The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
Other Directed, Turner Cassidy
Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
A Fairly Sad Tale, Dorothy Parker
Afraid So, Jeanne Beaumont
Kicking The Beehive, Susan Werner
Which?, Cole Porter
The Unknown Citizen, W.H. Auden
If I Were a Rich Man, Sheldon Harnick and Jerry Bock
Testimonial, Harry Newman, Jr.
The Good People and the Bad People, Alexander Solzhenitsyn
St. Roach, Muriel Rukeyser
We Are Many, Pablo Neruda
I Am Not I, Juan Ramon Jimenez
Human Family, Maya Angelou


Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

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Other Directed
by Turner Cassidy

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Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou

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A Fairly Sad Tale
by Dorothy Parker

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Afraid So
by Jeanne Marie Beaumont

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Kicking The Beehive
by Susan Werner

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Which?
by Cole Porter

Which is the right life,
The simple or the night life?
When, pray, should one rise,
At sunset or at sunrise?
Which should be upper,
My breakfast or my supper?
Which is the right life, Which?

If the wood nymph left the park,
Would Park Avenue excite her?
Would the glowworm trade her spark
For the latest Dunhill lighter?
Here’s a question I would pose,
Tell me which the sweeter smell makes,
The aroma of the rose,
Or the perfume that Chanel makes?

Which land is dreamier,
Arcadia or Bohemia?
Who’ll tell me the answer,
The daisy or the dancer?
Which life is for me,
The peaceful or the stormy?
Which is the right man,
Walt Whitman or Paul Whiteman,
Which?

Should I read Euripides or continue with The Graphic?
Hear the murmur of the breeze or the roaring of the traffic?
Should I make one man my choice
And regard divorce as treason,
Or should I, like Peggy Joyce,
Get a new one ev’ry season?

Which is the right life,
The simple or the night life?
When, pray, should one rise,
At sunset or at sunrise?
Which should be upper,
My breakfast or my supper?
Which is the right life,
Which?

 
 

The Unknown Citizen
by W.H. Auden

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.

Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.

The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.

He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his
generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
education.

Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

 
 

If I Were A Rich Man
by Sheldon Harnick and Jerry Bock

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Testimonial
by Harry Newman, Jr.

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The Good People and The Bad People
by Alexander Solzhenitsyn

If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?

 
 

St. Cockroach
by Muriel Rukeyser

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We Are Many
(Translated from the original Spanish)
by Pablo Neruda

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.

When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?

All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

But when I call upon my dashing being,
out comes the same old lazy self,
and so I never know just who I am,
nor how many I am, nor who we will be being.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.

While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

 
 

I Am Not I
(Translated from the Spanish)
by Juan Ramon Jimenez

I am not I.
I am this one
Walking beside me whom I do not see,
Whom at times I manage to visit,
And at other times I forget.
The only one who remains silent when I talk,
The one who forgives, sweet, when I hate,
The one who takes a walk when I am indoors,
The one who will remain standing when I die.

Human Family
by Maya Angelou

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