June Jordan: “Poema sobre Intelecto para mis Hermanos y Hermanas” / “A Poem about Intelligence for my Brothers and Sisters”
Posted: February 19, 2014 Filed under: English, June Jordan, June Jordan: Poema sobre Intelecto para mis Hermanos y Hermanas, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Black History Month, El Mes de la Historia Afroamericana Comments Off on June Jordan: “Poema sobre Intelecto para mis Hermanos y Hermanas” / “A Poem about Intelligence for my Brothers and Sisters”.
June Jordan (1936-2002)
“Poema sobre Intelecto para mis Hermanos y Hermanas”
.
Hace unos años me dicieron que Negro es un seso hueco y otra gente
tienen cerebros / casi como las células dentro las cabezas de niños negros
estaban fuera tomando una siesta a la hora en punto – cada hora.
.
El Científico llamé este fenómeno El Lapsus Arthur Jensen (de mala fama) – ¿no recuerdas?
Bien, estoy pensando en idear una prueba para los eruditos – los sabios, ¿sabes? – algo como una Prueba Cociente Intelectual Stanford-Binet por la CIA – ¿comprendes?
Por ejemplo…El señor doctor Einstein, incuestionablemente el “cerebro” más espectacular del siglo – ¿no?
.
Y estoy luchando contra estas sobras-Lapsus de mi niñez negra, y me pregunto por que alguien deciría: E = MC Squared – la equivalencia entre la masa y la energía.
Intento discutir sobre ésto con la vieja mujer que vive en mi cuadra…
Está escobando la escalera de entrada en una noche de sábado, enojado porque un “burro” dejó un colchón de cama king-size – manchas y demás – en frente de su casa, y no quiere saber nada de éso en primer lugar.
.
Inclinándome en la verja, digo: “Señora Johnson, ¿qué piensas en alguien que se inventa E = MC Squared?”
“¿Cómo te va?” me responde de su lado, como no quiere permitirme saber que tengo pelo no peinado (esta mañana de domingo) y que tengo el atrevimiento de molestarle durante una tarea seria con mis preguntas locas…
“¿E igual a que, cariño?”
Pues le digo: “Este tipo que dijo éso, ¡creo que fue El Padre No Refutado de La Bomba Atómica!”
“Sí, eso es,” murmura, no tan amablemente.
“¡Y siempre olvidó ponerse calcetines con sus zapatos!”– agrego (un poco deseperada).
En este momento Señora Johnson se aleja de mí, con su escoba, y da un gran paso atrás en la escalera.
“Y nunca no hizo nada para nadie sino en una comisión…Y decía “¿Qué hora es?” y alguien decía “Son las seis.” Y él decía “– ¿de la mañana o de la tarde?”…¡Y nunca no hirvió agua para una taza de té para nadie durante su entera vida brillante!…¡Y [ mi voz se eleva un poco ] nunca no bugui bugui ni nunca tampoco, no!”
“¿Y bien?” dice ella. “Supongo, sí – cielo – que eso es lo que llaman el Genio, ¿no?”
.
.
Versión de Alexander Best
.
.
.
June Jordan (1936-2002)
“A Poem about Intelligence for my Brothers and Sisters”
.
A few years back and they told me Black
means a hole where other folks
got brain / it was like the cells in the heads
of Black children was out to every hour on the hour naps.
Scientists called the phenomenon the
Notorious Jensen Lapse, remember?
Anyway I was thinking
about how to devise
a test for the wise
like a Stanford-Binet
for the C.I.A.
you know?
Take Einstein
being the most the unquestionable the outstanding
the maximal mind of the century
right?
And I’m struggling against this lapse leftover
from my Black childhood to fathom why
anybody should say so:
E=MC squared?
.
I try that on this old lady live on my block:
She sweeping away Saturday night from the stoop
and mad as can be because some absolute
jackass have left a kingsize mattress where
she have to sweep around it stains and all she
don’t want to know nothing about in the first place.
“Mrs. Johnson!” I say, leaning on the gate
between us: “What you think about somebody come up
with an E equals M C 2?”
“How you doin,” she answer me, sideways, like she don’t
want to let on she know I ain’
combed my hair yet and here it is
Sunday morning but still I have the nerve
to be bothering serious work with these crazy
questions about
“E equals what you say again, dear?”
Then I tell her, “Well
also this same guy? I think
he was undisputed Father of the Atom Bomb!”
“That right.” She mumbles or grumbles, not too politely
“And dint remember to wear socks when he put on
his shoes!” I add on (getting desperate).
At which point Mrs. Johnson take herself and her broom
a very big step down the stoop away from me.
“And never did nothing for nobody in particular
lessen it was a committee
and
used to say, ‘What time is it?’
and
you’d say, ‘Six o’clock.’
and
he’d say, ‘Day or night?’
and –
and he never made nobody a cup a tea
in his whole brilliant life!
and
[my voice rises slightly]
and
he dint never boogie neither: never!”
.
“Well,” say Mrs. Johnson, “Well, honey,
I do guess
that’s Genius for you.”
. . . . .
Audre Lorde: “Afuera” / “Outside”
Posted: February 18, 2014 Filed under: Audre Lorde, English, Spanish | Tags: Black History Month, Black lesbian poets, El Mes de la Historia Afroamericana Comments Off on Audre Lorde: “Afuera” / “Outside”Audre Lorde (18 de febrero, 1934 – 1992)
“Afuera” (1977)
.
1.
En el centro de una ciudad cruel y fantasmal
todas las cosas naturales son extrañas.
Crecí en una confusión genuina
entre césped y maleza y flores
y lo que significaba “de color”
excepto la ropa que no se podía blanquear
y nadie me llamó negra de mierda
hasta que tuve trece.
Nadie linchó a mi mamá
pero lo que nunca había sido
había blanqueado su cara de todo
excepto de furias muy privadas
e hizo que los otros chicos
me llamaran agrandada en la escuela.
Y cuántas veces he vuelto a llamarme
a través de mis huesos confusión
negra
como médula queriendo decir carne
y cuántas veces me cortaste
e hiciste correr en las calles
mi propia sangre
quién creés que soy
que estás aterrorizado de transformarte
o qué ves en mi cara
que no hayas descartado ya
en tu propio espejo
qué cara ves en mis ojos
que algún día
vas a
reconocer como la tuya
A quién maldeciré por haber crecido
creyendo en la cara de mi madre
o por haber vivido temiendo la oscuridad potente
usando la forma de mi padre
ambos me marcaron
con su amor ciego y terrible
y ahora estoy lasciva por mi propio nombre.
.
2.
Entre los cañones de sus terribles silencios
Madre brillante y padre marrón
busco ahora mis propias formas
porque nunca hablaron de mí
excepto como suya
y los pedazos con que tropiezo y me caigo
aún registro como prueba
de que soy hermosa
dos veces
bendecida con las imágenes
de quienes fueron
y quienes pensé alguna vez que eran
de lo que traslado
hacia y a través
y lo que necesito
dejar detrás de mí
más que nada
estoy bendecida en los seres que soy
que han venido a hacer de nuestras caras rotas un todo.
. . .
Audre Lorde (born February 18th, 1934, died 1992)
“Outside”
(first published in The American Poetry Review, Vol.6, #1, Jan.-Feb. 1977)
.
1.
In the centre of a harsh and spectrumed city
all things natural are strange.
I grew up in a genuine confusion
between grass and weeds and flowers
and what “colored” meant
except for clothes you couldn’t bleach
and nobody called me nigger
until I was thirteen.
Nobody lynched my momma
but what she’d never been
had bleached her face of everything
but very private furies
and made the other children
call me yellow snot at school.
.
And how many times have I called myself back
through my bones confusion
black
like marrow meaning meat
for my soul’s hunger
and how many times have you cut me
and run in the streets
my own blood
who do you think me to be
that you are terrified of becoming
or what do you see in my face
you have not already discarded
in your own mirror
what face do you see in my eyes
that you will someday
come to
acknowledge your own.
.
Who shall I curse that I grew up
believing in my mother’s face
or that I lived in fear of the potent darkness
that wore my father’s shape
they have both marked me
with their blind and terrible love
and I am lustful now for my own name.
.
2.
Between the canyons of my parents’ silences
mother bright and father brown
I seek my own shapes now
for they never spoke of me
except as theirs
and the pieces that I stumble and fall over
I still record as proof
that I am beautiful
twice
blessed with the images
of who they were
and who I thought them to be
of what I move toward
and through
and what I need
to leave behind me
for most of all I am
blessed within my selves
who are come
to make our shattered faces whole.
. . .
Otros poemas de Audre Lorde: https://zocalopoets.com/2012/07/01/mujer-y-de-la-casa-de-iemanja-por-audre-lorde-woman-and-from-the-house-of-yemanja-by-audre-lorde/
. . . . .
Gwendolyn Brooks: “Estar enamorado” / “To be in love”
Posted: February 14, 2014 Filed under: English, Gwendolyn Brooks, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Gwendolyn Brooks: “Estar enamorado” / “To be in love”Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000)
“Estar enamorado”
.
Estar enamorado
es tocar con mano más suave.
En tú mismo te estiras – y estás bien.
Miras las cosas con los ojos de él.
Es rojo el cardenal, es azul el cielo;
y de repente sabes que él lo sabe también.
Él no está allí pero
sabes que ustedes los dos están probando juntos
el invierno o el tiempo primaveral.
Cuando toma tu mano
es demasiado soportar.
No puedes encontrar sus ojos
porque tu pulso no debe decir
lo que no debe ser dicho.
Cuando cierra la puerta,
o cuando él no está,
tus brazos se convierten en agua.
Y eres libre con una libertad horrible.
Eres la bella mitad de un daño de oro.
Recuerdas…pues codicias su boca
– tocarla, y susurrar sobre esos labios.
Ay, cuando declarar el Amor – ¡es una Muerte, por seguro!
Oh, cuando notificar es cautivar…
Y ver rendirse la Columna de Oro
en ceniza ordinaria.
.
Traducción del inglés: Alexander Best
. . .
Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000)
“To be in love”
.
To be in love
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things
Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.
A sky is blue.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
He is not there but
You know you are tasting together
The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes
Because your pulse must not say
What must not be said.
When he
Shuts a door,
Is not there,
Your arms are water.
And you are free
With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth
To touch, to whisper on.
Oh, when to declare
Is certain Death!
Oh, when to apprize
Is to mesmerize,
To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
Into the commonest ash.
. . .
Otros poemas de Gwendolyn Brooks:
. . . . .
Aida Overton Walker: Glamour on The Stage – a century ago
Posted: February 14, 2014 Filed under: English | Tags: Aida Overton Walker, Black History Month Comments Off on Aida Overton Walker: Glamour on The Stage – a century agoAida Overton Walker (February 14th, 1880 – 1914) dazzled early 20th century American audiences with her original dance routines, an enchanting singing voice, and a penchant for elegant costumes. She was one of the premiere African-American women artists from the end of The Gilded Age, the Cake-Walk era, the dawn of Jazz’s birth. In addition to her alluring stage persona and acclaimed performances, she won the hearts of Black entertainers for numerous benefit performances near the end of her all-too-brief life. She was, in the words of the New York Age‘s Lester Walton, the exponent of “clean, refined artistic entertainment.”
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Born in Richmond, Virginia, Aida Overton grew up in New York City, where she gained an education and considerable musical training. At the age of fifteen, she joined John Isham’s Octoroons, a Black touring group of the 1890s, and the following year she became a member of The Black Patti Troubadours. Although these shows consisted of dozens of performers, Overton emerged as one of the most promising “soubrettes” of her day. In 1898, she joined the company of the famous comedy team Bert Williams and George Walker, appearing in all of their extravaganzas—The Policy Players (1899), The Sons of Ham (1900), In Dahomey (1903), Abyssinia (1905), and Bandanna Land (1907). Within about a year of their meeting, George Walker and Overton had married and before long became the most admired of African-American couples on stage.
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While George Walker supplied most of the ideas for the musical comedies and Bert Williams enjoyed fame as the “funniest man in America,” it was Aida who became the indispensable member of the Williams and Walker Company. In The Sons of Ham, for example, her rendition of Hannah from Savannah won praise for combining superb vocal control with acting skill that together presented a strong image of Black womanhood. Indeed, onstage Aida refused to comply with the “Plantation image” of Black women as plump Mammies, happy to serve; like her husband, she viewed the representation of refined African-American types on the stage as important political work. A talented dancer, Aida improvised original routines that her husband eagerly introduced in their shows; when In Dahomey played in England, Aida proved to be its strongest attraction. Society women invited her to their homes for private lessons in the exotic Cake Walk that the Walkers had included in the show. After two seasons in England, the company returned to the United States in 1904, and Aida was featured in a New York Herald interview about their tour. At times Walker asked his wife to interpret dances made famous by other performers—one example being the “Salome” dance that took Broadway by storm in the early 1900s.
After a decade of nearly continuous success with the Williams and Walker Company, Aida’s career took an unexpected turn when her husband collapsed on tour with Bandanna Land. Initially Walker returned to his boyhood home of Lawrence, Kansas, where his mother cared for him. In his absence, Aida took over many of his songs and dances to keep the company together. In early 1909, however, Bandanna Land was forced to close, and Aida temporarily retired from stage work to care for her husband, now seriously ill. No doubt recognizing that he would not recover and that she alone must support the family, she returned to the stage in Bob Cole and J. Rosamond Johnson’s Red Moon in the autumn of 1909, and she joined the Smart Set Company in 1910. Aida also began touring the Vaudeville circuit as a solo act. Less than two weeks after Walker’s death in January 1911, she signed a two-year contract to appear as a co-star with S. H. Dudley in another all-Black traveling show.
Although still a relatively young woman in the early 1910s, Aida began to develop medical problems that limited her capacity for constant touring and stage performance. As early as 1908, she had organized benefits to aid such institutions as the Industrial Home for Colored Working Girls, and after her contract with S. H. Dudley expired, she devoted more of her energy to such projects, which allowed her to remain in New York City. She also took an interest in developing the talents of younger women in the profession, hoping to pass along her vision of Black performance as refined and elegant. She produced shows for two such female groups in 1913 and 1914—the Porto Rico Girls and the Happy Girls. She encouraged them to “work up” original dance numbers and insisted that they don stylish costumes on stage.
.
When Aida Overton Walker died suddenly of kidney failure on October 11, 1914, the African–American entertainment community in New York went into deep mourning. The New York Age featured a lengthy obituary on its front page, and hundreds of people descended on her residence to confirm a story they hoped was untrue. Walker left behind a legacy of polished performances and model professionalism. Her demand for respect – and her generosity – made her a belovéd figure in African-American theater circles.
Reprinted from:
Jazz: Black Musical Theater in New York, 1890-1915. Washington, D.C., Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989, Thomas L Riis
. . . . .
Zócalo Poets: Poems of Love and Desire
Posted: February 14, 2014 Filed under: English | Tags: Valentine's Day Poems Comments Off on Zócalo Poets: Poems of Love and DesireLove and Desire are Eternal, the very Essence of Poetry. Today is Valentine’s Day and Zócalo Poets has a variety of poems about Life’s inexhaustible themes. Some of them are short enough that you should be able to memorize them for that special someone – be you secret admirer or BFF!
. . .
Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
“Easy Boogie”
Down in the bass
That steady beat
Walking walking walking
Like marching feet.
Down in the bass
They easy roll,
Rolling like I like it
In my soul.
Riffs, smears, breaks.
Hey, Lawdy Mama!
Do you hear what I said?
Easy like I rock it
– In my bed!
. . .
Helene Johnson (1906-1995)
“Poem” [from the 1920s]
Little brown boy,
Slim, dark, big-eyed,
Crooning love songs to your banjo
Down at the Lafayerre–
Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head,
High sort of and a bit to one side,
Like a prince, a jazz prince. And I love
Your eyes flashing, and your hands,
And your patent-leathered feet,
And your shoulders jerking the jig-wa.
And I love your teeth flashing,
And the way your hair shines in the spotlight
Like it was the real stuff.
Gee, brown boy, I loves you all over.
I’m glad I’m a jig. I’m glad I can
Understand your dancin’ and your
Singin’, and feel all the happiness
And joy and don’t care in you.
Gee, boy, when you sing, I can close my ears
And hear tom-toms just as plain.
Listen to me, will you, what do I know
About tom-toms? But I like the word, sort of,
Don’t you? It belongs to us.
Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head,
And the way you sing, and dance,
And everything.
Say, I think you’re wonderful. You’re
Allright with me,
You are.
. . .
Audre Lorde (1934-1992)
“Woman”
I dream of a place between your breasts
to build my house like a haven
where I plant crops
in your body,
an endless harvest
where the commonest rock
is moonstone and ebony opal,
giving milk to all of my hungers,
and your night comes down upon me
like a nurturing rain.
. . .
And more Poems…..
.
Claude McKay’s The Snow Fairy:
https://zocalopoets.com/2014/01/21/claude-mckay-the-snow-fairy/
.
Langston Hughes’ Love Poems and Blues Poems:
https://zocalopoets.com/2013/02/01/love-poems-blues-poems-from-the-harlem-renaissance/
.
Pat Parker’s Love poems:
https://zocalopoets.com/2013/06/29/loving-the-ladies-the-poems-of-pat-parker/
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Contemporary Love poems:
https://zocalopoets.com/2013/12/09/bird-songs-accompany-our-laughter-poems-of-love-and-desire-2/
. . .
Amor o Libertad: una canción “Soul” de los años 70: “Libre” por Deniece Williams
Posted: February 14, 2014 Filed under: IMAGES | Tags: Día de San Valentín, Love Songs in translation: Canciones de Amor: traducidas Comments Off on Amor o Libertad: una canción “Soul” de los años 70: “Libre” por Deniece WilliamsDeniece Williams (nacido en 1950)
“Libre” (1976)
.
Susurrando en su oído,
mi pocón mágica de Amor;
diciéndole que soy sincera
– y que no hay nada que es demasiado bueno para nosotros
.
Pero – quiero ser libre – libre – libre…
Y tengo que ser yo, sí, yo, sí – yo.
.
Manos coqueteandos en su cabeza
dan misterio a nuestras noches;
hay alegría todo el tiempo – ah, ¡como me complace ese hombre!
.
Pero – quiero ser libre – libre – libre…
Y tengo que ser yo, sí, yo, sí – yo.
.
Sintiéndote cerca de mí
hace sonreír todos mis sentidos;
no desperdiciemos nuestro arrobamiento
porque me quedo aquí solo un ratito
.
Y quiero ser libre – libre – libre…
Y tengo que ser yo, sí, yo, ah sí – yo.
. . .
Deniece Williams (born 1950)
“Free” (1976)
.
Whispering in his ear
My magic potion for love
Telling him I’m sincere
And that there’s nothing too good for us
.
But I want to be free, free, free
And I’ve just got to be me yeah, me, me
.
Teasing hands on his mind
Give our nights such mystery
Happiness all the time
Oh and how that man pleases me
.
But I want to be free, free, free
And I’ve just got to be me, me, me
.
Feeling you close to me
Makes all my senses smile
Let’s not waste ecstasy
‘Cause I’ll only be here for a while
.
And I’ve got to be free, free, free-eee, ohh-ohh
And I just wanna be me, yeah – me.
. . .
.
. . . . .
Amor y un alma vieja: “Yendo a la deriva” por Jimi Hendrix
Posted: February 14, 2014 Filed under: IMAGES | Tags: Día de San Valentín, Love Songs in translation: Canciones de Amor: traducidas Comments Off on Amor y un alma vieja: “Yendo a la deriva” por Jimi Hendrix“Yendo a la deriva” (1970)
.
Yendo a la deriva
En un mar de lágrimas olvidadas
En un bote salvavidas
Navegando para
Tu amor: mi hogar.
Ah ah ah…
.
Yendo a la deriva
En un mar de antiguas angustias
En un bote salvavidas
Tirando para
Tu amor,
Tirando para
mi hogar.
Ah ah ah oooo ah…
. . .
Jimi Hendrix (1942-1970)
“Drifting” (1970)
.
Drifting
On a sea of forgotten teardrops
On a lifeboat
Sailing for
Your love
– Sailing home.
Ah ah ah…
.
Drifting
On a sea of old heartbreaks
On a lifeboat
Sailing for
Your love
– Sailing home.
Ah ah ah oooo ah…
. . .
. . . . .
Frank Marshall Davis: “Cuatro Ojeadas de Noche” y “Auto-Retrato” / “Four Glimpses of Night” and “Self-Portrait”
Posted: February 12, 2014 Filed under: English, Frank Marshall Davis, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Black History Month, El Mes de la Historia Afroamericana Comments Off on Frank Marshall Davis: “Cuatro Ojeadas de Noche” y “Auto-Retrato” / “Four Glimpses of Night” and “Self-Portrait”Frank Marshall Davis (1905-1987)
“Cuatro Ojeadas de Noche”
.
I
.
Ansiosamente
como una mujer que se apura por su amante
La Noche llega en el cuarto del mundo
y se extiende, tierna y satisfecha
contra el rostro fresco y redondo
de la luna.
.
II
.
La Noche es un niño curioso,
vagabundeando entre tierra y cielo,
entrando a hurtadillas por las ventanas y puertas,
pintarrajeando morado
el barrio entero.
El Día es
una madre humilde y modesta
siguiendo con una toallita en la mano.
.
III
.
Yendo puerta a puerta
La Noche vende
bolsas negras de estrellas de menta,
un montón de cucuruchos de luna-vainilla
hasta que
sus bienes están acabados,
pues arrastra los pies de camino a casa,
tintineando las monedas grises del alba.
.
IV
.
El canto quebradizo de la Noche,
hecho de plata, aflautado,
destroza en mil millones de fragmentos de
sombras silenciosas
con el estrépito del jazz
de un sol madrugador.
. . .
Frank Marshall Davis (1905-1987)
“Four Glimpses of Night”
.
I
.
Eagerly
Like a woman hurrying to her lover
Night comes to the room of the world
And lies, yielding and content
Against the cool round face
Of the moon.
.
II
.
Night is a curious child, wandering
Between earth and sky, creeping
In windows and doors, daubing
The entire neighbourhood
With purple paint.
Day
Is an apologetic mother
Cloth in hand
Following after.
.
III
.
Peddling
From door to door
Night sells
Black bags of peppermint stars
Heaping cones of vanilla moon
Until
His wares are gone
Then shuffles homeward
Jingling the grey coins
Of daybreak.
.
IV
.
Night’s brittle song, sliver-thin,
Shatters into a billion fragments
Of quiet shadows
At the blaring jazz
Of a morning sun.
. . .
“Auto-Retrato” (del poemario Humores negros, 1948)
.
Yo sería
un pintor con palabras,
creando retratos ingeniosos
sobre el lienzo amplio de tu mente,
imágenes de esas cosas
moldeados por mis ojos
– algo que me interesa;
pero, porque soy un Décimo Americano
en esta democracia,
bosquejo una miniatura
aunque contraté por un mural.
.
Claro,
Entiendes esta democracia;
Un hombre es bastante bueno como el otro
– de una cabaña de troncos hasta La Casa Blanca –
– de chico pobre hasta presidente de una empresa –
Hoover y Browder, cada uno con un voto;
en un país libre;
con completa igualdad;
Ah SÍ…
– Y los ricos reciben devoluciones de la renta y
los pobres obtienen cheques de asistencia.
.
¿Y YO?
Pago cinco centavos por un sumario de los sucesos del momento;
veinticinco centavos por lo último sobre Hollywood;
tuerzo el dial por “Stardust” o Shostakovich;
y con mi talón de gradería guardo el derecho a gritar: “¡Mata’l cabrón!” al árbitro.
Pues, ¿por qué soy diferente a los nueve otros Americanos?
.
Pero escúchame, tú:
No te preocupes por mí
– porque tengo rango.
Soy el converso número 4711 de la Iglesia Bautista Beulah;
Soy Seguridad Social número 337-16-3458 en Washington;
¡Gracias, Señor Dios y Señor Roosevelt!
Y hay algo más que te quiero decir:
No importa lo que pasa…
¡Yo también puedo hacer señas a un policía!
. . .
“Self-Portrait” (from Black Moods, published 1948)
.
I would be
A painter with words
Creating sharp portraits
On the wide canvas of your mind
Images of those things
Shaped through my eyes
That interest me;
But being a Tenth American
In this democracy
I sometimes sketch a miniature
Though I contract for a mural.
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Of course
You understand this democracy;
One man as good as another,
From log cabin to White House,
Poor boy to corporation president,
Hoover and Browder with one vote each,
A free country,
Complete equality—
Yeah—
And the rich get tax refunds,
The poor get relief cheques.
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As for myself
I pay five cents for a daily synopsis of current history,
Two bits and the late low-down on Hollywood,
Twist a dial for “Stardust” or Shostakovich,
And with each bleacher stub I reserve the right to shout “Kill the bum!” at the umpire—
Wherefore am I different
From nine other Americans?
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But listen, you:
Don’t worry about me
– I rate!
I’m Convert 4711 at Beulah Baptist Church,
I’m Social Security No. 337-16-3458 in Washington,
Thank you Mister God and Mister Roosevelt!
And another thing:—
No matter what happens
I too can always call in a policeman!
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Traducción del inglés / Translation into Spanish: Alexander Best
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Sterling Allen Brown: “She jes’ gits hold of us dataway”
Posted: February 11, 2014 Filed under: English: Nineteenth-century Black-American Southern Dialect, Sterling A. Brown | Tags: Black History Month, Ma Rainey Comments Off on Sterling Allen Brown: “She jes’ gits hold of us dataway”
The family pictured here was part of The Great Migration: African-Americans on the move from the rural South up or over to towns and cities of the North and MidWest. They wished to escape that Life of which Ma Rainey sang…
Sterling Allen Brown (1901-1989)
“Ma Rainey” (1932)
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I
When Ma Rainey
Comes to town,
Folks from anyplace
Miles aroun’,
From Cape Girardeau,
Poplar Bluff,
Flocks in to hear
Ma do her stuff;
Comes flivverin’ in,
Or ridin’ mules,
Or packed in trains,
Picknickin’ fools. . . .
That’s what it’s like,
Fo’ miles on down,
To New Orleans delta
An’ Mobile town,
When Ma hits
Anywheres aroun’.
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II
Dey comes to hear Ma Rainey from de little river settlements,
From blackbottorn cornrows and from lumber camps;
Dey stumble in de hall, jes a-laughin’ an’ a-cacklin’,
Cheerin’ lak roarin’ water, lak wind in river swamps.
An’ some jokers keeps deir laughs a-goin’ in de crowded aisles,
An’ some folks sits dere waitin’ wid deir aches an’ miseries,
Till Ma comes out before dem, a-smilin’ gold-toofed smiles
An’ Long Boy ripples minors on de black an’ yellow keys.
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III
O Ma Rainey,
Sing yo’ song;
Now you’s back
Whah you belong,
Git way inside us,
Keep us strong. . . .
O Ma Rainey,
Li’l an’ low;
Sing us ’bout de hard luck
Roun’ our do’;
Sing us ’bout de lonesome road
We mus’ go. . .
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IV
I talked to a fellow, an’ the fellow say,
“She jes’ catch hold of us, somekindaway.
She sang Backwater Blues one day:
‘It rained fo’ days an’ de skies was dark as night,
Trouble taken place in de lowlands at night.
‘Thundered an’ lightened an’ the storm begin to roll
Thousan’s of people ain’t got no place to go.
‘Den I went an’ stood upon some high ol’ lonesome hill,
An’ looked down on the place where I used to live.’
An’ den de folks, dey natchally bowed dey heads an’ cried,
Bowed dey heavy heads, shet dey moufs up tight an’ cried,
An’ Ma lef’ de stage, an’ followed some de folks outside.”
Dere wasn’t much more de fellow say:
She jes’ gits hold of us dataway.
. . .
“Ma Rainey” from The Collected Poems of Sterling A. Brown, edited by Sterling A. Brown. © 1932

Ma Rainey with her band in 1923_Eddie Pollack_Albert Wynn_Thomas A. Dorsey_Dave Nelson_Gabriel Washington
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Black Hairstory Month: Baldheads, Dreads; Wigs & Things
Posted: February 10, 2014 Filed under: Black Hairstory Month, IMAGES | Tags: Black Hairstory Month Comments Off on Black Hairstory Month: Baldheads, Dreads; Wigs & Things. . .
Okhai Ojeikere (born Johnson Donatus Aihumekeokhai Ojeikere) died just over a week ago, on February 2nd, 2014, at the age of 83. Born in 1930 in the Nigerian village of Ovbiomu-Emai, he later mainly worked and lived in Ketu, Nigeria. At the age of 20 he decided to pursue photography; he began with a humble Brownie D camera without flash, and a friend taught him the technical fundamentals of the art. He worked as a darkroom assistant from 1954 till about 1960 for the Ministry of Information in Ibadan. In 1961 he became a studio photographer for Television House Ibadan, and from 1963 to 1975 he was with West Africa Publicity in Lagos. In 1968, under the auspices of the Nigerian Arts Council, he embarked upon an ambitious project of photo-documenting the many varieties of Nigerian hairstyles. He printed close to a thousand such pictures. A selection of Okhai Ojeikere’s prints was featured in the Arsenale at the 55th Venice Biennale in 2013. To honour Ojeikere’s life we present a century of Black hairstyles, with Ojeikere’s own photographs being Images 17 through 20.
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