Anne Frank House!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

http://www.annefrank.org/en/Subsites/Home/Enter-the-3D-house/#/house/23/hotspot/4104/audio/

This is a link to tour The Anne Frank House!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Short Life of Anne Frank

This is the short film I was trying to show you about Anne Frank, hopefully, it works better this way

Anne Frank the Diary of a Young Girl

Here is the five part series on Hitler that I showed you parts of today.

Passers-by POEM

Passers-by

Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967

Passers-by,
Out of your many faces
Flash memories to me
Now at the day end
Away from the sidewalks
Where your shoe soles traveled
And your voices rose and blent
To form the city’s afternoon roar
Hindering an old silence.
Passers-by,
I remember lean ones among you,
Throats in the clutch of a hope,
Lips written over with strivings,
Mouths that kiss only for love,
Records of great wishes slept with,
      Held long
And prayed and toiled for:
      Yes,
Written on
Your mouths
And your throats
I read them
When you passed by.

Day 3 of Poetry

Your Ardor

by Kathleen Ossip

 

To dream of your ardor
is much joy and much happiness.
Your ardor tells me that
I am making a mistake
by not taking hold of what
is offered to me.
What I mean when I say
“your ardor” is stenciled on
the air that surrounds
your big face. The force
of your ardor pushes strangely.
All that matters now
is your ardor. It solves
a most formidable equation.
How old is your ardor?
I think it was born when
it met me.
You should heed your ardor.
It will scoop you out, little melon:
       Your ardor as good as its master
       Your ardor tomorrow and your ardor yesterday
       Your ardor in January
       Your ardor dripping sharp as vinegar
       Your ardor dripping pale as ashes
       Your ardor with its quick reply
       Your ardor and your hot hard argument
       Your ardor with a hatchet
       Your ardor
       Your ardor drinking and talking
       Your ardor local and authentic
       Your ardor of lost fame
       Your ardor that hits the button and initiates
       Your ardor stronger than your pride
       Your ardor in squalor
       Your ardor that squeaks
       Your ardor that spends and spends
Your pen is my lure.
Your ardor my wire.
The night your ardor first beset me I cried
“Zyer! Oh, zyer!”
Who cares what I meant.
I don’t retain facts.
We hate facts, don’t we, they never did a thing for us.
Behind the screen of your ardor
lies the globe of the Earth
above which the eagle can be seen
soaring up toward the sun, which
has my face. It grins high in the purple sky.
On either side stand two allegorical figures,
the Way of Virtue and the Way of Vice.
Your ardor comes on like a pun,
making the most of
all possible significances.
Your ardor so close now to my ardor.
Our ardors twitch, so sensitive to control.
I just want your ardor to have fun in there!
What next, what next, oh ardors?
Here it is.
Here’s what we call the Red Spot.

Poetry day 1

Since we are currently studying poetry I would post a different poem daily for you all...

I would like to hear your thoughts, opinions, and feelings on the poems.

Never Ever

by Brenda Shaughnessy, 1970

Alarmed, today is a new dawn,
and that affair recurs daily like clockwork,
undone at dusk, when a new restaurant
emerges in the malnourished night.
We said it would be this way, once this became
the way it was. So in a way we were
waiting for it. I still haven’t eaten, says the cook
in the kitchen. A compliant complaint.
I never eat, says the slender diner. It’s slander,
and she’s scared, like a bully pushing
lettuce around. The cook can’t look, blind with hunger
and anger. I told a waiter to wait
for me and I haven’t seen him since. O it has been forty
minutes it has been forty years.
Late is a synonym for dead which is a euphemism
for ever. Ever is a double-edged word,
at once itself and its own opposite: always
and always some other time.
In the category of cleave, then. To cut and to cling to,
somewhat mournfully.
That C won’t let leave alone. Even so, forever’s
now’s never, and remember is just
the future occluded or dreaming. The day has come:
a dusty gust of disgusting August,
functioning as a people-mover. Maybe we’re going
nowhere, but wherever I go
I see us everywhere. On occasions of fancyness,
or out to eat. As if people, stark, now-ish
people themselves were the forever of nothing,
the everything of nobody,
the very same self of us all, after all, at long
last the first.