fount of pride, Dear distress, and joy allied, Is my somber flesh and skin, With the dark blood dammed within Like great pulsing tides of wine That, I fear, must burst the fine Channels of the chafing net Where they surge and foam and fret. A book one thumbs Listlessly, till slumber comes.