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English 202 - Assignment 8 - Narrative Poem 2013
English 202 - Assignment 8 - Narrative Poem 2013
Option
#6
Refrain
Tell
as
story
about
anything,
but
use
a
refrain
(this
is
similar
to
a
chorus
in
a
song)
to
build
tension
over
the
course
of
a
narrative.
See
Pete
Seegers
Waist
Deep
in
the
Big
Muddy.
My Old Man
16
years
old
during
the
depression
Id
come
home
drunk
and
all
my
clothing
shorts,
shirts,
stockings
suitcase,
and
pages
of
short
stories
would
be
thrown
out
on
the
front
lawn
and
about
the
street.
my
mother
would
be
waiting
behind
a
tree:
Henry,
Henry,
dont
go
in
.
.
.hell
kill
you,
hes
read
your
stories
.
.
.
I
can
whip
his
ass
.
.
.
Henry,
please
take
this
.
.
.and
find
yourself
a
room.
but
it
worried
him
that
I
might
not
finish
high
school
so
Id
be
back
again.
one
evening
he
walked
in
with
the
pages
of
one
of
my
short
stories
(which
I
had
never
submitted
to
him)
and
he
said,
this
is
a
great
short
story.
I
said,
o.k.,
and
he
handed
it
to
me
and
I
read
it.
it
was
a
story
about
a
rich
man
who
had
a
fight
with
his
wife
and
had
gone
out
into
the
night
for
a
cup
of
coffee
and
had
observed
the
waitress
and
the
spoons
and
forks
and
the
Charles Bukowski
Richard
Cory
Ballad of Birmingham
(On
the
bombing
of
a
church
in
Birmingham,
Alabama,
1963)
Mother
dear,
may
I
go
downtown
Instead
of
out
to
play,
And
march
the
streets
of
Birmingham
In
a
Freedom
March
today?
No,
baby,
no,
you
may
not
go,
For
the
dogs
are
fierce
and
wild,
And
clubs
and
hoses,
guns
and
jails
Arent
good
for
a
little
child.
But,
mother,
I
wont
be
alone.
Other
children
will
go
with
me,
And
march
the
streets
of
Birmingham
To
make
our
country
free.
No,
baby,
no,
you
may
not
go,
For
I
fear
those
guns
will
fire.
But
you
may
go
to
church
instead
And
sing
in
the
childrens
choir.
She
has
combed
and
brushed
her
night-dark
hair,
And
bathed
rose
petal
sweet,
And
drawn
white
gloves
on
her
small
brown
hands,
And
white
shoes
on
her
feet.
The
mother
smiled
to
know
her
child
Was
in
the
sacred
place,
But
that
smile
was
the
last
smile
To
come
upon
her
face.
For
when
she
heard
the
explosion,
Her
eyes
grew
wet
and
wild.
She
raced
through
the
streets
of
Birmingham
Calling
for
her
child.
She
clawed
through
bits
of
glass
and
brick,
Then
lifted
out
a
shoe.
O,
heres
the
shoe
my
baby
wore,
But,
baby,
where
are
you?
Eduardo Galeano
There
was
an
old
and
solitary
man
who
spent
most
of
his
time
in
bed.
There
were
rumors
that
he
had
a
treasure
hidden
in
his
house.
One
day
some
thieves
broke
in,
they
searched
everywhere
and
found
a
chest
in
the
cellar.
They
went
off
with
it
and
when
they
opened
it
they
found
that
it
was
filled
with
letters.
They
were
the
love
letters
the
old
man
had
received
all
over
the
course
of
his
long
life.
The
thieves
were
going
to
burn
the
letters,
but
they
talked
it
over
and
finally
decided
to
return
them.
One
by
one.
One
a
week.
Since
then,
every
Monday
at
noon,
the
old
man
would
be
waiting
for
the
postman
to
appear.
As
soon
as
he
saw
him,
he
would
start
running
and
the
postman,
who
knew
all
about
it,
held
the
letter
ready
in
his
hand.
And
even
St.
Peter
could
hear
the
beating
of
that
heart,
crazed
with
joy
at
receiving
a
message
from
a
woman
Robert
Hass
A
Story
About
the
Body
The
young
composer,
working
that
summer
at
an
artists
colony,
had
watched
her
for
a
week.
She
was
Japanese,
a
painter,
almost
sixty,
and
he
thought
he
was
in
love
with
her.
He
loved
her
work,
and
her
work
was
like
the
way
she
moved
her
body,
used
her
hands,
looked
at
him
directly
when
she
mused
and
considered
answers
to
his
questions.
One
night,
walking
back
from
a
concert,
they
came
to
her
door
and
she
turned
to
him
and
said,
I
think
you
would
like
to
have
me.
I
would
like
that
too,
but
I
must
tell
you
that
I
have
had
a
double
mastectomy,
and
when
he
didnt
understand,
Ive
lost
both
my
breasts.
The
radiance
that
he
had
carried
around
in
his
belly
and
chest
cavity-like
music-
withered
quickly,
and
he
made
himself
look
at
her
when
he
said,
Im
sorry
I
dont
think
I
could.
He
walked
back
to
his
own
cabin
through
the
pines,
and
in
the
morning
he
found
a
small
blue
bowl
on
the
porch
outside
his
door.
It
looked
to
be
full
of
rose
petals,
but
he
found
when
he
picked
it
up
that
the
rose
petals
were
on
top;
the
rest
of
the
bowl-she
must
have
swept
the
corners
of
her
studio-was
full
of
dead
bees.
Pete Seeger
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