This morning I tumbled outta bed and stumbled to the kitchen, poured myself a cup of ambition, and opened up iTunes. The very first song that came on was by the Barenaked Ladies. Man oh man do I ever heart them!! I threw on the whole album and proceeded to dance my way through the dishes, sweeping the floor (because, Ant, that shit doesn't clean itself), drinking a zillion cups of coffee, my shower, and the rest of my morning routine.
Hearing the BNL tunes totally reminded me of the time we (we = me, Sal, Kristy, and T-Ray) took a roadtrip from Allentown to Boston to see them play live. You can consult a map if you don't believe me, but Atown and Boston aren't exactly close to each other! We listened to BNL the whole way. Then we had a freaking blast at the concert. Then we climbed back into my dearest friend Sal's trusty Suburban and he put on BNL again. I made it about halfway through Connecticut before I sent a text to my buddy T-Ray, who was half asleep in the back seat: "If I hear one more BNL song somebody is gonna DIE!!!!" Luckily, he came to my rescue and piped up, "Hey! Why don't we listen to something else for awhile?"
But anyway. I haven't thought about Sal too much lately, so it was nice to have him pop back into my thoughts. In his honor, and because I like adding a little culture to all your lives, here's a poem he sent me a while back.
your little voice...
your little voice
Over the wires came leaping
and i felt suddenly
dizzy
With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers
wee skipping high-heeled flames
courtesied before my eyes
or twinkling over to my side
Looked up
with impertinently exquisite faces
floating hands were laid upon me
I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing
up
Up
with the pale important
stars and the Humorous
moon
dear girl
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard
over time
and tide and death
leaping
Sweetly
your voice
ee cummings
So...where were we? Oh yeah...I was dancing my way through the morning. I continued shaking my ass through the subway and out onto the streets of Hwarangdae, heading off to mold and shape the young minds of the future. It was a perfect day. Sunshine and flowers lined the path of the park I walk through, I was wearing my favorite sneakers, I had awesome music and happy memories of great friends floating through my brain, I was having the most perfect day and was totally in love with the world. I can't be sure, but I might have been glowing with happiness.
And then I got clotheslined by a tree.
As in knocked over backwards, ripped the headphones from my ears, left me completely reeling clotheslined by a tree.
HEY UNIVERSE, WHAT THE HECK'S UP WITH THAT?!?!?!?
Dude. Total buzz kill.
So I regained my balance, brushed myself off, and staggered the remaining 200 yards or so to school. My very first conversation of the day went something like this:
Students: TEEEEAAAACHEEERRR!!!! HAIR AND...LEAVES...AND...WHY????
Me: Uh....Why are there leaves in my hair?
Students: Yes!!! WHY?!?!?
What could I say??? I suspect my kids are already catching onto the fact that I'm a total moron. I couldn't tell them I got attacked by a tree on my way to school - that would totally confirm their suspicions.
Me: Oh, in America, it's a really popular style. Everybody does it. You didn't know that?!?
And just to prove it, I quickly googled some weird couture fashion stuff with anorexic girls on runways dressed like trees and vines and crap. They totally bought it. SUCKERS!!!
Students: Ooohhhh...Teacher! Beautiful!!!
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Your poem for today:
The Prison Cell
It is possible...
It is possible at least sometimes...
It is possible especially now
To ride a horse
Inside a prison cell
And run away...
It is possible for prison walls
To disappear,
For the cell to become a distant land
Without frontiers:
What did you do with the walls?
I gave them back to the rocks.
And what did you do with the ceiling?
I turned it into a saddle.
And your chain?
I turned it into a pencil.
The prison guard got angry.
He put an end to the dialogue.
He said he didn't care for poetry,
And bolted the door of my cell.
He came back to see me
In the morning.
He shouted at me:
Where did all this water come from?
I brought it from the Nile.
And the trees?
From the orchards of Damascus.
And the music?
From my heartbeat.
The prison guard got mad.
He put an end to my dialogue.
He said he didn't like my poetry,
And bolted the door of my cell.
But he returned in the evening:
Where did this moon come from?
From the nights of Baghdad.
And the wine?
From the vineyards of Algiers.
And this freedom?
From the chain you tied me with last night.
The prison guard grew so sad...
He begged me to give him back
His freedom.
— Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)
Translated by Ben Bennani
The Prison Cell
It is possible...
It is possible at least sometimes...
It is possible especially now
To ride a horse
Inside a prison cell
And run away...
It is possible for prison walls
To disappear,
For the cell to become a distant land
Without frontiers:
What did you do with the walls?
I gave them back to the rocks.
And what did you do with the ceiling?
I turned it into a saddle.
And your chain?
I turned it into a pencil.
The prison guard got angry.
He put an end to the dialogue.
He said he didn't care for poetry,
And bolted the door of my cell.
He came back to see me
In the morning.
He shouted at me:
Where did all this water come from?
I brought it from the Nile.
And the trees?
From the orchards of Damascus.
And the music?
From my heartbeat.
The prison guard got mad.
He put an end to my dialogue.
He said he didn't like my poetry,
And bolted the door of my cell.
But he returned in the evening:
Where did this moon come from?
From the nights of Baghdad.
And the wine?
From the vineyards of Algiers.
And this freedom?
From the chain you tied me with last night.
The prison guard grew so sad...
He begged me to give him back
His freedom.
— Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)
Translated by Ben Bennani
They could have given Elizabeth Alexander a bit more practice in public speaking, but still the words are beautiful and appropriate and speak to us all. After that awesome speech, can't you just see us "repairing the things in need of repair" together? Happy re-birth, America. I can't wait to see where we are in 8 years!
Praise song for the day.
Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."
We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."
We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."
Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.
What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.
Those are some fucking amazing words. I love poetry.
Praise song for the day.
Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."
We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."
We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."
Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.
What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.
Those are some fucking amazing words. I love poetry.
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