Occupational Poems

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Kyle Yamnitz 598249 3rd Ext. 2/25/96 Occupations and Worldwide Occupations Unit This collection of poems are taken from several different poetry anthologies and all have to do with the topic of work and jobs, both locally and globally, past and present. Collections such as this would be great for integrating poetry and language arts into other content areas or units. This collection of poetry would be appropriate for second through fourth grades, although some of the poems may be slightly beyond the comprehension of those in some of the lower grades. Some are nonsense poems and some are very serious, which allows a look at occupations from different perspectives. In addition, there are poems from many different countries which will provide views of certain occupations from different cultures, as well as an insight into what things are like and the jobs that exist in these cultures. I Hear America Singing I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. Walt Whitman From Saturday's Children; Poems of Work Chosen by Helen Plotz Untitled; Traditional African Poem You who cultivate fields, Your merit is great, Wealth flows from your fingers, The sea gushes out in front of your house. You share what you produce With the begging orphan at your door: For this you receive blessing. And so ants will not eat your fingers; After you die, your destiny will be paradise, As long as you live, you will be blessed. From A Crocodile Has Me by the Leg Edited by Leonard W. Doob Musical Career She wanted to play the piano, But her hands couldn't reach the keys. When her hands could finally reach the keys, Her feet couldn't reach the floor. When her hands could finally reach the keys, And her feet could reach the floor, She didn't want to play that ol' piano anymore. Shel Silverstein From A Light in the Attic By Shel Silverstein I've Been Workin' on the Railroad I've been workin' on the railroad All the livelong day. I've been workin' on the railroad Just to pass the time away. Don't you hear the whistle blowing? Rise up so early in the morn. Don't you hear the Captain shouting: "Dinah, blow your horn." No author given From Saturday's Children; Poems of Work Chosen by Helen Plotz Deep Sea Diver Diver go down Down through the green Inverted dawn To the dark unseen To the never day The under night Starless and steep Deep beneath deep Diver fall And falling fight Your weed-dense way Until you crawl Until you touch Weird water land And stand. Diver come up Up through the green Into the light The sun the seen But in the clutch Of your dripping hand Diver bring Some uncouth thing That we could swear And would have sworn Was never born Or could ever be Anywhere Blaze on our sight Make us see. Robert Francis From Go With The Poem Chosen by Lilian Moore Nursery Rhymes Rich man Tinker, A laird, a lord Poor man Tailor, A cooper, a thief, Beggar man Soldier, A piper, a drummer, Thief Sailor, A stealer of beef. Doctor Gentleman, Lawyer Apothecary, Indian Chief Plough-boy, Scottish Nursery Thief. Soldier brave, sailor true, American Nursery Skilled physician, Oxford blue, Rhyme Learned lawyer, squire so hale, Dashing airman, curate pale. Army, Navy, Medicine, Law, Church, Nobility, Nothing at all. English Nursery Rhymes All taken from Saturday's Children; Poems of Work Chosen by Helen Plotz Build Me A House (Old House) Old house, tear it down. Who's going to help me tear it down? Bring me a hammer, tear it down. Bring me a saw, tear it down. The next thing you bring me, tear it down. Is a wrecking machine, tear it down. New house, build it up. Who's gonna help me build it up? Bring me a hammer, build it up. Bring me a saw, build it up. The next thing you bring me, build it up. Is a carpenter man, build it up. The next thing you bring me, build it up. Is a carpenter man, build it up. Traditional African-American song From Where I Come From!; Songs and Poems From Many Cultures Selected and arranged by Victor Cockburn and Judith Steinbergh Important People Edward the Confessor Slept under the dresser. When that began to pall, He slept in the hall. Edward Plantagenet (Can you imagine it!) Had owls in his hair, And didn't care. The poet Byron Was made of iron. He bragged about it. But I--I doubt it. Andrew Jackson Was Anglo-Saxon; So, full of beans, He took New Orleans. Lord Alfred Tennyson Lived upon venison -- Not cheap, I fear, Because venison's deer. The composer Liszt Banged the piano with his fist. That was the way He liked to play! Thomas A. Edison Never took medicine; So nobody wondered That he lived to a hundred. Sir Christopher Wren Said "I'm having lunch with some men. If anyone calls, Say I'm designing St. Paul's." Although the Borgias Were rather gorgeous, They liked the absurder Kinds of murder. Francesca da Rimini Lived in a chimney Full of bats in the gloam -- But still, home is home! Louis Untermeyer and others From Stars to Steer By, edited by Louis Untermeyer Untitled, Traditional African Poem We mold a pot as our mothers did. The pot, where is the pot? The pot, it is here. We mold the pot as our mothers did. First, the base of the pot. Strip by strip, and layer by layer. Supple fingers kneading the clay, Long fingers molding the clay, Stiff thumbs shaping the clay, Layer by layer and strip by strip, We build the pot as our mothers did. We build the pot as our mothers did. Strip by strip and layer by layer. Its belly swells like the paunch of a hyena, Of a hyena which has eaten a whole sheep. Its belly swells like a mother of twins. It is a beautiful pot, It swells like a mother of twins. From A Crocodile Has Me by the Leg Edited by Leonard W. Doob Old Florist That hump of a man bunching chrysanthemums Or pinching back asters, or planting azaleas, Tamping and stamping dirt into pots,-- How he could flick and pick Rotten leaves or yellowy petals, Or scoop out a weed close to flourishing roots, Or make the dust buzz with a light spray, Or drown a bug in one spit of tobacco juice, Or fan life into wilted sweet-peas with his hat, Or stand all night watering roses, his feet blue in rubber boots. Theodore Roethke From Saturday's Children; Poems of Work Chosen by Helen Plotz The Acrobats I'll swing By my ankles, She'll cling To your knees As you hang By your nose From a high-up Trapeze. But just one thing, please, As we float through the breeze-- Don't sneeze. Shel Silverstein From Go With the Poem Chosen by Lilian Moore How I Write Poems I walk by a dandelion blowing in the breeze. That gives me an idea for a poem, my mind fills up to the top with ideas and the ideas even go down to my knees, soon they will be down to my feet, and I will be so full I will pop. I run to find paper, I hop to find paper, I jump to find paper, I find paper, my mind is empty, my knees are empty, my feet are empty, and my paper is full. Abigail Drescher From Where I Come From!; Songs and Poems From Many Cultures Selected and arranged by Victor Cockburn and Judith Steinbergh Hazardous Occupations Jugglers keep six bottles in the air. Club swingers toss up six and eight. The knife throwers miss each other's ears by a hair and the steel quivers in the target wood. The trapeze battlers do a back-and-forth high in the air with a girl's feet and ankles upside down. So they earn a living--till they miss once, twice, even three times. So they live on hate and love as gypsies live in satin skins and shiny eyes. In their graves do the elbows jostle once in a blue moon--and wriggle to throw in a kiss answering a dreamed-of applause? Do the bones repeat: It's a good act-- we got a good hand.....? Carl Sandburg From Saturday's Children; Poems of Work Chosen by Helen Plotz The Young Glass-Stainer "These Gothic windows, how they wear me out With cusp and foil, and nothing straight or square, Crude colours, leaden borders roundabout, And fitting in Peter here, and Matthew there! "What a vocation! Here do I draw now The abnormal, loving the Hellenic norm; Martha I paint, and dream of Hera's brow, Mary, and think of Aphrodite's form." Thomas Hardy From Saturday's Children; Poems of Work Chosen by Helen Plotz Hunter's Song, Traditional African Poem In the bush, in the deep forest, We do our work; One hunter digs a hole, The other sets a trap. We divide the meat with our followers, Another part we cut in pieces And dry over the fire. We all die in the same way; And so, hunters, let us be good comrades. From A Crocodile Has Me by the Leg Edited by Leonard W. Doob The Fishvendor Where he stood in boots in water to his calves, A kind of fisherman, dispensing with a dip-net Sullen carp into tubs of ice, Was only in a tank on the back of a truck. Blocks off, gulls rung and fell to investigate What they took to be sardine cans On the river shiningly; but who contended For his thick brown fish were rather wives With boiling dishes in their eyes, Women estranged by city from live water; Where even the cats did not wait for the heads, The scene was that strong. While the mistaken sea-birds thrust the city away With a salt vigor, I heard the fisherman's feet shift in the brine, The thick fish thrashing without resignation, The shoppers, half tame at noon, Naming the coins that routed all of the cats And were for salt and instinct to a city. William Meredith From Saturday's Children; Poems of Work Chosen by Helen Plotz The Sitter Mrs. McTwitter the baby-sitter, I think she's a little bit crazy. She thinks a baby-sitter's supposed To sit upon the baby. Shel Silverstein From A Light in the Attic By Shel Silverstein The Chimney Sweeper When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue, Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep. There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head That curl'd like a lambs back, was shav'd, so I said. Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair. And so he was quiet & that very night, As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight, That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe Ned & Jack Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black And by came an Angel who had a bright key, And he open'd the coffins & set them all free. Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run And was in a river and shine in the Sun. Then naked & white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind. And the Angel told Tom if he'd be a good boy, He'd have God for his father & never want joy. And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark And got with our bags & our brushes to work. Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm, So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. William Blake (from Songs of Innocence) From Saturday's Children; Poems of Work Chosen by Helen Plotz

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