Zócalo Poets…Volveremos en octubre de 2013 / ZP will return October 2013
Posted: August 31, 2013 Filed under: IMAGES Comments Off on Zócalo Poets…Volveremos en octubre de 2013 / ZP will return October 2013Zócalo Poets – ¡qué reunamos aquí en la gran plaza de poemas!
ZP – meet us in the Square!
¡Mándanos tus poemas – en cualquier idioma!
Send us your poems – in any language!
zocalopoets@hotmail.com
Hielo – Limón_Hasta luego, Verano…
“Problematic”: Jay Bernard on poems, performance, problem-solving
Posted: August 31, 2013 Filed under: 7 GUEST EDITORS, English, Jay Bernard Comments Off on “Problematic”: Jay Bernard on poems, performance, problem-solving“Problematic”: Zócalo Poets Guest Editor Jay Bernard on poems, performance, problem-solving:
.
Poetry is a form of problem solving. There are poems and performances I return to often because they speak to – but do not necessarily solve – problems I enjoy. These problems are usually on the merry-go-round that is the relationship between society and art, and some of the pieces I mention below exemplify the kinds of problems I think about. How to speak. How to sound authentic. How to speak so you are understood. The art of incantation.
.
So let’s start with a light take on a heavy subject. Every few months I watch Tamarin Norwood (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jjMvde0GJBk) read at an event called Minimum Security Prison Poetry, then spend a few hours admiring her website. It’s a great fusion of academia and playfulness. But listen to her voice. The facetious use of arch-formalism, the repetition, the nature of the repetition, the element of the absurd. It’s the conventional voice for this style of poetry. If she was a spoken word poet, she’d gravitate towards the American slam formula in which you start with slow declarative sentences, then speed up. But sometimes the convention works. Norwood’s piece is an example, as is another favourite: Kai Davis’s Fuck I Look Like (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hGdYAK2sLjA) There’s a bit of a contradiction when she says “You say gargantuan, I say big as shit”, then goes on to criticise another student for not using big words, but her performance is a seamless combination between the voice she’d actually use in an argument and that uniquely American oratory style. She affirms my suspicions that some social problems don’t need answers, they need to be cussed out.
.
But what about the voice in other cultures? In 2012 I visited Angelica Mesiti’s Citizens Band, showing at ACCA in Melbourne. It featured four musicians with unique talents, but the one that impressed was the Mongolian throat singer. Later research yielded dozens of varieties, including the Tuvan version here at Ubuweb’s ethnopoetics page (http://www.ubu.com/ethno/soundings/tuva.html). When I taught myself to do it (you can too) the idea of the technique as a “conduit” of poetry really moved me. How else is it possible to speak? What else can our voices do? And what kind of wordless poem is created?
.
Speaking of wordlessness: Ng Yi Sheng’s performance of Singapore’s national pledge is a performance I don’t have a video for, but I wanted to include it because it’s a remarkable piece of mockery and exaggeration. Imagine: a slight, smiling man dressed as an air hostess gets up and places a pencil in his mouth. He then spends the next five minutes waving his hands around like a dictator, as he shouts lines from the national pledge to a marching rhythm. JUSTICE! JUSTICE! SOCIETY! The pencil makes him dribble. His movements exhaust him. This poem, when performed in front of Singaporean ministers, got him blacklisted. But as someone who has always been contemptuous of nationalism, I recall this performance as a great union of politics and performance. Conclusion: the more humourless the target of the joke, the better the joke.
.
Sometimes the joke is hard to get. Tongues Untied (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWuPLxMBjM8), a 1989 film by Marlon Riggs, is the nuanced pursuit of a unified sexual/racial aesthetic. His voice, his desire to be seen as he is – dark-skinned, black, American – is complicated by his sexuality; it leads him into the white world, makes him vulnerable – neither this nor that. Yet like Norwood, there’s a lightness to his touch, and I admire the unity of his vision. Why does two identities imply a split? Why isn’t the person doubled or squared? It’s a problem that Riggs sets to song, and I return to this long, cinematic poem every year.
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What Riggs also touches on is the yearning to say as an adult what you needed to hear as a young person; and sometimes that thing can be said not in words, but in the simple combination of *that* person, *that* voice, *that* context. Which is why Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha (http://vimeo.com/11997033) in conversation with Ellery Russian about queer crip sexuality is one of my favourite videos. The humanity in what they are saying is simple and elegant, and the same could be said generally of Samarasinha’s poetry. She writes a lot about her father’s past and how it was a mystery she had to become queer to solve. Sometimes I want the voice that wrote the poems to talk simply, humanely and intelligently about the world at large, and that is what she does here.
. . . . .
ZP Editor’s Note: To read poems by Jay Bernard, click on April 2012 and hers are right at the top.
Classic Kaiso: “Bass Man” by The Mighty Shadow
Posted: August 31, 2013 Filed under: English, English: Trinidadian, Winston Anthony Bailey Comments Off on Classic Kaiso: “Bass Man” by The Mighty Shadow
ZP_The Mighty Shadow_photograph by Abigail Hadeed
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August 31st is Independence Day in Trinidad and Tobago, and, since “we” [here at Zócalo Poets] have a sentimental attachment to Kaiso, let “us” therefore share the lyrics to an old favourite – “Bassman” by The Mighty Shadow (Winston Anthony Bailey, born 1941, Belmont, Port of Spain) – which, back in 1974, was a strikingly original Calypso tune with a new sound and instrumental arrangement: bandy-leggéd rhythms + a bunny-hoppity bass-line.
Influenced by the style of The Mighty Spoiler (Theophilus Phillip, 1926-1960), who was a great exponent of humorous and imaginative Calypsos, Shadow has had a propensity for the eccentric and the eery. Often, he has worn dark clothing with a broad-brimmed hat and regal cape; and he has the most curious movements – including a minimalist approach – when it comes to his deportment while performing. Winning first and second places in the contest for Road March 1974 – with his songs “Bassman” and “Ah Come Out To Play” – released as a 7-inch 45rpm single vinyl record the same year – Shadow was the ‘new’ calypsonian to break the stranglehold on Road March Title held for eleven years by “biggies” Kitchener and Sparrow. While Shadow came very close to winning Calypso Monarch for 1974 – certainly he was the crowd favourite – the judges didn’t agree. He would be denied the crown several seasons over before deciding to just ignore that competition – well, for 17 years, at any rate. In 1993 he re-entered for Calypso Monarch and, though he was not to win, he would comment afterwards: “I never get no crown, but they can’t touch my music. The Shadow music sweet too bad.” However, in 2000, he did finally win the Monarch title – something he’d been deserving of for many years.
As regards his musical contribution to the Calypso genre, Shadow told the Trinidad newspaper, TnT Mirror, in 1989, that his claim to fame was in “moving the bottom of the music, and introducing changes in the bass lines…My music is characterized by a lot of energy, because of my emphasis on the foot drums and bass…” Among The Mighty Shadow‘s famous songs are: Obeah (1982), Ah Come Out Tuh Party (1983), If I Wine I Wine (1985), The Garden Want Water (1988), and Mr. Brown (1996).
ZP_A 12 year old boy and member of the Tamana Pioneers steel orchestra practises his bass drums_ Arima, Trinidad_ January 2013
. . .
Winston Anthony Bailey a.k.a. The Mighty Shadow
“Bass Man”
(Music and lyrics by Bailey / Arranger: Art de Coteau)
.
I was planning to forget Calypso
And go and plant peas in Tobago
But I am afraid ah cyah make de grade.
Cuz every night I lie down in mih bed
Ah hearing a Bassman in mih head
.
Ah don’t know how dis t’ing get inside me
But e-ve-ry morning, he drivin’ me crazy
Like he takin’ me head for a pan-yard
Morning and evening, like dis fella gone mad.
Pim pom – an’ if ah don’t want to sing
Pim pom – well, he start to do he t’ing
I don’t want to – but ah have to sing
Pim pom – an’ if ah don’t want to dance
Pim pom – he does have me in a trance
I don’t want to – but ah have to prance to his:
pom pom pidi pom, pom, pom pom pidi pom, pom…
.
One night I said to de Bassman
Give me your identification
He said “Is me – Farrell –
Your Bassman from hell.
Yuh tell me you singing Calypso
An’ ah come up to pull some notes for you.”
.
Ah don’t know how dis t’ing get inside me
But e-ve-ry morning, he drivin’ me crazy
Like he takin’ me head for a pan-yard
Morning and evening, like dis fella gone mad.
Pim pom – an’ if ah don’t want to sing
Pim pom – well, he start to pull he string
I don’t want to – but ah have to sing
Pim pom – an’ if ah don’t want to dance
Pim pom – he does have me in a trance
I don’t want to – but ah have to prance to his:
pom pom pidi pom, pom, pom pom pidi pom, pom…
.
I went and ah tell Dr Lee Yeung
That I want a brain operation
A man in meh head
I want him to dead
He said it’s my imagination
But I know ah hearin’ de Bassman…
Ah don’t know how dis t’ing get inside me
But e-ve-ry morning, he drivin’ me crazy
Like he takin’ me head for a pan-yard
Morning and evening, like dis fella gone mad.
Pim pom – etcetera…..
. . . . .
Véronique Tadjo: “Cocodrilo” / “Crocodile”
Posted: August 27, 2013 Filed under: English, French, Spanish, Véronique Tadjo, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Véronique Tadjo: “Cocodrilo” / “Crocodile”
Véronique Tadjo (nacido en 1955, Paris/Abidjan, Costa de Marfil)
“Cocodrilo”
.
No es la vida fácil ser un cocodrilo
especialmente si no quiere ser un cocodrilo
El coco que usted puede ver – en la página opuesta* –
no es feliz en su
piel de coco
Era su preferencia
ser diferente
Habría preferido
llamar la atención de
Los niños
y jugar con ellos
Platicar con sus padres
Dar paseos
por la aldea
Excepto, excepto, excepto…
.
Cada vez que sale del agua
Los pescadores
tiran lanzas
Los niños
huyen
Las muchachas
abandonan sus jarros
.
Su vida es
una vida
de soledad y de la pena
Vida sin cuate y sin cariño,
sin ningún lugar a visitar
.
En todas partes – Desconocidos
.
Ese cocodrilo
Vegetariano
Un cocodrilo
y bueno para nada
Un cocodrilo
que se siente un
Horror sagrado de la sangre
.
Por favor:
Escríbale,
Escríbale a:
Cocodrilo Amable,
Caleta número 3,
Cuenca del Rio Níger.
.
*La versión original en francés presenta un dibujo hecho por Señora Tadjo.
.
Traducción en español: Alexander Best
. . .
Véronique Tadjo (née en 1955, Paris/Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire)
“Crocodile”
.
Ce n’est pas facile d’être un crocodile
Surtout si on na’a pas envie
D’être un crocodile
Celui que vous voyez
Sur la page opposée
N’est pas bien
Dans sa peau
De croco
il aurait aimé
Etre different
Il aurait aimé
Attirer
Les enfants
Jouer
Avec eux
Converser
avec les parents
Se balader
Dans
Le village
Mais, mais, mais
.
Quand il sort
De l’eau
Les pêcheurs
Lancent des sagaies
Les gamins
Détalent
Les jeunes filles
Abandonnent leurs canaris
.
Sa vie
Est une vie
De solitude
Et de tristesse
.
Sans ami
Sans caresse
Nulle part
Où aller
.
Partout –
Etranger
.
Un crocodile
Crocodile
Végétarien
Et bon à rien
Qui a
Une sainte horreur
Du sang
.
S’il vous plaît
Ecrivez,
Ecrivez à:
Gentil Crocodile,
Baie Numéro 3,
Fleuve Niger.
. . .
Véronique Tadjo (born 1955, Paris/Abidjan, Ivory Coast)
“Crocodile”
.
It’s not easy to be a crocodile
Especially if you don’t want
To be a crocodile
The one you see
On the opposite page*
Is not happy
in his croc’s
Skin
He would have liked
To be different
He would have liked
To attract
Children
Play
with them
Talk
With their parents
Walk around
in the village
But, but, but
.
When he comes out
Of the water
Fisherman
Throw spears
Children
Take off
Young girls
Abandon their water jugs
.
His life
Is a life
Of solitude
And sadness
.
Without a friend
Without affection
Nowhere
To go
.
Everywhere
Strangers
.
A Crocodile
Vegetarian
Crocodile
And good for nothing
Who has
A holy horror
Of blood
.
Please
Write,
Write to:
Nice Crocodile,
Bay Number 3,
Niger River.
.
*The original French-language version of this poem featured a drawing by Tadjo herself of a crocodile.
. . . . .
Irene Rutherford McLeod: “Perro solitário” / “Lone Dog”
Posted: August 27, 2013 Filed under: English, Irene Rutherford McLeod, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Irene Rutherford McLeod: “Perro solitário” / “Lone Dog”
ZP_Perro solitário_Las Playitas_Cuatro Ciénegas_Coahuila_México_fotógrafo Hector Garza
.
Irene Rutherford McLeod (1891-1968)
“Perro solitário”
.
Soy un perro magro, un perro agudo – salvaje y solitário;
Un perro alborotador y firme, estoy cazando yo solo;
Un perro malo – y me cabreo – provocando a los tontos borregos;
Me gusta sentirme y aullar a la luna – para evitar que los almas gordas duerman.
.
Nunca ser un cachorro del regazo o lamer los pies sucios,
Un perrito dócil, elegante, arrastrándome por mi carne,
Ni la alfombrilla del hogar ni el plato bien llenado,
Sino puertas cerradas, piedras afiladas – y golpes, patadas: el odio.
.
Ningunos otros perros – para mí – corriendo hombro a hombro,
Algunos han corrido un rato corto – pero ningunos pueden durar.
El camino solo es mío – ¡Ah! – la senda ardua me parece bien:
¡Viento furioso, estrellas indómitas, el hambre de la búsqueda!
. . .
Irene Rutherford McLeod (1891-1968)
“Lone Dog”
.
I’m a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
I’m a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
I’m a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;
I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.
.
I’ll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick and hate.
.
Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best –
Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!
.
Traducción del inglés al español / Translation from English into Spanish: Alexander Best
. . . . .
“Quien nace chicharra, muere cantando.”: ¡Las cigarras torontonienses hacen un gran zumbido! / “He who is born a cicada will die singing.”: Torontonian cicadas are right now making a big noise!
Posted: August 25, 2013 Filed under: English, Ernesto Cardenal, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on “Quien nace chicharra, muere cantando.”: ¡Las cigarras torontonienses hacen un gran zumbido! / “He who is born a cicada will die singing.”: Torontonian cicadas are right now making a big noise!
ZP_Cicada from Borneo_© photographer Alex Hyde
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Después de un mutismo de seis semanas – tiempo fresco en vez del calor típico del verano – empieza de nuevo “la música de cámara de los timbales” – con la recurrencia de temperaturas de 30 grados centígrados. Las cigarras-machos del barrio “cantan” para llamar la atención de sus hembras – y después del apareamiento las cigarras morirán. Pero – como sucede con nuestro aposte de María Elena Walsh (“Como la Cigarra”) – La Cigarra nos inspira metafóricamente – un testigo es el poema siguiente del Padre Ernesto Cardenal…
.
Ernesto Cardenal (poeta, sacerdote y político, nace en 1925, Granada, Nicaragua)
“En Pascua resucitan las cigarras”
.
En Pascua resucitan las cigarras
—enterradas 17 años en estado de larva—
millones y millones de cigarras
que cantan y cantan todo el día
y en la noche todavía están cantando.
Sólo los machos cantan:
las hembras son mudas.
Pero no cantan para las hembras:
porque también son sordas.
Todo el bosque resuena con el canto
y sólo ellas en todo el bosque no los oyen.
¿Para quien cantan los machos?
¿Y porque cantan tanto? ¿Y que cantan?
Cantan como trapenses en el coro
delante de sus Salterios y sus Antifonarios
cantando el Invitatorio de la Resurrección.
Al fin del mes el canto se hace triste,
y uno a uno van callando los cantores,
y después sólo se oyen unos cuantos,
y después ni uno. Cantaron la resurrección.
. . .
After a silence of six weeks – cool weather instead of our typical Torontonian hot summer days – the “tymbal” chamber-music of the male cicadas is back in full force, now that temperatures are hitting 30 degrees celsius once again. The cicada’s “song” attracts a female to mate, and afterwards the cicadas die. And yet, as with our previous post – María Elena Walsh’s “Like a Cicada” – The Cicada inspires us metaphorically; witness the following poem by Father Ernesto Cardenal…
.
Ernesto Cardenal (poet, priest, politician, born 1925, Granada, Nicaragua)
“At Easter-time the cicadas are resurrected”
.
At Easter-time* the cicadas are resurrected
– underground 17 years in a larval state –
millions and millions of cicadas
which sing sing sing all day long
and which, at nightfall, are still singing…
Only the males do so – the females are quiet;
because they are also deaf.
The woods resound with cicada-song
and just the female cicadas – among all of us in the woods – don’t hear it.
For whom do these male cicadas sing then?
And why do they sing so much – and what is it that they are singing?
They sing like Trappist monks in a chorus,
before them their open Book of Psalms and “Antifonarios”,
incanting the Invitatory Psalm of the Resurrection.
After a month or more the cicada-song becomes sad,
and, one by one, the “singers” fall silent,
and then we hear just a few,
and, after that, nary a one.
They have sung the Resurrection.
.
* Perhaps April in a hotter southern climate, but not till July in Canada
.
Traducción en inglés / Translation from Spanish into English: Alexander Best
. . . . .
María Elena Walsh: “Como la cigarra” / “Like the Cicada”
Posted: August 22, 2013 Filed under: English, María Elena Walsh, Spanish Comments Off on María Elena Walsh: “Como la cigarra” / “Like the Cicada”
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艾未未 + 艾青 : Ai Weiwei + Ai Qing: “Without movement there is no Life…We should use our energy to the fullest.”
Posted: August 17, 2013 Filed under: Ai Qing, Chinese (Mandarin), English Comments Off on 艾未未 + 艾青 : Ai Weiwei + Ai Qing: “Without movement there is no Life…We should use our energy to the fullest.”
The retrospective exhibition Ai Weiwei: According to What? opens today at the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto, Canada. Ai Weiwei (born 1957) is China’s most famous – or infamous – depending on your weltanschauung – contemporary artist. Currently without a passport and not permitted to leave China, Ai Weiwei has, with a team of energetic workers, fashioned bold sculptures from humble stools, bicycles, firewood, compacted tea leaves – even rusty lengths of rebar.
“Straight” consists of several thousand sections of rebar salvaged – then straightened out – from 2008 earthquake rubble of collapsed buildings that killed 5000 schoolchildren – a horrific event – combined with shoddy “tofu” architecture – that Chinese authorities tried to downplay but which Ai Weiwei sought to memorialize. David Jager, in the August 15th issue of Toronto’s NOW magazine, writes: “Every element of the sculpture, from process to material to final form [ an undulating moraine with a rift through it ] expresses Ai’s deep desire to reshape a hopelessly corrupt and tangled situation. Knowing that the bodies of the earthquake victims were once trapped within the sculptural material makes as visceral an impact as seeing a pile of shoes from Auschwitz. This is what art is supposed to do.”
Whether he is letting drop and smash a Han dynasty urn, or starring, with shaved head and red rosebud lips, in the “music video” Dumbass – about his 2011 jail experience – Ai Weiwei provokes us and respects our intelligence.
.
Ai Qing (pen name of Jiang Haicheng, 1910-1996) was Ai Weiwei’s father, and a notable poet of the Mao Zedong era in China. In his early 20s Ai Qing was imprisoned for two years for opposing the Kuomintang; in 1957 he was sent to a hard-labour camp for criticizing his government in print; he spent the next twenty-plus years emptying latrines and so forth as part of his “mental correction” for Wrong Thought under Mao. We feature here a selection of Ai Qing’s poems…
. . .
“Wall”
.
A wall is like a knife
It slices a city in half
One half is on the east
The other half is on the west
.
How tall is this wall?
How thick is it?
How long is it?
Even if it were taller, thicker and longer
It couldn’t be as tall, as thick and as long
As China’s Great Wall
It is only a vestige of history
A nation’s wound
Nobody likes this wall
.
Three metres tall is nothing
Fifty centimetres thick is nothing
Forty-five kilometres long is nothing
Even a thousand times taller
Even a thousand times thicker
Even a thousand times longer
How could it block out
The clouds, wind, rain, and sunshine of the heavens?
.
And how could it block out
The currents of water and air?
.
And how could it block out
A billion people
Whose thoughts are freer than the wind?
Whose will is more entrenched than the earth?
Whose wishes are more infinite than time?
.
(1979)
.
. . .
“Trees”
.
One tree, another tree,
Each standing alone and erect.
The wind and air
Tell their distance apart.
.
But beneath the cover of earth
Their roots reach out
And at depths that cannot be seen
The roots of the trees intertwine.
.
(1940)
.
. . .
“Fish Fossil”
.
With such agility in your movements,
Such buoyancy in your strength,
You leapt in the foam
And swam in the sea.
.
Unfortunately, a volcano’s eruption
Or perhaps an earthquake
Cost you your freedom
And buried you in the silt.
.
After millions of years
Members of a geological team
Found you in a layer of rock
And you still look alive.
.
But you are now silent,
Without even a sigh.
Your scales and fins are whole
But you cannot move.
.
So absolutely motionless,
You have no reaction to the world.
You cannot see the water or the sky,
You cannot hear the sound of the waves.
.
Gazing at this fossil,
Even a fool can learn a lot:
Without movement
There is no life.
.
To live is to struggle
And advance in the struggle;
Even if death is not at our doorstep,
We should use our energy to the fullest.
.
. . .
“Hope”
.
Dream’s friend
Illusion’s sister
.
Originally your shadow
Yet always in front of you
.
As formless as light
As restless as wind
.
Between you and her
She keeps her distance always
.
Like flying birds outside the window
Like floating clouds in the sky
.
Like butterflies by the river
She is sly and lovely
.
When you rise, she flies away
You ignore her, and she nudges you
.
She is always with you
To your dying breath.
. . .
“Coal’s Reply”
.
Where do you live?
.
I live in ten thousand years of steep mountain
I live in ten thousand years of crag-rock
.
And your age?
.
My age is greater than the mountain’s
Greater than the crag-rock’s
.
How long have you been silenced?
Since the dinosaurs governed the earth
Since the earth felt its first tremor
.
Have you perished in this deep rancour and bitterness?
.
Death? No, no, I’m still alive
Please, give me a light, give me a light.
.
(1937)
.
. . .
Translations from the Chinese: Chen Eoyang, Peng Wenlan, and Marilyn Chin
. . . . .
Tricia Postle: Poema (“ya está bien – bastante”) / Poem (“that’s enough of that”)
Posted: August 15, 2013 Filed under: English, Spanish, Tricia Postle Comments Off on Tricia Postle: Poema (“ya está bien – bastante”) / Poem (“that’s enough of that”)
En el patio del fondo los girasoles se inclinan hacia adelante
Tarde de noche, de la puerta, están llamados por sus nombres
los gatos, y yo, jadeante, deduzco que la parcela vallada está
desocupada, la ventana del lado de la casa no tiene indicio de
la camisa amarilla de él, su cuerpo delgado comportando como
pesa de plomo después de su labor del día
.
Lleno de contradicciones, una criatura absurda
más o menos encontrándome contra las cuerdas,
unas diecisiete diferentes,
Ansio el paraíso de la compasión, de la condolencia,
y “ya está bien – bastante”
. . .
The sunflowers lean heavy in the yard
late at night, the cats are called by name
from the door, and breathless I gather
that the yard is empty, the side window
of the house holds no sign of his
yellow shirt, his slim body
carried heavily after a day’s work
.
Full of contradictions, an absurd
creature more or less at the end
of seventeen different ropes
I long for the paradise
of sympathy, condolence,
and “that’s enough of that”
. . .
Tricia Postle es músico y cantante. A ella le interesa la gran variedad musical del mundo, incluso el cancionero occitano, la ópera / la zarzuela, y las canciones exquisitas de Reynaldo Hahn. También toca el “kanun” y ha cantado en una banda “steam-punk”.
. . . . .
Gregory Porter: “Somos pintados sobre un lienzo ” / “Painted on canvases”
Posted: August 14, 2013 Filed under: English, Gregory Porter, Spanish, Translator's Whimsy: Song Lyrics / Extravagancia del traductor: Letras de canciones traducidas por Alexander Best, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Gregory Porter: “Somos pintados sobre un lienzo ” / “Painted on canvases”
ZP_Romare Bearden (1911-1988)_Morning of the Rooster_1980
.
Gregory Porter (Cantante/compositor de jazz, nacido en 1971, EE.UU.)
“Somos pintados sobre un lienzo ”
.
Somos como niños
Somos pintados sobre un lienzo
logrando los tonos mientras pasamos
Empezamos con el “gesso”
puesto con pinteles por la gente que conocemos
Sea esmerado con la técnica mientras avanza
Se aleja para admirar mi vista
¿Puedo usar los colores que yo elijo?
¿Tengo algo que decir sobre lo que usted usa?
¿Puedo conseguir colores verde y colores azul?
.
Somos hechos del pigmento de pintura que se aplica
Nuestras historias son dichos por nuestros tonos
Como Motley y Bearden
Estos maestros de la paz, de la vida,
Hay capas de colores, del tiempo
Se aleja para admirar mi vista
¿Puedo usar los colores que yo elijo?
¿Tengo algo que decir sobre lo que usted usa?
¿Puedo conseguir unos verde y unos azul?
.
Somos como niños
Somos pintados sobre una gama de lienzos…
ZP_Archibald John Motley (1891-1981)_Self Portrait_1933
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Gregory Porter (born 1971, American jazz vocalist/songwriter)
“Painted on canvases”
.
We are like children
we’re painted on canvases
picking up shades as we go
We start off with “gesso”
brushed on by people we know
Watch your technique as you go
Step back and admire my view
Can I use the colours I choose?
Do I have some say what you use?
Can I get some greens and some blues?
.
We’re made by the pigment of paint that is put upon
Our stories are told by our hues
Like Motley and Bearden
these masters of peace and life
layers of colours and time
Step back and admire my view
Can I use the colours I choose?
Do I have some say what you use?
Can I get some greens and some blues?
.
We are like children
We’re painted on canvases…
. . . . .
Zócalo Poets 