Bilingual Sestina Julia Alvarez The Other Side: El Otro Lado. Boston: E. P. Dutton, 1995. 3-4. Print. 1 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 Some things I have to say aren't getting said in this snowy, blonde, blue-eyed, gum chewing English, dawn's early light sifting through the persianas closed the night before by dark-skinned girls whose words evoke cama, aposento, suenos in nombres from that first word I can't translate from Spanish. Gladys, Rosario, Altagracia--the sounds of Spanish wash over me like warm island waters as I say your soothing names: a child again learning the nombres of things you point to in the world before English turned sol, tierra, cielo, luna to vocabulary words-sun, earth, sky, moon--language closed like the touch-sensitive morivivir. whose leaves closed when we kids poked them, astonished. Even Spanish failed us when we realized how frail a word is when faced with the thing it names. How saying its name won't always summon up in Spanish or English the full blown genii from the bottled nombre. Gladys, I summon you back with your given nombre to open up again the house of slatted windows closed since childhood, where palabras left behind for English stand dusty and awkward in neglected Spanish. Rosario, muse of el patio, sing in me and through me say that world again, begin first with those first words you put in my mouth as you pointed to the world-not Adam, not God, but a country girl numbering the stars, the blades of grass, warming the sun by saying el sol as the dawn's light fell through the closed persianas from the gardens where you sang in Spanish, Esta son las mananitas, and listening, in bed, no English yet in my head to confuse me with translations, no English doubling the world with synonyms, no dizzying array of words, --the world was simple and intact in Spanish awash with colores, luz, suenos, as if the nombres were the outer skin of things, as if words were so close to the world one left a mist of breath on things by saying their names, an intimacy I now yearn for in English-words so close to what I meant that I almost hear my Spanish blood beating, beating inside what I say en ingles. Persimmons Li-Young Lee Poetryfoundation.org. 2009. Web. 4th Jan. 2010. 1 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 In sixth grade Mrs. Walker slapped the back of my head and made me stand in the corner for not knowing the difference between persimmon and precision. How to choose persimmons. This is precision. Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted. Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one will be fragrant. How to eat: put the knife away, lay down newspaper. Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat. Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow. Now, eat the meat of the fruit, so sweet, all of it, to the heart. Donna undresses, her stomach is white. In the yard, dewy and shivering with crickets, we lie naked, face-up, face-down. I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten. Naked: I’ve forgotten. Ni, wo: you and me. I part her legs, remember to tell her she is beautiful as the moon. Other words that got me into trouble were fight and fright, wren and yarn. Fight was what I did when I was frightened, Fright was what I felt when I was fighting. Wrens are small, plain birds, yarn is what one knits with. Wrens are soft as yarn. My mother made birds out of yarn. I loved to watch her tie the stuff; a bird, a rabbit, a wee man. Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class and cut it up so everyone could taste a Chinese apple. Knowing it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat but watched the other faces. My mother said every persimmon has a sun inside, something golden, glowing, warm as my face. 50 55 60 65 70 75 Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper, forgotten and not yet ripe. I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill, where each morning a cardinal sang, The sun, the sun. Finally understanding he was going blind, my father sat up all one night waiting for a song, a ghost. I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness, and sweet as love. This year, in the muddy lighting of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking for something I lost. My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs, black cane between his knees, hand over hand, gripping the handle. He’s so happy that I’ve come home. I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question. All gone, he answers. Under some blankets, I find a box. Inside the box I find three scrolls. I sit beside him and untie three paintings by my father: Hibiscus leaf and a white flower. Two cats preening. Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth. He raises both hands to touch the cloth, asks, Which is this? This is persimmons, Father. 80 85 Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk, the strength, the tense precision in the wrist. I painted them hundreds of times eyes closed. These I painted blind. Some things never leave a person: scent of the hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons, in your palm, the ripe weight. It dread inna Inglan Linton Kwesi Johnson Mi Revalueshanary Fren. Google Books, 2006. Web. 4th Jan. 2010. 23-24. See also: “The 1970s, (Dub) Identity, and Working-class Poetries.” Mark Nowak. Harriet: a blog from the poetry foundation. Poetryfoundation.org. 29th Jun. 2008. Web. 4th Jan. 2010. 1 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 dem frame-up George Lindo up in Bradford Toun but di Bradford Blacks dem a rally roun mi seh dem frame-up George Lindo up in Bradford Toun but di Bradford Blacks dem a rally roun… Maggi Tatcha on di go wid a racist show but a she haffi go kaw, rite now, African Asian West Indian an Black British stan firm inna Inglan inna disya time yah far noh mattah wat dey say, come wat may, we are here to stay inna Inglan inna disya time yah… George Lindo him is a working man George Lindo him is a family man George Lindo him nevah do no wrang George Lindo di innocent one George Lindo him no carry no daggah George Lindo him is nat no rabbah George Lindo dem haffi let him go George Lindo dem betta free him now! The 6 O’Clock News ‘Unrelated Incidents’ – No. 3 Tom Leonard Tomleonard.co.uk. n.d. Web. 4th Jan. 2010. 1 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 this is thi six a clock news thi man said n thi reason a talk wia BBC accent is coz yi widna wahnt mi ti talk aboot thi trooth wia voice lik wanna yoo scruff.if a toktaboot thi trooth lik wanna yoo scruff yi widny thingk it wuz troo. jist wanna yoo scruff tokn. thirza right way ti spell ana right way ti tok it.this is me tokn yir right way a spellin.this is ma trooth. yooz doant no thi trooth yirsellz cawz yi canny talk right.this is the six a clock nyooz.belt up. Halfe–Caste John Agard Other: British and Irish poetry since 1970. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 1999. 1-2. Print. 1 5 Excuse me standing on one leg I'm half-caste Explain yuself wha yu mean when yu say half-caste yu mean when picasso 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 mix red an green is a half-caste canvas/ explain yuself wha u mean when yu say half-caste yu mean when light an shadow mix in de sky is a half-caste weather/ well in dat case england weather nearly always half-caste in fact some o dem cloud half-caste till dem overcast so spiteful dem dont want de sun pass ah rass/ explain yuself wha yu mean when yu say half-caste yu mean tchaikovsky sit down at dah piano an mix a black key wid a white key is a half-caste symphony/ Explain yuself wha yu mean Ah listening to yu wid de keen half of mih ear Ah looking at u wid de keen half of mih eye and when I'm introduced to yu I'm sure you'll understand why I offer yu half-a-hand an when I sleep at night I close half-a-eye consequently when I dream I dream half-a-dream an when moon begin to glow I half-caste human being cast half-a-shadow but yu come back tomorrow wid de whole of yu eye an de whole of yu ear and de whole of yu mind an I will tell yu de other half of my story Quoof Paul Muldoon Poems 1968-1998. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2001. 112. Print. 1 5 10 How often have I carried our family word for the hot water bottle to a strange bed, as my father would juggle a red-hot half-brick in an old sock to his childhood settle. I have taken it into so many lovely heads or laid it between us like a sword. A hotel room in New York City with a girl who spoke hardly any English, my hand on her breast like the smouldering one-off spoor of the yeti or some other shy beast that has yet to enter the language. The Right Arm Paul Muldoon Poems 1968-1998. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2001. 107. Print. 1 5 10 I was three-ish when I plunged my arm into the sweet-jar for the last bit of clove-rock. We kept a shop in Eglish that sold bread, milk, butter, cheese, bacon and eggs, Andrews Liver Salts, and, until now, clove-rock. I would give my right arm to have known then how Eglish was itself wedged between ecclesia and église. The Eglish sky was its own stained-glass vault and my right arm was sleeved in glass that has yet to shatter.