Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 19, 2021

Knock Knock by Daniel Beaty

 


As a boy I shared a game with my father

Played it every morning 'til I was 3

He would knock knock on my door

And I'd pretend to be asleep

'til he got right next to the bed

Then I would get up and jump into his arms

"Good morning, Papa."

And my papa he would tell me that he loved me

We shared a game

Knock Knock

Cuando era niño compartí un juego con mi padre

Lo jugué todas las mañanas hasta que tenía 3 años

Llamaría a mi puerta

Y yo pretendo estar dormido

hasta que llegó justo al lado de la cama

Entonces me levantaba y saltaba a sus brazos

"Buenos días, papá".

Y mi papá me decía que me amaba

Compartimos un juego

TOC TOC 

Until that day when the knock never came

And my momma takes me on a ride past corn fields

On this never ending highway 'til we reach a place of high

Rusty gates

A confused little boy

I entered the building carried in my mama's arms

Knock Knock

Hasta ese día cuando el golpe nunca llegó

Y mi mamá me lleva a dar un paseo más allá de los campos de maíz

En esta carretera interminable hasta llegar a un lugar de alto

Puertas oxidadas

Un niño pequeño confundido

Entré en el edificio llevado en brazos de mi madre

TOC TOC 

We reach a room of windows and brown faces

Behind one of the windows sits my father

I jump out of my mama's arms

And run joyously towards my papa

Only to be confronted by this window

I knock knock trying to break through the glass

Trying to get to my father

I knock knock as my mama pulls me away

Before my papa even says a word

Llegamos a una sala de ventanas y caras marrones

Detrás de una de las ventanas se sienta mi padre

Salto de los brazos de mi madre

Y corre alegremente hacia mi papá

Solo para ser confrontado por esta ventana

Llamo TOC TOC tratando de romper el vidrio

Tratando de llegar a mi padre

Llamo a la puerta cuando mi mamá me saca

Antes mi papá incluso dice una palabra

And for years he has never said a word

And so twenty-five years later, I write these words

For the little boy in me who still awaits his papa's knock

Y durante años nunca ha dicho una palabra

Y así, veinticinco años después, escribo estas palabras

Para el niño pequeño en mí que todavía espera el golpe de su papá

Papa, come home cause I miss you

I miss you waking me up in the morning and telling me you love me

Papa, come home, cause there's things I don't know

And I thought maybe you could teach me:

How to shave;

How to dribble a ball;

How to talk to a lady;

How to walk like a man

Papa, come home because I decided a while back

I wanted to be just like you

But I'm forgetting who you are

And twenty-five years later a little boy cries

And so I write these words and try to heal

And try to father myself

And I dream up a father who says the words my father did not

Papá, ve a casa porque te extraño

Extraño que me hayas despertado por la mañana y me digas que me amas

Papa, ven a casa, porque hay cosas que no sé

Y pensé que tal vez podrías enseñarme:

Cómo afeitarse

Cómo driblar una pelota;

Cómo hablar con una dama;

Cómo caminar como un hombre

Papá, ven a casa porque hace un tiempo decidí volver

Yo quería ser como tú

Pero me olvido de quién eres

Y veinticinco años después, un niño llora

Y entonces escribo estas palabras y trato de sanar

Y tratar de engendrarme a mí mismo

Y sueño con un padre que dice las palabras que mi padre no


Dear Son

I'm sorry I never came home

For every lesson I failed to teach, hear these words:

Shave in one direction in strong deliberate strokes to avoid irritation

Dribble the page with the brilliance of your ballpoint pen

Walk like a god and your goddess will come to you

Querido hijo

Lo siento, nunca llegué a casa

Por cada lección que no pude enseñar, escuche estas palabras:

Afeitado en una dirección en fuertes movimientos deliberados para evitar la irritación

Gotee la página con el brillo de su bolígrafo

Camina como un dios y tu diosa vendrá a ti

No longer will I be there to knock on your door

So you must learn to knock for yourself

Knock knock down doors of racism and poverty that I could not

Knock knock down doors of opportunity

For the lost brilliance of the black men who crowd these cells

Knock knock with diligence for the sake of your children

Knock knock for me for as long as you are free

These prison gates cannot contain my spirit

The best of me still lives in you

Ya no estaré allí para llamar a tu puerta

Así que debes aprender a llamar por ti mismo

Derribar puertas del racismo y la pobreza que no pude

TOC TOC derribar puertas de oportunidad

Por la brillantez perdida de los hombres negros que se amontonan en estas celdas

TOC TOC golpear con diligencia por el bien de sus hijos

TOC TOC knock por mí mientras seas libre

Estas puertas de la prisión no pueden contener mi espíritu

Lo mejor de mí todavía vive en ti

Knock knock with the knowledge that you are my son, but you are not my choices

Yes, we are our fathers' sons and daughters

But we are not their choices

For despite their absences we are still here

Still alive, still breathing

With the power to change this world

One little boy and girl at a time

Knock knock

Who's there?

We are

TOC TOC  con el conocimiento de que eres mi hijo, pero no eres mi elección

Sí, somos los hijos e hijas de nuestros padres

Pero no somos sus elecciones

Porque a pesar de sus ausencias todavía estamos aquí

Todavía vivo, todavía respirando

Con el poder de cambiar este mundo

Un pequeño niño y niña a la vez

TOC TOC 

¿Quién está ahí?

Estamos!

Small Kindnesses by Danusha Lameris

  

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk

down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs

to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”

when someone sneezes, a leftover

from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.

And sometimes, when you spill lemons

from your grocery bag, someone else will help you

pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.

We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,

and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile

at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress

to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder, and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass. 

We have so little of each other, now. So far

from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.

What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these

fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,

have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”

He estado pensando en el camino, cuando caminas

 por un pasillo lleno de gente, la gente tira de sus piernas para dejarte pasar. O cómo los extraños todavía dicen "te bendigo" cuando alguien estornuda, un sobrante de la peste bubónica. "No te mueras", decimos. 

Y a veces, cuando derramas limones de tu bolsa 

de supermercado, alguien más te ayudará a recogerlos. Sobre todo, no queremos hacernos daño el uno al otro. 

Queremos que nos entreguen nuestra taza de café caliente 

y agradecerle a la persona que la entrega. Sonreírles y que les devuelvan la sonrisa. Para que la camarera nos llame cariño cuando deja el tazón de sopa de almejas, y para que el conductor de la camioneta roja nos deje pasar. Ahora tenemos muy poco el uno del otro. Tan lejos de la tribu y el fuego. 

Solo estos breves momentos de intercambio. 

¿Qué pasa si son la verdadera morada de los santos, estos templos fugaces que hacemos juntos cuando decimos: "Aquí, toma asiento", "Adelante, tú primero", "Me gusta tu sombrero".

Harlem by Langston Hughes

 


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?

¿Qué le sucede a un sueño diferido?


Se seca

como una pasa al sol?

O se pudre como un dolor

Y luego correr?

¿Apesta a carne podrida?

O la corteza y el exceso de azúcar

como un dulce almibarado?


Tal vez solo se cuelga

como una carga pesada.


O explota?

"Mother to Son" by Langston Hughes

 


Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floors

Bare.

But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light

Bueno, hijo, te diré:

La vida para mí no ha sido una escalera de cristal.

Tiene tachuelas,

Y astillas,

Y tablas rotas,

Y lugares sin alfombra en los pisos

Desnudo.

Pero todo el tiempo

He estado escalando

Y llegando a los aterrizajes,

Y girando esquinas,

Y a veces yendo en la oscuridad

Donde no ha habido luz

Apartment House By Gerald Raftery

A filing-cabinet of human lives
Where people swarm like bees in tunneled hives,
Each to his own cell in the towered comb,
Identical and cramped—we call it home.

Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance [suspension],
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

Dream Song 14 by John Berryman

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.

After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

Explain Yourself by Andrew Michael Roberts


My life was like this when I found it.
So I walked with it the entire way.
The chickens followed, they are not mine.

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.

be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.

your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.


The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

How It Works // Cómo Funciona

In the website, I've collected the major poems and songs we've read in this unit, as well as a bunch of random extras that you might...