Reading is the key to your future success.
Here is a list of fantastic sites that you can visit for news articles. Read all you want. We will only be reading one or two a week during class. If you happen to miss class, we will be posting the articles during class so you can read them at study hall or at home.
P.S. I am looking for volunteers to help me with this task and maintaining the website.
News for You http://www.newsforyouonline.com/index.asp?
Breaking News English http://www.breakingnewsenglish.com/
BBC Learning English http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/learningenglish/
Please look under the MORE... tab for the page labled News stories from class for weekly articles.
P.S. I am looking for volunteers to help me with this task and maintaining the website.
News for You http://www.newsforyouonline.com/index.asp?
Breaking News English http://www.breakingnewsenglish.com/
BBC Learning English http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/learningenglish/
Please look under the MORE... tab for the page labled News stories from class for weekly articles.
In addition to reading the news, we will also be reading poetry and prose. I am attempting to find audio or video files of all the poems that we will be reading in class. Keep an eye out for new additions.
Week one "The Laughing Heart," by Charles Bukowski
To watch a very cool art movie based on this poem click the link.
The Laughing Heart (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 a 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.
Muhammad Ali- Sonny Liston Poem
To watch a very cool art movie based on this poem click the link.
The Laughing Heart (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 a 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.
Muhammad Ali- Sonny Liston Poem
Click here for the youtube clip of Muhammad Ali reciting this poem. After you read and watch ask yourself, is poetry feminite or masculine?
Muhammad Ali's "Sonny Liston Poem"
Ali composed this poem prior to his match with Sonny Liston, in 1963, as quoted in "Brash Clay waxed poetic in 1963 visit to
Nashville" by Bill Traughber in Nashville's The CIty Paper
Clay comes out to meet Liston and Liston starts to retreat,
if Liston goes back an inch farther he'll end up in a ringside seat.
Clay swings with his left, Clay swings with his right,
Look at young Cassius carry the fight
Liston keeps backing, but there's not enough room,
It's a matter of time till Clay lowers the boom.
Now Clay lands with a right, what a beautiful swing,
And the punch raises the Bear clean out of the ring.
Liston is still rising and the ref wears a frown,
For he can't start counting till Sonny goes down.
Now Liston is disappearing from view, the crowd is going frantic,
But radar stations have picked him up, somewhere over the Atlantic.
Who would have thought when they came to the fight?
That they'd witness the launching of a human satellite.
Yes, the crowd did not dream, when they put up the money,
That they would see a total eclipse of the Sonny.
Ali composed this poem prior to his match with Sonny Liston, in 1963, as quoted in "Brash Clay waxed poetic in 1963 visit to
Nashville" by Bill Traughber in Nashville's The CIty Paper
Clay comes out to meet Liston and Liston starts to retreat,
if Liston goes back an inch farther he'll end up in a ringside seat.
Clay swings with his left, Clay swings with his right,
Look at young Cassius carry the fight
Liston keeps backing, but there's not enough room,
It's a matter of time till Clay lowers the boom.
Now Clay lands with a right, what a beautiful swing,
And the punch raises the Bear clean out of the ring.
Liston is still rising and the ref wears a frown,
For he can't start counting till Sonny goes down.
Now Liston is disappearing from view, the crowd is going frantic,
But radar stations have picked him up, somewhere over the Atlantic.
Who would have thought when they came to the fight?
That they'd witness the launching of a human satellite.
Yes, the crowd did not dream, when they put up the money,
That they would see a total eclipse of the Sonny.
Week Two
Click below to watch videos of the Billy Collins poems.
Introduction To Poetry by Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Billy Collins
Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Billy Collins
Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
Billy Collins
Week Three
Two poems by Maya Angelou
Alone
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Maya Angelou
Woman Work
I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.
Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.
Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
'Til I can rest again.
Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.
Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own.
Maya Angelou
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Maya Angelou
Woman Work
I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.
Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.
Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
'Til I can rest again.
Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.
Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own.
Maya Angelou
Week four may change this poem to something else.
Sylvester’s Dying Bed
BY LANGSTON HUGHES
I woke up this mornin’
’Bout half-past three.
All the womens in town
Was gathered round me.
Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
“Sylvester’s gonna die!”
And a hundred pretty mamas
Bowed their heads to cry.
I woke up little later
’Bout half-past fo’,
The doctor ‘n’ undertaker’s
Both at ma do’.
Black gals was a-beggin’,
“You can’t leave us here!”
Brown-skins cryin’, “Daddy!
Honey! Baby! Don’t go, dear!”
But I felt ma time’s a-comin’,
And I know’d I’s dyin’ fast.
I seed the River Jerden
A-creepin’ muddy past--
But I’s still Sweet Papa ’Vester,
Yes, sir! Long as life do last!
So I hollers, “Com’ere, babies,
Fo’ to love yo’ daddy right!”
And I reaches up to hug ’em--
When the Lawd put out the light.
Then everything was darkness
In a great ... big ... night.
Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
Sylvester’s Dying Bed
BY LANGSTON HUGHESI woke up this mornin’
’Bout half-past three.
All the womens in town
Was gathered round me.
Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
“Sylvester’s gonna die!”
And a hundred pretty mamas
Bowed their heads to cry.
I woke up little later
’Bout half-past fo’,
The doctor ‘n’ undertaker’s
Both at ma do’.
Black gals was a-beggin’,
“You can’t leave us here!”
Brown-skins cryin’, “Daddy!
Honey! Baby! Don’t go, dear!”
But I felt ma time’s a-comin’,
And I know’d I’s dyin’ fast.
I seed the River Jerden
A-creepin’ muddy past--
But I’s still Sweet Papa ’Vester,
Yes, sir! Long as life do last!
So I hollers, “Com’ere, babies,
Fo’ to love yo’ daddy right!”
And I reaches up to hug ’em--
When the Lawd put out the light.
Then everything was darkness
In a great ... big ... night.
BY LANGSTON HUGHES
I woke up this mornin’
’Bout half-past three.
All the womens in town
Was gathered round me.
Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
“Sylvester’s gonna die!”
And a hundred pretty mamas
Bowed their heads to cry.
I woke up little later
’Bout half-past fo’,
The doctor ‘n’ undertaker’s
Both at ma do’.
Black gals was a-beggin’,
“You can’t leave us here!”
Brown-skins cryin’, “Daddy!
Honey! Baby! Don’t go, dear!”
But I felt ma time’s a-comin’,
And I know’d I’s dyin’ fast.
I seed the River Jerden
A-creepin’ muddy past--
But I’s still Sweet Papa ’Vester,
Yes, sir! Long as life do last!
So I hollers, “Com’ere, babies,
Fo’ to love yo’ daddy right!”
And I reaches up to hug ’em--
When the Lawd put out the light.
Then everything was darkness
In a great ... big ... night.
Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
Sylvester’s Dying Bed
BY LANGSTON HUGHESI woke up this mornin’
’Bout half-past three.
All the womens in town
Was gathered round me.
Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
“Sylvester’s gonna die!”
And a hundred pretty mamas
Bowed their heads to cry.
I woke up little later
’Bout half-past fo’,
The doctor ‘n’ undertaker’s
Both at ma do’.
Black gals was a-beggin’,
“You can’t leave us here!”
Brown-skins cryin’, “Daddy!
Honey! Baby! Don’t go, dear!”
But I felt ma time’s a-comin’,
And I know’d I’s dyin’ fast.
I seed the River Jerden
A-creepin’ muddy past--
But I’s still Sweet Papa ’Vester,
Yes, sir! Long as life do last!
So I hollers, “Com’ere, babies,
Fo’ to love yo’ daddy right!”
And I reaches up to hug ’em--
When the Lawd put out the light.
Then everything was darkness
In a great ... big ... night.
Week five
Danger by Amir Sulaiman
I am not angry I am anger
I am not dangerous I am danger
I am abominable stress, Eliotic, relentless
I’m a breath of vengeance. I’m a death sentence
I’m forsaken repentance to the beast in his hench men
Armed forces and police men that survived of oils and prisons until their cup runith over with lost souls
That wear over sized caps like blind folds
Shiny necklaces like lasso’s
Dragging them into black holes
And I may have to holla at Fidel Castro
To get my other brothers outta Guantanamo
And the innocents on death row
Is probably in the same proportion as the criminals in black robes that
Smack gavels that
Smash homes that
Smack gavels that
Crack domes
Justice is somewhere between reading sad poems
And 40 ounces of gasoline crashing through windows
Justice is between plans and action
Between writing letters to Congressmen and clapping the captain
Between raising legal defense funds
And putting a gun on the bailiff and taking the judge captive
It is between prayer and fasting
Between burning and blasting
Freedom is between the mind and the soul
It is between the lock and the load
Between the zeal of the young and the patience of the old
Freedom is between the finger and the trigger
It is between the page and the pen
Between the grenade and the pin
Between righteous anger and keeping one in the chamber
So what can they do with a cat with a heart like Turner
A mind like Douglas, a mouth like Malcolm, and a voice like Chris?
And that is why I am not dangerous I am danger
I am not angry I am anger
I am abominable stress, illiotic relentless
I’m a breath of vengeance. I’m a death sentence
I’m forsaken repentance to the beast in his hench men
Armed forces and police men
I will slice his belly open and
Free
The souls of the Navajo
The souls of the Iroquois
The souls of the Ibo
The souls of the Scottsboro boys
The souls of great Black leaders
The souls of Kandahar and Baghdad
I burn my white and raise my black flag
To free the souls of the great black leaders
The souls in Attica
The piece of solace on the prison floor
Until then I am not dangerous I am danger
I am not angry I am anger
I am abominable stress, illiotic relentless
I’m a breath of vengeance. I’m a death sentence
I’m forsaken repentance to the beast in his hench men
Politicians and big business men
I’m a teenage Palestinian opening fire at an Israeli check point
Point blank
Checkmate
Now what!
I am an inmate short shanked to the c-o
Earlobe to earlobe
Cut short
Case closed
Now what
I am Sitting Bull with Coronal Custard’s scalp in my hands
I am Senkay with a slave trader’s blood in my hands
I am Jonathan Jackson handing a gun to my man
I am David with a sling shot and a rock
And if David lived today it would be a Molotov cocktail and a Glock
So I say down with Goliath
I say down with Goliath
But we must learn, know, write, read
We must kick, bite, yell, scream
We must pray, fast, live, dream
Fight, kill, and die free
I am not dangerous I am danger
I am abominable stress, Eliotic, relentless
I’m a breath of vengeance. I’m a death sentence
I’m forsaken repentance to the beast in his hench men
Armed forces and police men that survived of oils and prisons until their cup runith over with lost souls
That wear over sized caps like blind folds
Shiny necklaces like lasso’s
Dragging them into black holes
And I may have to holla at Fidel Castro
To get my other brothers outta Guantanamo
And the innocents on death row
Is probably in the same proportion as the criminals in black robes that
Smack gavels that
Smash homes that
Smack gavels that
Crack domes
Justice is somewhere between reading sad poems
And 40 ounces of gasoline crashing through windows
Justice is between plans and action
Between writing letters to Congressmen and clapping the captain
Between raising legal defense funds
And putting a gun on the bailiff and taking the judge captive
It is between prayer and fasting
Between burning and blasting
Freedom is between the mind and the soul
It is between the lock and the load
Between the zeal of the young and the patience of the old
Freedom is between the finger and the trigger
It is between the page and the pen
Between the grenade and the pin
Between righteous anger and keeping one in the chamber
So what can they do with a cat with a heart like Turner
A mind like Douglas, a mouth like Malcolm, and a voice like Chris?
And that is why I am not dangerous I am danger
I am not angry I am anger
I am abominable stress, illiotic relentless
I’m a breath of vengeance. I’m a death sentence
I’m forsaken repentance to the beast in his hench men
Armed forces and police men
I will slice his belly open and
Free
The souls of the Navajo
The souls of the Iroquois
The souls of the Ibo
The souls of the Scottsboro boys
The souls of great Black leaders
The souls of Kandahar and Baghdad
I burn my white and raise my black flag
To free the souls of the great black leaders
The souls in Attica
The piece of solace on the prison floor
Until then I am not dangerous I am danger
I am not angry I am anger
I am abominable stress, illiotic relentless
I’m a breath of vengeance. I’m a death sentence
I’m forsaken repentance to the beast in his hench men
Politicians and big business men
I’m a teenage Palestinian opening fire at an Israeli check point
Point blank
Checkmate
Now what!
I am an inmate short shanked to the c-o
Earlobe to earlobe
Cut short
Case closed
Now what
I am Sitting Bull with Coronal Custard’s scalp in my hands
I am Senkay with a slave trader’s blood in my hands
I am Jonathan Jackson handing a gun to my man
I am David with a sling shot and a rock
And if David lived today it would be a Molotov cocktail and a Glock
So I say down with Goliath
I say down with Goliath
But we must learn, know, write, read
We must kick, bite, yell, scream
We must pray, fast, live, dream
Fight, kill, and die free
Week six: Sandra Cisneros
Arturito the Amazing Baby Olmec
Who is Mine by Way of Water
Arturito, when you were born
the hospital gasped when
they fished you from your fist of sleep,
a rude welcome you didn't like a bit,
and I don't blame you. The world's a mess.
You inherited the family sleepiness and overslept.
And in that sea the days were nacre.
When you arrived on Mexican time,
you were a wonder, a splendor, a plunder,
more royal than any Olmec
and as mysterious and grand.
And everyone said "¡Ay!"
or "Oh!" depending on their native tongue.
So, here you are, godchild,
a marvel that could compete with any ancient god
asleep beneath the Campeche corn. A ti te tocó
the aunt who dislikes kids and Catholics,
your godmother. Don't cry!
What do amazing godmothers do?
They give amazing gifts. Mine to you---
three wishes.
First, I wish you noble like Zapata,
because a man is one who guards
those weaker than himself.
Second, I wish you a Gandhi wisdom,
he knew power is not the fist,
he knew the power of the powerless.
Third, I wish you Mother Teresa generous.
Because the way of wealth is giving
yourself away to others.
Zapata, Gandhi, Mother Teresa.
Great plans! Grand joy! Amazingness!
For you, my godchild, nothing less.
These are my wishes, Arturo Olmec,
Arturito amazing boy.
Loose Woman by Sandra Cisneros
They say I’m a beast.
And feast on it. When all along
I thought that’s what a woman was.
They say I’m a bitch.
Or witch. I’ve claimed
the same and never winced.
They say I’m a macha, hell on wheels,
viva-la-vulva, fire and brimstone,
man-hating, devastating,
boogey-woman lesbian.
Not necessarily,
but I like the compliment.
The mob arrives with stones and sticks
to maim and lame and do me in.
All the same, when I open my mouth,
they wobble like gin.
Diamonds and pearls
tumble from my tongue.
Or toads and serpents.
Depending on the mood I’m in.
I like the itch I provoke.
The rustle of rumor
like crinoline.
I am the woman of myth and bullshit.
(True. I authored some of it.)
I built my house of ill repute.
Brick by brick. Labored,
loved and masoned it.
I live like so.
Heart as sail, ballast, rudder, bow.
Rowdy. Indulgent to excess.
My sin and success--
I think of me to gluttony.
By all accounts I am
a danger to society.
I’m Pancha Villa.
I break laws,
upset the natural order,
anguish the Pope and make fathers cry.
I am beyond the jaw of law.
I’m la desperada, most-wanted public enemy.
My happy picture grinning from the wall.
I strike terror among the men.
I can’t be bothered what they think.
Que se vayan a la ching chang chong!
For this, the cross, the Calvary.
In other words, I’m anarchy.
I’m an aim-well,
shoot-sharp,
sharp-tongued,
sharp-thinking,
fast-speaking,
foot-loose,
loose-tongued,
let-loose,
woman-on-the-loose
loose woman.
Beware, honey.
I’m Bitch. Beast. Macha.
Wachale!
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I break things.
Who is Mine by Way of Water
Arturito, when you were born
the hospital gasped when
they fished you from your fist of sleep,
a rude welcome you didn't like a bit,
and I don't blame you. The world's a mess.
You inherited the family sleepiness and overslept.
And in that sea the days were nacre.
When you arrived on Mexican time,
you were a wonder, a splendor, a plunder,
more royal than any Olmec
and as mysterious and grand.
And everyone said "¡Ay!"
or "Oh!" depending on their native tongue.
So, here you are, godchild,
a marvel that could compete with any ancient god
asleep beneath the Campeche corn. A ti te tocó
the aunt who dislikes kids and Catholics,
your godmother. Don't cry!
What do amazing godmothers do?
They give amazing gifts. Mine to you---
three wishes.
First, I wish you noble like Zapata,
because a man is one who guards
those weaker than himself.
Second, I wish you a Gandhi wisdom,
he knew power is not the fist,
he knew the power of the powerless.
Third, I wish you Mother Teresa generous.
Because the way of wealth is giving
yourself away to others.
Zapata, Gandhi, Mother Teresa.
Great plans! Grand joy! Amazingness!
For you, my godchild, nothing less.
These are my wishes, Arturo Olmec,
Arturito amazing boy.
Loose Woman by Sandra Cisneros
They say I’m a beast.
And feast on it. When all along
I thought that’s what a woman was.
They say I’m a bitch.
Or witch. I’ve claimed
the same and never winced.
They say I’m a macha, hell on wheels,
viva-la-vulva, fire and brimstone,
man-hating, devastating,
boogey-woman lesbian.
Not necessarily,
but I like the compliment.
The mob arrives with stones and sticks
to maim and lame and do me in.
All the same, when I open my mouth,
they wobble like gin.
Diamonds and pearls
tumble from my tongue.
Or toads and serpents.
Depending on the mood I’m in.
I like the itch I provoke.
The rustle of rumor
like crinoline.
I am the woman of myth and bullshit.
(True. I authored some of it.)
I built my house of ill repute.
Brick by brick. Labored,
loved and masoned it.
I live like so.
Heart as sail, ballast, rudder, bow.
Rowdy. Indulgent to excess.
My sin and success--
I think of me to gluttony.
By all accounts I am
a danger to society.
I’m Pancha Villa.
I break laws,
upset the natural order,
anguish the Pope and make fathers cry.
I am beyond the jaw of law.
I’m la desperada, most-wanted public enemy.
My happy picture grinning from the wall.
I strike terror among the men.
I can’t be bothered what they think.
Que se vayan a la ching chang chong!
For this, the cross, the Calvary.
In other words, I’m anarchy.
I’m an aim-well,
shoot-sharp,
sharp-tongued,
sharp-thinking,
fast-speaking,
foot-loose,
loose-tongued,
let-loose,
woman-on-the-loose
loose woman.
Beware, honey.
I’m Bitch. Beast. Macha.
Wachale!
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I break things.