By Alan Sitomer
Hip-Hop's literary and inventive benefits are obvious compared to vintage poetry and it's effortless to hyperlink the nice poets of the earlier to the modern Hip Hop poets of at the present time: evaluate Robert Frost to Public Enemy, Shakespeare to Eminem, and Shelley to the infamous B.I.G. This interactive workbook-style structure is enjoyable for lecturers and scholars, because it illuminates the artwork of the written observe with in-depth research of poetic literary units, writing actions, and different leading edge equipment.
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Additional info for Hip-Hop Poetry and The Classics
Sunset, pink sky. Pink froth of waves. Papal pink. Pink smoke. Pink mist. Sniper pink. 49 Postcard from L ake M anzanita The trees here are made of glass, and they are alive. Actually, there is only one tree. It rises out of the lake, a huge scarlet and yellow tower. It feeds on air and plastic cushions that float in the water. When we arrived I was alone. How is that possible? I must have, in our haste to pack, driven off without you. I can picture you standing in the driveway in the predawn light, surprised, or perhaps amused, as the tail-lights of our car recede in the dark.
The rabbi rumored to be the Messiah is wanted for embezzlement. He escapes to Canada hiding in the trunk of your former lover’s car. You remember her. Her father was a famous writer, who, peeved that you did not play tennis, challenged you to a duel. Her skin was smooth as vinyl. 30 Footsteps Not tapping metallically, as one crossing a courtyard in hobnail boots, or a busker pacing in an alcove of The Plough and Thistle, not pathetic, one shoe flapping, its sole attached with twine. Not the scrape of one dragging a brass bed, but a measured, reassuring, firm-yet-soft pat of leather against pavement crunching the occasional leaf—the footsteps of one who hears the clatter of dishes and soft voices drifting out of rooms as balm and longing.
Papal pink. Pink smoke. Pink mist. Sniper pink. 49 Postcard from L ake M anzanita The trees here are made of glass, and they are alive. Actually, there is only one tree. It rises out of the lake, a huge scarlet and yellow tower. It feeds on air and plastic cushions that float in the water. When we arrived I was alone. How is that possible? I must have, in our haste to pack, driven off without you. I can picture you standing in the driveway in the predawn light, surprised, or perhaps amused, as the tail-lights of our car recede in the dark.
Hip-Hop Poetry and The Classics by Alan Sitomer