Bilingual Sestina Julia Alvarez
The Other Side: El Otro Lado. Boston: E. P. Dutton, 1995. 3-4. Print.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Excuse me
standing on one leg
I'm half-caste
Explain yuself
wha yu mean
when yu say half-caste
yu mean when picasso
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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.
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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.
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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.