7 posts tagged “monday”

ha! its that day of the week again, when Normita suscepts you to some (hopefully) good poetry or thought provoking written goodness ;) or if she doesnt, you tell her and why :)

 

mujer del pelo cafe-

 

En mi mente siempre compongo piezas de arte.

En mi taza de te naranja sangrienta veo un poema sin letras

En mis piernas se ven palabras doradas que aparacen y desaparecen

En el silencio del viento, oigo musica sin discubrir

En tu mirada encuentro mil historias que faltan ser escritas

En estas calles quiero pintar listones amarillos

Quiero arrancar fruta fresca de los arboles y comerla-

sin importarme que dejo escurrir el jugo sobre mi cara y mi pecho

Quiero correr deslizandome sin importer que se me queden viendo-

 A aquella mujer loca del pelo café enredado

 

 

English version:

 

brown haired woman

In my mind I contstantly create pieces of art

in my cup of blood orange tea, I see a poem without letters

on my legs I see golden words that appear and disappear

in the silence of the wind, I hear music undiscovered

in your gaze, I discover a million histories that have yet to be written

all up and down these streets, I want to paint yellow ribbons

I want to tear fresh fruit from the trees and eat it

without caring  that I let  the juice drip down my face and chest

I want to run, losing control, without caring that they stare

at that woman with the tangled brown hair

 

 

hah, this time I am on it and ready for Monday moetry, to think that last Monday night I was still recovering from the madness of Fiesta!! :) anyway... I am continuing the thread of political poetry with a poem by: found in the amazing book,"This Bridge Called My Back". This poem, "The Bridge Poem" by Donna Kate Rushin, is incredible. I have been able to relate to this poem at times. It is tiring attempting mediate the gaps between people... anyhow, enjoy!

The Bridge Poem  by Donna Kate Rushin
I’ve had enough 
I’m sick of seeing and touching 
Both sides of things 
Sick of being the damn bridge for everybody 

Nobody 
Can talk to anybody 
Without me 
Right? 

I explain my mother to my father 
my father to my little sister 
My little sister to my brother 
my brother to the white feminists 
The white feminists to the Black church folks 
the Black church folks to the ex-hippies 
the ex-hippies to the Black separatists 
the Black separatists to the artists 
the artists to my friends’ parents… 

Then 
I’ve got to explain myself 
To everybody 

I do more translating 
Than the Gawdamn U.N. 

Forget it 
I’m sick of it. 

I’m sick of filling in your gaps 

Sick of being your insurance against 
the isolation of your self-imposed limitations 

Sick of being the crazy at your holiday dinners 

Sick of being the odd one at your Sunday Brunches 

Sick of being the sole Black friend to 34 individual white people 

Find another connection to the rest of the world 
Find something else to make you legitimate 
Find some other way to be political and hip 

I will not be the bridge to your womanhood 
Your manhood 
Your humanness 

I’m sick of reminding you not to 
Close off too tight for too long 

I’m sick of mediating with your worst self 
On behalf of your better selves 

I am sick 
Of having to remind you 
To breathe 
Before you suffocate 
Your own fool self 

Forget it 
Stretch or drown 
Evolve or die 

The bridge I must be 
Is the bridge to my own power 
I must translate 
My own fears 
Mediate 
My own weaknesses 

I must be the bridge to nowhere 
But my true self 
And then 
I will be useful 

this poem is amazing, so powerful and beautifully written, it makes me want to write!!

Poem For The Young White Man Who Asked Me How I, An Intelligent, Well-Read Person, Could Believe In

The War Between Races

 

In my land there are no distinctions. 
The barbed wire politics of oppression 
have been torn down long ago. The only reminder 
of past battles, lost or won, is a slight 
rutting in the fertile fields.

In my land 
people write poems about love, 
full of nothing but contented childlike syllables. 
Everyone reads Russian short stories and weeps. 
There are no boundaries. 
There is no hunger, no 
complicated famine or greed.

I am not a revolutionary. 
I don't even like political poems. 
Do you think I can believe in a war between races? 
I can deny it. I can forget about it 
when I'm safe, 
living on my own continent of harmony 
and home, but I am not 
there.

I believe in revolution 
because everywhere the crosses are burning, 
sharp-shooting goose-steppers round every corner, 
there are snipers in the schools... 
(I know you don't believe this. 
You think this is nothing 
but faddish exaggeration. But they 
are not shooting at you.)

I'm marked by the color of my skin. 
The bullets are discrete and designed to kill slowly. 
They are aiming at my children. 
These are facts. 
Let me show you my wounds: my stumbling mind, my 
"excuse me" tongue, and this 
nagging preoccupation 
with the feeling of not being good enough.

These bullets bury deeper than logic. 
Racism is not intellectual. 
I can not reason these scars away.

Outside my door 
there is a real enemy 
who hates me.

I am a poet 
who yearns to dance on rooftops, 
to whisper delicate lines about joy 
and the blessings of human understanding. 
I try. I go to my land, my tower of words and 
bolt the door, but the typewriter doesn't fade out 
the sounds of blasting and muffled outrage. 
My own days bring me slaps on the face. 
Every day I am deluged with reminders 
that this is not 
my land

and this is my land.

I do not believe in the war between races

but in this country 
there is war. 
-Lorna Dee Cervantes

 

this week, i am posting one of my own that i had written awhile ago which i was editing today..

Hills:

Hills passing through my rear view mirror

Sadness, pain, fear and desperation dominate here.

Amidst them, the people

walking unsteadily, walking painfully

but with a stride so strong it speaks of a tenacity that will not disappear

they walk,  they crawl, they are afraid

yet they walk, hearts full of light, towards uncertain promises.

I was reading about how Germany is attempting to impose restrictions on people immigrating to their country as well... I am too lazy to find the article for you guys just now but I will... anyhow, this poem is a direct reflection of my biased subjective view of immigration. I accept this as part of me as I am the child of immigrants-- I dont ever regret for an instant that my parents decided to break the law and more importantly, risk their lives in the name of a greater good--- a future.
So read the poem with  the disclaimer that ,yes, it completely plays on the emotional aspect of immigration but for that I can't apologize.

This week we have Jorge Luis Borges with his poem "Instantes" followed by a translation! I really enjoy this poem because it reminds me that life is meant to be enjoyed-of course working hard is important, but so is playing hard. This could jump start a good discussion--what is the meaning of life? OR not :) enjoy~

 

Instantes

Si pudiera vivir nuevamente mi vida,
en la próxima trataría de cometer más errores.
No intentaría ser tan perfecto, me relajaría más.
Sería más tonto de lo que he sido,
de hecho tomaría muy pocas cosas con seriedad.
Sería menos higiénico.
Correría más riesgos,
haría más viajes,
contemplaría más atardeceres,
subiría más montañas, nadaría más ríos.
Iría a más lugares adonde nunca he ido,
comería más helados y menos habas,
tendría más problemas reales y menos imaginarios.

Yo fui una de esas personas que vivió sensata
y prolíficamente cada minuto de su vida;
claro que tuve momentos de alegría.
Pero si pudiera volver atrás trataría
de tener solamente buenos momentos.

Por si no lo saben, de eso está hecha la vida,
sólo de momentos; no te pierdas el ahora.

Yo era uno de esos que nunca
iban a ninguna parte sin un termómetro,
una bolsa de agua caliente,
un paraguas y un paracaídas;
si pudiera volver a vivir, viajaría más liviano.

Si pudiera volver a vivir
comenzaría a andar descalzo a principios
de la primavera
y seguiría descalzo hasta concluir el otoño.
Daría más vueltas en calesita,
contemplaría más amaneceres,
y jugaría con más niños,
si tuviera otra vez vida por delante.

Pero ya ven, tengo 85 años...
y sé que me estoy muriendo.

******************************************************************

okay Translation:

 

Instants-

 

If I could live my life over again

In the next one, I would try to make more mistakes

I would not try to be so perfect, I would relax more.

I would be more foolish than I have been,

I would try to take many things less seriously

I would be less hygienic

I would run more risks

I would take more trips.

I would contemplate more sunsets

I would climb more mountains, swim more rivers

I would go to places that I have never been

I would eat more ice cream and less green beans

I would have real problems rather than imaginary ones.

 

I was one of those people who lived sensibly

Every minute of my life

Of course I had moments of happiness

But if I could go back I would

Try have only good moments.

 

Because in case you don’t know it, that is what life is made up of.

Only of moments, don’t lose today.

 

I was one of those that never

went anywhere without a thermometer,

A bag of hot water,

An umbrella and a parachute;

If I could live again, I would travel light.

 

If I could live again

I would go barefoot from the beginning

Of spring

And would continue to be until the end of Autumn.

I would go more rounds

I would contemplate more sunrises

And I would play with more children.

If I had life in front of me again.

But as you can see, I am 85 years old-

And I am dying.

 

 

 

this was inspired by someone lonely, it breaks my heart- for the most part (there are some exception) humans should not be alone, we are social animals....this is also partially inspired by the los abandoned song... how in such a crazy networked world, where its so easy to pick up the phone and hear a warm voice, there are still so many people lonely and so disconnected...

 

 

 

Its late at night or early dawn.

I am seperated by four walls .

Reaching, seeking but all I feel is empty.

warm hands miss each other.

the dial tone of disconnect rings loud.

the neighbor feels the same.

Missed calls echo through the stillness.

Everyone is lonely alone.

My cup of tea is cold.

 

 

aha, here is the translation of my monday night moetry, to me it sounds sooo beautiful in spanish but thats obviously because i am being biased as this was the first language I read it in, nevertheless it is still good in english:

I can write the saddest lines tonight.

 

Write for example: ‘The night is fractured

and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’

 

The night wind turns in the sky and sings.

 

I can write the saddest lines tonight.

I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.

 

On nights like these I held her in my arms.

I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky.

 

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.

How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes.

 

I can write the saddest lines tonight.

To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her.

 

Hear the vast night, vaster without her.

Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass.

 

What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her.

The night is fractured and she is not with me.

 

That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off,

my soul is not content to have lost her.

 

As though to reach her, my sight looks for her.

My heart looks for her: she is not with me

                   

The same night whitens, in the same branches.

We, from that time, we are not the same.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her.

 

Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes.

 

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her.

Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.

 

Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,

my soul is not content to have lost her.

 

Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer,        

and these are the last lines I will write for her.

what do you think?

of further interest:

a little about Neruda's life