A Dog Has Died BY Pablo Neruda

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

“Time does not bring relief; you all have lied” BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

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!

We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks

 

We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon.

Estamos muy bien. Nosotros Dejé la escuela. Nosotros Acechar tarde Nosotros Huelga recta. Nosotros Canta el pecado Nosotros Ginebra delgada Nosotros Jazz June. Nosotros Morir pronto.

Do Not go Gentle by Dylan Thomas

 

Dylan Thomas wrote this poem as his father was dying.

Dylan Thomas escribió este poema cuando su padre estaba muriendo.

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage, against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

No te vayas suave en esa buena noche, La vejez debe arder y entusiasmarse al cierre del día; Rabia, rabia contra la muerte de la luz. Aunque los sabios al final saben que la oscuridad es correcta, Debido a que sus palabras no habían bifurcado ningún rayo, No te vayas suave en esa buena noche. Buenos hombres, la última ola, llorando lo brillante Sus obras frágiles podrían haber bailado en una bahía verde, Rabia, rabia contra la muerte de la luz.

When I Was One-and-Twenty BY A. E. HOUSMAN

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy [heart] free.”
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty

I heard him say again,
“The heart out of the bosom [chest]
Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue [sadness].”
And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

The Death of Santa Claus by Charles Webb

He's had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don't make house
calls to the North Pole,
he's let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap
open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it's only
indigestion anyway, he thinks,
until, feeding the reindeer,
he feels as if a monster fist
has grabbed his heart and won't
stop squeezing. He can't
breathe, and the beautiful white
world he loves goes black,
and he drops on his jelly belly
in the snow and Mrs. Claus
tears out of the toy factory
wailing, and the elves wring
their little hands, and Rudolph's
nose blinks like a sad ambulance
light, and in a tract house
in Houston, Texas, I'm 8,
telling my mom that stupid
kids at school say Santa's a big
fake, and she sits with me
on our purple-flowered couch,
and takes my hand, tears
in her throat, the terrible
news rising in her eyes.

Annabel Lee By Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.