Marcus Bruce Christian: “I am New Orleans” and “The Masquerader”
Posted: February 9, 2016 Filed under: English, English: Black Canadian / American, English: Nineteenth-century Black-American Southern Dialect, French, Marcus Bruce Christian | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on Marcus Bruce Christian: “I am New Orleans” and “The Masquerader”Marcus Bruce Christian
(1900 – 1976, Louisiana poet, historian and folklorist)
. . .
I am New Orleans: A Poem (excerpts)
.
I have known
Many people –
Many voices –
Many languages.
I have heard the soft cries of the African,
Jargoning an European tongue:
“Belles des figures!”
“Bon petit calas! Tout chauds, chère, tout chauds!”
“Pralines – pistaches! Pralines – pecanes!”
“Ah got duh nice yahlah bananas, lady!”
“Bla-a-a-a-a-ack ber-r-r-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-z!”
“Peenotsa! Peenotsa! Cuma gitta fromee!”
.
“Ah wanna qua’tee red beans,
Ena qua’tee rice,
Ena piece uh salt meat –
Tuh makkit tas’e nice:
En hurry up, Mr. Groceryman,
En put dat lan-yap in mah han’!”
.
“Papa Bonnibee, beat dem hot licks out! –
Ah sed, Poppa Stoppa, let dat jazz cum out!
En efyuh donh feet it,
‘Tain’t no use tellin’ yuh
Jess what it’s all about!
Now, gimme sum High Cs on dat horn ‘n’ let dem
Saints go marching in!”
Way Down Yonder In New Orleans…
Take it away, Mister Charlie!”
. . .
I am New Orleans,
A perpetual Mardi Gras
Of wild Indians, clowns, lords and ladies,
Bourbon Street Jezebels, Baby Dolls, and Fat Cats;
Peanut-vendors, flower-sellers, organ-grinders,
chimney-sweepers, and fortune-tellers.
And then, at the end, bone-rattling skeletons
and flying ghosts.
I am New Orleans –
A city that is a part of, and yet apart from all,
America;
A collection of contradictory environments;
A conglomeration of bloods and races and classes
and colours;
Side-by-side, the New tickling the ribs of the Old;
Cheek-by-jowl, the Ludicrous making faces at the Sublime.
. . .
The Masquerader
.
Here, as a guest esteemed,
I do not hide;
None would dare laugh at me –
None dare deride.
.
For I am white now –
Far whiter than you;
How did I get that way?
Ah! if you knew!
.
You have been very nice!
Took me to tea,
Took me to dinners –
And made love to me.
.
You have been very kind –
Begged for a date –
Me — in whose veins there flows
Blood that you hate.
.
I, who am cherished
And part of your joy –
I am more alien than
Those you employ.
.
You say I am a dream?
Dreams do not last.
When I am lost to you,
Whisper, “She passed.”
. . .
Resolution
.
I shall take your image
From out of my heart
And sweep your tracks
From its floor,
Forgetting
Dead yesterdays
And you.
Step by step,
As you walk away,
I go behind you
Sweeping . . .
Sweeping . . .
. . .
Inconvenient Love
.
Love is an inconvenient thing –
Out of nowhere it slips,
And grows into something that saves or slays,
Or something that binds or grips;
And it sets a seal upon one’s lips.
.
Love has its own peculiar way –
Knowing its own blind art;
Bending strong souls like reeds to the wind,
And then – when it does depart –
Stamping in frantic and frenzied pain
A signet upon one’s heart.
. . .
Bachelor’s Apartment
.
The curtains from Daphne,
The curtains from Chloe;
The doilies from Helen;
The pillows from Flo;
The towels from Myrtle,
The teapot from Rose;
The book-ends from Marion –
Anything goes!
.
The comb-set from Muriel,
The lampshade from Delia;
The picture from Mabel,
The vases from Celia;
From Bertha – the candlesticks;
.
Those women left things
In my heart and my home!
. . .
The Craftsman
.
I ply with all the cunning of my art
This little thing, and with consummate care
I fashion it—so that when I depart,
Those who come after me shall find it fair
And beautiful. It must be free of flaws—
Pointing no labourings of weary hands;
And there must be no flouting of the laws
Of beauty—as the artist understands.
.
Through passion, yearnings infinite—yet dumb—
I lift you from the depths of my own mind
And gild you with my soul’s white heat to plumb
The souls of future men. I leave behind
This thing that in return this solace gives:
“He who creates true beauty ever lives.”
. . .
After the Years…
.
After the years have carted away
The grief and the shame;
After the years have carted away
The crime and the lust;
After the years have carted away
The faith and the trust:
After the years have carted them all
I claim
–The humblest claim–
Oblivion in the dust.
. . .
The Dreamer
(for Arturo Toscanini)
.
I am the dreamer – one whose dream
Is a diaphanous strange thing;
I top the crags, I bridge the stream,
I make the dead page glow and sing.
.
I plumb the depths, I count the stars,
I strain the sinews of my soul
To break through earth’s material bars
And seek perfection at its goal.
.
For I he who never halts –
I never say, “This task is done.”
I climb through subterranean vaults
To tilt my lance against the sun.
.
I am the essence of all art –
Javelins of gold from darkness hurled
Into the light – I break my heart
To set my dream against the world.
. . .
Source for the above poems:
I Am New Orleans & Other Poems By Marcus B. Christian, edited by Rudolph Lewis & Amin Sharif
. . .
ZP Editor’s note:
Tuesday, February 9th (Mardi Gras, 2016):
Wishing to feature Black History Month poems for Mardi Gras in New Orleans, we chanced upon a poet too little known: Marcus Bruce Christian. Themes of love and loss, love across “the colour line”, labour and economic struggle, and the spirit of place (I am New Orleans: A Poem) run throughout Christian’s close to 2000 poems. Our Special Thanks to editor Rudolph Lewis of Chicken Bones: A Journal, for introducing us to this fine poet from the past!
. . . . .
Langston Hughes: poemas del poemario “Montaje de un Sueño Diferido” (1951)
Posted: February 1, 2016 Filed under: A FEW FAVOURITES / UNA MUESTRA DE FAVORITOS, English, English: Black Canadian / American, Langston Hughes, Langston Hughes: poemas del poemario "Montaje de un Sueño Diferido" (1951), Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Black History Month poems, El Mes de la Historia Afroamericana Comments Off on Langston Hughes: poemas del poemario “Montaje de un Sueño Diferido” (1951)Una selección de poemas del poemario Montage of a Dream Deferred (Montaje de un Sueño Diferido) (1951) por Langston Hughes (nacido 1 de febrero de 1902 / muerto 22 de mayo de 1967). Versiones españoles (enero de 2016): Alexander Best
. . .
Necesidad
.
¿El trabajo?
Yo, no tengo que trabajar.
No tengo que hacer nada
sino
comer, beber, permanecer negro – y morir.
Este viejo cuartito amueblado es
tan pequeño que
aun no puedo azotar un gato sin pillar el pelaje en mi boca.
Y la casera es tan anciana que sus rasgos desdibujan juntos;
¡y sabe el Señor que ella puede cobrarme de más a mí – eso es seguro!
(Entonces…éso es el motivo por que estimo que debo trabajar – después de todo.)
. . .
“Necessity”
.
Work?
I don’t have to work.
I don’t have to do nothing
but eat, drink, stay black, and die.
This little old furnished room’s
so small I can’t whip a cat
without getting fur in my mouth
and my landlady’s so old
her features is all run together
and God knows she sure can overcharge –
which is why I reckon I does
have to work after all.
. . .
Pregunta número 2
.
Dijo la señora:
¿Puedes hacer lo que no puede hacer
mi otro hombre – ? Y éso es:
¡Quiéreme, papi,
y aliméntame también!
.
Figurita
.
¡Be-bop!
. . .
“Question (2)”
.
Said the lady, Can you do
what my other man can’t do –
that is
love me, daddy –
and feed me, too?
.
Figurine
.
De-dop!
. . .
‘Bugui’ despreocupado
.
Abajo en el contrabajo
caminando andando
al firme tiempo
– como pies marchandos.
.
Abajo en el contrabajo
menearse fácil
– el revolcón como me gusta en mi alma.
.
< Riffs, manchas, descansos.>
.
¡Eh, mamacita! – ¿has oído lo que digo?
Despreocupado, yo lo impulso – ¡en mi cama!
. . .
“Easy Boogie”
.
Down in the bass
That steady beat
Walking walking walking
Like marching feet.
.
Down in the bass
That 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!
. . .
Las 3 de la mañana en el café…
.
Agentes de policía de la vicebrigada,
con ojos agotados y sádicos – divisando a los maricones.
Degenerados, dice alguna gente.
.
Pero Dios – o la Naturaleza – o alguien – les hizo en esa forma.
¿Una policía – o una Lesbiana – allá?
¿Dónde?
. . .
“Café: 3 a.m.”
.
Detectives from the vice squad
with weary sadistic eyes
spotting fairies.
Degenerates,
some folks say.
.
But God, Nature,
or somebody
made them that way.
Police lady or Lesbian
over there?
Where?
. . .
Calle número 125 (en Harlem)
.
Rostro como una barra de chocolate,
lleno de nueces – y dulce.
.
Cara como una calabaza de Hallowe’en,
y adentro una candela.
.
Rostro como una loncha de sandía
– y una sonrisa tan amplia.
. . .
“125th Street”
.
Face like a chocolate bar
full of nuts and sweet.
.
Face like a jack-o’-lantern,
candle inside.
.
Face like a slice of melon,
grin that wide.
. . .
Los blues en el alba
.
No oso empezar con algunos pensamientos
en las primeras horas del día
– no, no oso pensar en ese momento.
Si yo piense algo de pensamiento mientras estoy en cama,
esos pensamientos romperían mi cabeza
– pues, las mañanas: no oso empezar a pensar.
.
No oso recordar en el alba, no – nunca en el alba.
Porque, si yo evocara el día antes,
no me levantaría nunca más
– pues, las mañanas: no oso recordar.
. . .
“Blues at Dawn”
.
I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.
I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.
If I thought thoughts in bed,
Them thoughts would bust my head –
So I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.
.
I don’t dare remember in the morning
Don’t dare remember in the morning.
If I recall the day before,
I wouldn’t get up no more –
So I don’t dare remember in the morning.
. . .
El vecino
.
En el sur él se colocaba él mismo en la escalera de entrada – y miraba el sol pasando…
Aquí en Harlem, cuando está completo su trabajo – él se coloca en un bar con una cerveza.
Parece más alto que es, y más jóven que no es.
Parece su piel más oscura que es, también – y él es más listo que muestra su rostro.
No es listo, ese vato es un bufón tonto.
Aw, no es eso tampoco – es un buen tipo, salvo que platica demasiado.
A decir verdad es un cuate estupendo – pero cuando toma el vaso, bebe rápido.
A veces no bebe.
Es cierto, sólo deja estar allí su vaso – nada más.
. . .
“Neighbour”
.
Down home
he sets on a stoop
and watches the sun go by.
In Harlem
when his work is done
he sets in a bar with a beer.
He looks taller than he is
and younger than he ain’t.
He looks darker than he is, too.
And he’s smarter than he looks –
He ain’t smart.
That cat’s a fool.
Naw, he ain’t neither.
He’s a good man,
except that he talks too much.
In fact, he’s a great cat.
But when he drinks,
he drinks fast.
Sometimes
he don’t drink.
True,
he just
lets his glass
set there.
. . .
La hora punta en el metropolitano
.
Mezclados,
nuestro aliento, nuestro olor.
Tan cerca – nosotros, negros y blancos;
ningún espacio para el temor.
. . .
“Subway Rush Hour”
.
Mingled
breath and smell
so close
mingled
black and white
so near
no room for fear.
. . .
Hermanos
.
Somos parientes – tú y yo;
tú del Caribe,
yo de Kentucky.
.
Familiar – tú y yo;
tú de África,
yo de los EE.UU.
.
Hermanos somos – tú y yo.
. . .
“Brothers”
.
We’re related – you and I,
You from the West Indies,
I from Kentucky.
.
Kinsmen – you and I,
You from Africa,
I from U.S.A.
.
Brothers – you and I.
. . .
Astilla
.
Rimas pequeñas corrientes
y una tonadilla ordinária
pueden ser casi peligrosas
como una astilla de la luna.
Una tonadilla ordinária
con unas pequeñas rimas corrientes
pueden ser navaja – a veces –
a la garganta de un hombre.
. . .
“Sliver”
.
Cheap little rhymes
A cheap little tune
Are sometimes as dangerous
As a sliver of the moon.
A cheap little tune
To cheap little rhymes
Can cut a man’s
Throat sometimes.
. . .
Consejo
.
Mi gente, les digo a ustedes:
el Nacimiento es duro
y la Muerte es miserable – así que
agarren ustedes mismos algo de Amor
entre aquellos dos.
. . .
“Advice”
.
Folks, I’m telling you:
Birthing is hard
And Dying is mean,
So get yourself
Some loving in between.
. . .
Lema
.
Lo juego muy tranquilo esta vida – y me gusta toda la jerga.
Es la razón que aún estoy vivo.
.
Mi lema,
como estoy viviendo, descubriendo, es:
dar amor-tomar amor y
vivir-y-dejar-vivir.
. . .
“Motto”
.
I play it cool
And dig all jive.
That’s the reason
I stay alive.
.
My motto,
As I live and learn,
Is:
Dig And Be Dug
In Return.
. . .
No hemos incluido los dos poemas más famosos del poemario Montaje de un Sueño Diferido: Tarea para el segundo curso de inglés (“Theme for English B”) y “Harlem (2)”, más conocido por una frase extraída de su primera línea: Un Sueño Diferido (A Dream Deferred).
.
https://zocalopoets.com/2013/02/01/langston-hughes-tarea-para-el-segundo-curso-de-ingles-theme-for-english-b-translated-into-spanish-by-oscar-paul-castro/
.
https://zocalopoets.com/2011/09/26/un-sueno-diferido-langston-hughes/
. . . . .
Zora Neale Hurston: Jump at the Sun!
Posted: January 25, 2014 Filed under: English, English: Black Canadian / American Comments Off on Zora Neale Hurston: Jump at the Sun!.
“Jump at the sun.” That’s what Zora Neale Hurston’s mother encouraged her to do – and Zora did.
Born in 1891 in Notasulga, Alabama, to a preacher-tenant farmer-carpenter father and a schoolteacher mother, Hurston was raised in the little all-black town of Eatonville, Florida. And from there she jumped very far indeed, becoming one of the main female forces of The Harlem Renaissance (known at the time as The New Negro Movement).
.
But first it was Howard University in Washington, D.C., where Hurston enrolled in 1918 and earned an associate’s degree. Moving to Manhattan on a scholarship, she was the only black student at Barnard College, Columbia University. Margaret Mead was a classmate, and Franz Boas one of her professors; Hurston earned a B.A. in Anthropology in 1928 at the age of 37. Yet her literary involvements had already begun; a short story, Spunk, appeared in Alain Locke’s 1925 anthology The New Negro, and she was among the contributors to the famous one-issue Fire! of 1926.
.
A complex character, not a “team player” for upliftment of The Race – as W.E.B. DuBois might have insisted a writer be – Hurston went her own way and explored Black culture via anthropological folkloric studies of the U.S., Jamaica and Haiti (Mules and Men, Tell my Horse) and through her own unvarnished novels of Black-American life, including Their Eyes Were Watching God, her 1937 dialect-rich tale of the trials and tribulations of Janie Crawford (Eatonville and Hurston’s own third marriage were inspirations). Hurston’s earlier works had been criticized by Sterling Brown as inadequate because they were not in the “protest tradition” and not bitter enough; Alain Locke reviewed Their Eyes and called Hurston’s characters “pseudo-primitives”; and the most damning statement of all came from Richard Wright, who wrote that Their Eyes carries “no theme, no message, no thought.” Yet the book was a best-seller for its time, then went immediately out of print come War-time.
In 1940 Hurston was traveling the lecture circuit, with several books, essays and field studies to her credit, but by the time she died, in 1960, living hand to mouth near Fort Pierce, Florida, she was pretty much gone and forgotten. It wasn’t until Robert Hemenway’s 1977 biography appeared – and, movingly, a young Alice Walker in 1973 seeking out Hurston’s unmarked grave and “naming” it – that Zora Neale Hurston began to be re-assessed and appreciated more fully.
.
“Pretty much gone and forgotten?”
Well…Hurston became persona non grata after a 1948 scandal in which she was accused of meeting regularly with a boy in a basement for sex. The charges were based on malicious rumour – there were people who were suspicious of her free spirit – perhaps its proto-feminism? She was visiting Honduras doing a field study during the dates mentioned and so was declared innocent – but the bad rep, the taint, from allegations of child molestation – even though she was cleared – clung, broadcast as they were by the newspapers of the day. This “event” in Hurston’s life broke her essential joie de vivre; she never showed the same spark after this betrayal of her integrity.
.
Another important personal “event” – though this one she controlled and was not the victim of – was that after The Supreme Court’s historic 1954 decision in Brown vs. Board of Education (that separate public schools for Blacks are “inherently unequal” – not “separate but equal”), Hurston came out plainly and publicly on the wrong side of history when she stated: “This whole matter revolves around the self-respect of my people. How much satisfaction can I get from a court order? For somebody to associate with me who does not wish me near them. If there are adequate Negro schools and prepared instructors and instructions, then there’s nothing different except the presence of White people. For this reason, I regard the ruling of the United States Supreme Court as insulting rather than honouring my Race.” How to lose friends and influence people…Yet Hurston was both wrong and right in what she said – there are many truthful angles to be viewed and she had the guts to speak her mind – then pay the price.
.
Alice Walker and Robert Hemenway began the journey back from oblivion for Zora Neale Hurston – a figure in Black-American letters and scholarship who could not be intellectually “boxed in” – she was too busy jumping at the sun.
And January 25th 2014 is the opening day of the 25th anniversary of the week-long Zora! Fest held in Eatonville, Florida. Her hometown community has re-claimed their famous – infamous? – wild individualist of a daughter as one of their own again in naming their yearly arts, music and culture festival after her.
Excerpt from chapter 1 of Their Eyes Were Watching God:
“Seeing the woman as she was made them remember the envy they had stored up from other times. So they chewed up the back parts of their minds and swallowed with relish. They made burning statements with questions, and killing tools out of laughs. It was mass cruelty. A mood come alive. Words walking without masters; walking altogether like harmony in a song.
“What she doin’ comin’ back here in dem overhalls? Can’t she find no dress to put on? Where’s dat blue satin dress she left here in? Where all dat money her husband took and died and left her? What dat ole forty year ole woman doin’ wid her hair swingin’ down her back lak some young gal? Where she left dat young lad of a boy she went off here wid? Thought she was goin’ to marry! Where he left her? What he done wid all her money? Betcha he off wid some gal so young she ain’t even got no hairs – why she don’t stay in her class?!”
When she got to where they were she turned her face on the bander log and spoke. They scrambled a noisy “Good evenin’ ” and left their mouths setting open and their ears full of hope. Her speech was pleasant enough, but she kept walking straight on to her gate. The porch couldn’t talk for looking.
The men noticed her firm buttocks like she had grapefruits in her hip pockets; the great rope of black hair swinging to her waist and unraveling in the wind like a plume; then her pugnacious breasts trying to bore holes in her shirt. They, the men, were saving with the mind what they lost with the eye. The women took the faded shirt and muddy overalls and laid them away for remembrance. It was a weapon against her strength and if it turned out of no significance, still it was a hope that she might fall to their level some day.
But nobody moved, nobody spoke, nobody even thought to swallow spit until after her gate slammed behind her.”
.
Two of Hurston’s most famous quotations:
“I am not tragically coloured. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to that sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that Nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world — I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.”
Zora Neale Hurston
.
“Sometimes I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can anyone deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.”
Zora Neale Hurston
. . . . .
George Elliott Clarke: “El Blues para X” / “Blues for X”
Posted: February 12, 2013 Filed under: English: Black Canadian / American, George Elliott Clarke, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best, ZP Translator: Lidia García Garay | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on George Elliott Clarke: “El Blues para X” / “Blues for X”George Elliott Clarke (born 1960)
“Blues for X”
.
Pretty boy, towel your tears,
And robe yourself in black.
Pretty boy, dry your tears,
You know I’m comin’ back.
I’m your slavish lover
And I’m slavish in the sack.
.
Call me: Sweet Potato,
Sweet Pea, or Sweety Pie,
There’s sugar on my lips
And honey in my thighs.
Jos’phine Baker bakes beans,
But I stew pigtails in rye.
.
My bones are guitar strings
And blues the chords you strum.
My bones are slender flutes
And blues the bars you hum.
You wanna stay my man ? –
Serve me whisky when I come !
. . .
George Elliott Clarke (nace 1960)
“El Blues para X”
.
Lindo chico, enjúgate las lágrimas,
Y vístete de negro.
Chico chicho – que no llores,
Volveré – tú sabes.
Soy tu amante-esclava
Y soy servil en la cama.
.
Llámame: “mi camote”,
“chícharo’zuc’rado” o “pastelito dulce”,
Hay azucar en mis labios
Y miel en mis muslos.
Jos’phine “Panadero” Baker cuece frijoles
Pero yo guiso colas-de-chancho en güisqui.
.
Son cuerdas de guitarra mis huesos
Y los acordes que rasgueas El Blues.
Los huesos son flautas esbeltas
Y El Blues – el compás que tarareas.
¿Quieres permanecer mi hombre?
!Sírveme güisqui cuándo me vengo!
. . .
George Elliott Clarke, el poeta laureado actual de la ciudad de Toronto, nació en este día, el 12 de febrero de 1960. Los temas de su poesía son los hechos y la mitología de su provincia natal – Nova Scotia, Canadá. Con la provincia al lado – New Brunswick – las dos forman lo que Señor Clarke dice como “Africadia” – la palabra África (de unos esclavos fugados de los Estados Unidos) + la palabra Acadia (la misma región canadiense en su época francesa, antes de la llegada de los británicos).
Señor Clarke es Profesor de la literatura canadiense y de la diáspora africana en la Universidad de Toronto.
El poema “El Blues para X” (1990) fue escrito en la voz de una mujer que está confiada en su sexualidad y honesta en sus deseos. El estilo del poema es, quizás, de “nuevo-Blues”. Mezcla algo de la habla clara de Langston Hughes con las palabras francas de Bessie Smith.
. . .
The City of Toronto’s current Poet Laureate, George Elliott Clarke (born February 12th, 1960, in Windsor Plains, Nova Scotia), has mythologized Black-Canadian history in what he calls Africadia – Africa + Acadia – the provinces of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia as lived by Black people for more than two centuries. Clarke received the Governor General’s Award in 2001 for his Execution Poems, based on the lives – and deaths – of two of his relatives, George and Rufus Hamilton. He wrote a libretto for his own play, Beatrice Chancy, and with a score by James Rolfe the opera premiered in Toronto in 1998 with Fredericton-born Measha Brueggergosman in the title role. Since 1999 Professor Clarke has taught Canadian and African Diasporic Literature at the University of Toronto. The poem “Blues for X” – from his 1990 poetry collection Whylah Falls – might be deemed a neo-Blues poem – harkening back to the plain-spoken Blues poems of Langston Hughes, but with a wake-up shot à la Bessie Smith (the last two verses).
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Traducción en español / Translation into Spanish: Alexander Best, Lidia García Garay
“Blues for X” © George Elliott Clarke
Langston Hughes: “Montage of a Dream Deferred”
Posted: February 1, 2013 Filed under: English, English: Black Canadian / American, Langston Hughes | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on Langston Hughes: “Montage of a Dream Deferred”Langston Hughes (born February 1st 1902, died 1967)
“Montage of a Dream Deferred” (1951): a selection of poems
.
“Children’s Rhymes”
.
When I was a chile we used to play,
“One – two – buckle my shoe!”
and things like that. But now, Lord,
listen at them little varmints!
.
By what sends
the white kids
I ain’t sent:
I know I can’t
be President.
.
There is two thousand children
In this block, I do believe!
.
What don’t bug
them white kids
sure bugs me:
We knows everybody
ain’t free!
.
Some of these young ones is cert’ly bad –
One batted a hard ball right through my window
And my gold fish et the glass.
.
What’s written down
for white folks
ain’t for us a-tall:
“Liberty And Justice –
Huh – For All.”
.
Oop-pop-a-da!
Skee! Daddle-de-do!
Be-bop!
.
Salt’ peanuts!
.
De-dop!
. . .
“Necessity”
.
Work?
I don’t have to work.
I don’t have to do nothing
but eat, drink, stay black, and die.
This little old furnished room’s
so small I can’t whip a cat
without getting fur in my mouth
and my landlady’s so old
her features is all run together
and God knows she sure can overcharge –
which is why I reckon I does
have to work after all.
. . .
“Question (2)”
.
Said the lady, Can you do
what my other man can’t do –
that is
love me, daddy –
and feed me, too?
.
Figurine
.
De-dop!
. . .
“Easy Boogie”
.
Down in the bass
That steady beat
Walking walking walking
Like marching feet.
.
Down in the bass
That 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!
. . .
“What? So Soon!”
.
I believe my old lady’s
pregnant again!
Fate must have
some kind of trickeration
to populate the
cllud nation!
Comment against Lamp Post
You call it fate?
Figurette
De-daddle-dy!
De-dop!
. . .
“Tomorrow”
.
Tomorrow may be
a thousand years off:
TWO DIMES AND A NICKEL ONLY
Says this particular
cigarette machine.
.
Others take a quarter straight.
.
Some dawns
wait.
. . .
“Café: 3 a.m.”
.
Detectives from the vice squad
with weary sadistic eyes
spotting fairies.
Degenerates,
some folks say.
.
But God, Nature,
or somebody
made them that way.
Police lady or Lesbian
over there?
Where?
. . .
“125th Street”
.
Face like a chocolate bar
full of nuts and sweet.
.
Face like a jack-o’-lantern,
candle inside.
.
Face like a slice of melon,
grin that wide.
. . .
“Up-Beat”
.
In the gutter
boys who try
might meet girls
on the fly
as out of the gutter
girls who will
may meet boys
copping a thrill
while from the gutter
both can rise:
But it requires
Plenty eyes.
“Mystery”
.
When a chile gets to be thirteen
and ain’t seen Christ yet,
she needs to set on de moaner’s bench
night and day.
.
Jesus, lover of my soul!
.
Hail, Mary, mother of God!
.
Let me to thy bosom fly!
.
Amen! Hallelujah!
.
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Coming for to carry me home.
.
Sunday morning where the rhythm flows,
How old nobody knows –
yet old as mystery,
older than creed,
basic and wondering
and lost as my need.
.
Eli, eli!
Te deum!
Mahomet!
Christ!
.
Father Bishop, Effendi, Mother Horne,
Father Divine, a Rabbi black
as black was born,
a jack-leg preacher, a Ph.D.
.
The mystery
and the darkness
and the song
and me.
. . .
“Nightmare Boogie”
.
I had a dream
and I could see
a million faces
black as me!
A nightmare dream:
Quicker than light
All them faces
Turned dead white!
Boogie-woogie,
Rolling bass,
Whirling treble
Of cat-gut lace.
. . .
“Blues at Dawn”
.
I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.
I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.
If I thought thoughts in bed,
Them thoughts would bust my head –
So I don’t dare start thinking in the morning.
.
I don’t dare remember in the morning
Don’t dare remember in the morning.
If I recall the day before,
I wouldn’t get up no more –
So I don’t dare remember in the morning.
. . .
“Neighbour”
.
Down home
he sets on a stoop
and watches the sun go by.
In Harlem
when his work is done
he sets in a bar with a beer.
He looks taller than he is
and younger than he ain’t.
He looks darker than he is, too.
And he’s smarter than he looks,
He ain’t smart.
That cat’s a fool.
Naw, he ain’t neither.
He’s a good man,
except that he talks too much.
In fact, he’s a great cat.
But when he drinks,
he drinks fast.
Sometimes
he don’t drink.
True,
he just
lets his glass
set there.
. . .
“Subway Rush Hour”
.
Mingled
breath and smell
so close
mingled
black and white
so near
no room for fear.
. . .
“Brothers”
.
We’re related – you and I,
You from the West Indies,
I from Kentucky.
.
Kinsmen – you and I,
You from Africa,
I from U.S.A.
.
Brothers – you and I.
. . .
“Sliver”
.
Cheap little rhymes
A cheap little tune
Are sometimes as dangerous
As a sliver of the moon.
A cheap little tune
To cheap little rhymes
Can cut a man’s
Throat sometimes.
. . .
“Hope (2)”
.
He rose up on his dying bed
and asked for fish.
His wife looked it up in her dream book
and played it.
. . .
“Harlem (2)”
.
What happens to a dream deferred?
.
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore –
and then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over –
like a syrupy sweet?
.
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
.
Or does it explode?
. . .
“Letter”
.
Dear Mama,
Time I pay rent and get my food
and laundry I don’t have much left
but here is five dollars for you
to show you I still appreciates you.
My girl-friend send her love and say
she hopes to lay eyes on you sometime in life.
Mama, it has been raining cats and dogs up
here. Well, that is all so I will close.
You son baby
Respectably as ever,
Joe
. . .
“Motto”
.
I play it cool
And dig all jive.
That’s the reason
I stay alive.
.
My motto,
As I live and learn,
Is:
Dig And Be Dug
In Return.
. . . . .
From Hughes’ introduction to his 1951 collection “Montage of a Dream Deferred”:
“In terms of current Afro-American popular music and the sources from which it has progressed – jazz, ragtime, swing, blues, boogie-woogie, and be-bop – this poem on contemporary Harlem, like be-bop, is marked by conflicting changes, sudden nuances, sharp and impudent interjections, broken rhythms, and passages sometimes in the manner of the jam session, sometimes the popular song, punctuated by the riffs, runs, breaks, and distortions of the music of a community in transition.”
Editor’s note:
Langston Hughes’ poems “Theme for English B” and “Advice” – both of which were included in his publication of “Montage of a Dream Deferred” – are featured in separate Hughes’ posts on Zócalo Poets.
. . . . .
“Montage of a Dream Deferred”- from The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, edited by Arnold Rampersad, with David Roessel, 1994
All poems © The Estate of Langston Hughes
Love poems, Blues poems – from The Harlem Renaissance
Posted: February 1, 2013 Filed under: English, English: Black Canadian / American, Langston Hughes, Love poems and Blues poems – from The Harlem Renaissance | Tags: Black History Month poems Comments Off on Love poems, Blues poems – from The Harlem RenaissanceLove poems, Blues poems – from The Harlem Renaissance:
Langston Hughes verses composed between 1924 and 1930:
. . .
“Subway Face”
.
That I have been looking
For you all my life
Does not matter to you.
You do not know.
.
You never knew.
Nor did I.
Now you take the Harlem train uptown;
I take a local down.
(1924)
. . .
“Poem (2)” (To F. S.)
.
I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There’s nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began –
I loved my friend.
(1925)
. . .
“Better”
.
Better in the quiet night
To sit and cry alone
Than rest my head on another’s shoulder
After you have gone.
.
Better, in the brilliant day,
Filled with sun and noise,
To listen to no song at all
Than hear another voice.
. . .
“Poem (4)” (To the Black Beloved)
.
Ah,
My black one,
Thou art not beautiful
Yet thou hast
A loveliness
Surpassing beauty.
.
Oh,
My black one,
Thou art not good
Yet thou hast
A purity
Surpassing goodness.
.
Ah,
My black one,
Thou art not luminous
Yet an altar of jewels,
An altar of shimmering jewels,
Would pale in the light
Of thy darkness,
Pale in the light
Of thy nightness.
. . .
“The Ring”
.
Love is the master of the ring
And life a circus tent.
What is this silly song you sing?
Love is the master of the ring.
.
I am afraid!
Afraid of Love
And of Love’s bitter whip!
Afraid,
Afraid of Love
And Love’s sharp, stinging whip.
.
What is this silly song you sing?
Love is the master of the ring.
(1926)
. . .
“Ma Man”
.
When ma man looks at me
He knocks me off ma feet.
When ma man looks at me
He knocks me off ma feet.
He’s got those ‘lectric-shockin’ eyes an’
De way he shocks me sho is sweet.
.
He kin play a banjo.
Lordy, he kin plunk, plunk, plunk.
He kin play a banjo.
I mean plunk, plunk…plunk, plunk.
He plays good when he’s sober
An’ better, better, better when he’s drunk.
.
Eagle-rockin’,
Daddy, eagle-rock with me.
Eagle rockin’,
Come an’ eagle-rock with me.
Honey baby,
Eagle-rockish as I kin be!
. . .
“Lament over Love”
.
I hope my child’ll
Never love a man.
I say I hope my child’ll
Never love a man.
Love can hurt you
Mo’n anything else can.
.
I’m goin’ down to the river
An’ I ain’t goin’ there to swim;
Down to the river,
Ain’t goin’ there to swim.
My true love’s left me
And I’m goin’ there to think about him.
.
Love is like whiskey,
Love is like red, red wine.
Love is like whiskey,
Like sweet red wine.
If you want to be happy
You got to love all the time.
.
I’m goin’ up in a tower
Tall as a tree is tall,
Up in a tower
Tall as a tree is tall.
Gonna think about my man –
And let my fool-self fall.
(1926)
. . .
“Dressed Up”
.
I had ma clothes cleaned
Just like new.
I put ’em on but
I still feels blue.
.
I bought a new hat,
Sho is fine,
But I wish I had back that
Old gal o’ mine.
.
I got new shoes –
They don’t hurt ma feet,
But I ain’t got nobody
For to call me sweet.
. . .
“To a Little Lover-Lass, Dead”
.
She
Who searched for lovers
In the night
Has gone the quiet way
Into the still,
Dark land of death
Beyond the rim of day.
.
Now like a little lonely waif
She walks
An endless street
And gives her kiss to nothingness.
Would God his lips were sweet!
. . .
“Harlem Night Song”
.
Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.
.
I love you.
Across
The Harlem roof-tops
Moon is shining.
Night sky is blue.
Stars are great drops
Of golden dew.
.
Down the street
A band is playing.
.
I love you.
.
Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.
. . .
“Passing Love”
.
Because you are to me a song
I must not sing you over-long.
.
Because you are to me a prayer
I cannot say you everywhere.
.
Because you are to me a rose –
You will not stay when summer goes.
(1927)
. . .
“Desire”
.
Desire to us
Was like a double death,
Swift dying
Of our mingled breath,
Evaporation
Of an unknown strange perfume
Between us quickly
In a naked
Room.
. . .
“Dreamer”
.
I take my dreams
And make of them a bronze vase,
And a wide round fountain
With a beautiful statue in its centre,
And a song with a broken heart,
And I ask you:
Do you understand my dreams?
Sometimes you say you do
And sometimes you say you don’t.
Either way
It doesn’t matter.
I continue to dream.
(1927)
. . .
“Lover’s Return”
.
My old time daddy
Came back home last night.
His face was pale and
His eyes didn’t look just right.
.
He says, “Mary, I’m
Comin’ home to you –
So sick and lonesome
I don’t know what to do.”
.
Oh, men treats women
Just like a pair o’ shoes –
You kicks ’em round and
Does ’em like you choose.
.
I looked at my daddy –
Lawd! and I wanted to cry.
He looked so thin –
Lawd! that I wanted to cry.
But the devil told me:
Damn a lover
Come home to die!
(1928)
. . .
“Hurt”
.
Who cares
About the hurt in your heart?
.
Make a song like this
for a jazz band to play:
Nobody cares.
Nobody cares.
Make a song like that
From your lips.
Nobody cares.
. . .
“Spring for Lovers”
.
Desire weaves its fantasy of dreams,
And all the world becomes a garden close
In which we wander, you and I together,
Believing in the symbol of the rose,
Believing only in the heart’s bright flower –
Forgetting – flowers wither in an hour.
(1930)
. . .
“Rent-Party Shout: For a Lady Dancer”
.
Whip it to a jelly!
Too bad Jim!
Mamie’s got ma man –
An’ I can’t find him.
Shake that thing! O!
Shake it slow!
That man I love is
Mean an’ low.
Pistol an’ razor!
Razor an’ gun!
If I sees man man he’d
Better run –
For I’ll shoot him in de shoulder,
Else I’ll cut him down,
Cause I knows I can find him
When he’s in de ground –
Then can’t no other women
Have him layin’ round.
So play it, Mr. Nappy!
Yo’ music’s fine!
I’m gonna kill that
Man o’ mine!
(1930)
. . . . .
In the manner of all great poets Langston Hughes (February 1st, 1902 – 1967) wrote love poems (and love-blues poems), using the voices and perspectives of both Man and Woman. In addition to such art, Hughes’ homosexuality, real though undisclosed during his lifetime, probably was responsible for the subtle and highly-original poet’s voice he employed for three of the poems included here: Subway Face, Poem (2), and Desire. Hughes was among a wealth of black migrants born in The South or the Mid-West who gravitated toward Harlem in New York City from about 1920 onward. Along with Countee Cullen, Zora Neale Hurston, Wallace Thurman and many others, Hughes became part of The Harlem Renaissance, that great-gorgeous fresh-flowering of Black-American culture.
. . . . .
Etta James: “Mi Fuerte Amante” / “Tough Lover”
Posted: February 28, 2012 Filed under: English: Black Canadian / American, Etta James, Spanish, Translator's Whimsy: Song Lyrics / Extravagancia del traductor: Letras de canciones traducidas por Alexander Best, ZP Translator: Lidia García Garay Comments Off on Etta James: “Mi Fuerte Amante” / “Tough Lover”Etta James
“Mi Fuerte Amante” (1956)
Tengo un amante que me mueve tanto,
Sabe hacer ‘el rocanrol’,
Porque es fuerte – mi amante –
Es un amante vigoroso,
Amante recio,
Un amante fuerte – ¡eso es!
*
Cuando me besa,
Me emociona;
Cuando se sacude,
No me quedo quieta.
Es un amante vigoroso,
Amante recio,
Un amante fuerte – ¡aaah, sííí!
*
Las Siete Hermanas no lo pueden tener,
Estoy hablando acerca del Amor –
Y es veloz – él – como el viento.
Habla la gente que estoy enbrujada.
Pero no es el vudú – ¡es ese “twist”!
El Amante más grande de nuestra era,
Aún Don Juan no tiene ningun’esperanza.
Te hace reír,
Te hace llorar,
Se pone tan recio que
Pued’hacer a un’estatua de Venus resucitar.
Hace todo lo que quiera – aún:
Pisotear los zapatos de gamuza-azul de Jesse James.
Es un amante audaz,
y duro, y recio,
Un amante fuerte – ¡ajá, ajá!
*
¿Tienes amante que quieras amar?
¡Golpéale en la cabeza una vez – o dos!
Será tu amante vigoroso – ¡sí, sí! –
Un amante recio – ¡eso es!
Un amante fuerte – ¡aaah, sííí!
Glosario:
Las Siete Hermanas se llaman Las Pléyades – en la mitología griega.
Las dos más famosas – Electra y Maia – eran “Fuerzas de la Naturaleza”.
Jesse James era un forajido estadounidense de la era “Viejo Oeste”.
_____
Etta James (1938-2012)
escribió las letras y grabó esta canción
en 1956 – a la edad tierna de dieciocho años.
Su personalidad era fuerte y burlona pero pudo
cantar también la música íntima del Blues.
*
Traducción / interpretación en español: Lidia García Garay
_____
Etta James
“Tough Lover” (1956)
Well, I’ve got a lover that moves me so
He sho knows how to rock’n’roll
‘Cause he’s a tough lover – yeah, yeah
He’s a tough lover – wooooo
Tough Lover – yeah, yeah
Tough Lover – unh hunh!
*
When he kisses me
I get a thrill
But when he does that wiggle
I can’t keep still
‘Cause he’s a tough lover – yeah, yeah
He’s a tough lover – wooooo!
Tough Lover – yeah, yeah
Tough Lover – unh hunh!
*
The Seven Sisters have nothin’ on him
I’m talkin’ about love – and he’s fast as the wind
People all talk about he’s got me fixed
It ain’t hoodoo – it’s just that twist!
He’s the greatest lover ever come to pass
Don Juan ain’t got a half of a chance.
He can make you laugh
He can make you cry
He’s so tough he’ll make Venus come alive.
He can do anything that he wants to do –
Step on Jesse James’s blue-suede shoes
‘Cause he’s a tough lover – yeah, yeah
He’s a tough lover – wooooo!
Tough Lover – yeah, yeah
Tough Lover – unh hunh!
*
You got a lover
That you wanna love right?
Just pop him ’side the head
– Once or twice!
He’ll be a tough lover – yeah, yeah
He’ll be your tough lover – wooooo!
Tough lover – yeah, yeah
Tough lover – unh hunh!
_____
Etta James (1938-2012)
was a rock’n’roll “mama” even
at the tender age of 18, which is when she
wrote and recorded this song with her band,
The Peaches. Her vocal delivery was often
rough-and-tough in sound – but also full of
fun. The “wooooo’s” in her singing she
borrowed from Little Richard, with whom
she toured in the 1950s. By middle age she
was undisputedly the best living Blues singer
in The United States.
_____
Langston Hughes: “La Señora y su Señora” / “Madame et sa Madame” / “Madam and her Madam”
Posted: February 1, 2012 Filed under: English: Black Canadian / American, French, Langston Hughes, Spanish, ZP Translator: Lan Truong, ZP Translator: Lidia García Garay | Tags: Black poets Comments Off on Langston Hughes: “La Señora y su Señora” / “Madame et sa Madame” / “Madam and her Madam”_____
Langston Hughes (February 1st, 1902 – 1967)
“Madam and Her Madam”
I worked for a woman,
She wasn’t mean–
But she had a twelve-room
House to clean.
*
Had to get breakfast,
Dinner, and supper, too–
Then take care of her children
When I got through.
*
Wash, iron, and scrub,
Walk the dog around–
It was too much,
Nearly broke me down.
*
I said, Madam,
Can it be
You trying to make a
Pack-horse out of me?
*
She opened her mouth.
She cried, Oh, no!
You know, Alberta,
I love you so!
*
I said, Madam,
That may be true–
But I’ll be dogged
If I love you!
_____
“La Señora y su Señora”
por Langston Hughes
Trabajé para una mujer
No era muy malvada—
Ella tenía una casa de doce cuartos
que yo tenía que limpiar.
*
Tenía que hacer desayuno,
Almuerzo y cena también—
Después atender a los niños,
Al terminar.
*
Lavar, planchar, y limpiar
Llevar a caminar al perro…
Era demasiado,
Casi me destroza.
*
Yo le dije, Señora,
¿Es posible que usted
Está tratando de convertirme
En un caballo de carga?
*
Ella habrió su boca
Y exclamó:
¡Oh, no!
Sabes Alberta,
¡Yo a tí te quiero mucho!
*
Yo le dije: Señora,
Puede que eso sea verdad—
¡Pero que desgracia la mía
Si yo la quiero a usted!
*
Traducción del inglés al español: Lidia García Garay
_____
“Madame et sa Madame”
par Langston Hughes
J’ai travaillé pour une femme,
Elle n’était pas méchante—
Elle avait une maison avec
douze chambres
Que je devais nettoyer.
Préparer le petit déjeuner,
Le déjeuner et le dîner aussi—
Je devais garder ses enfants
Après tout ca.
Faire la lessive et la repasser,
et nettoyer le plancher,
Promener son chien—
C’était trop!,
Le travail m’a fait presque craquer.
*
Je lui ai dit: Madame,
Est-ce qu’il est possible
Que vous essayiez
De me transformer en cheval de trait?
*
Elle a ouvert sa bouche.
Et elle a dit: Pas du tout!
Tu sais Alberta,
Je t’aime beaucoup!
*
Je lui ai dit: Madame,
Cela peut être la vérité
Mais je serais foutue
si je vous aime!
*
Traduction de l’anglais au français:
Lidia García Garay, Lan Truong
_____