March 21st. World Poetry Day. So write a poem, read a poem, recite a poem, talk about a poem, give a poem. Poetry can say so much, it can inspire, comfort, ridicule, bring people together, it is a bridge between the song and the conversation, a wonderful means of self expression. It's free.
From the labyrinth of my old distorted mind:
I’m Proud
I’m proud of my people, proud to be one of them,
that great mass on society’s bottom rung.
Those who, with coal-dust under their nails
in their eyes, in their lungs
claw at the earth's entrails.
Their brothers,
cement in their hair
in their mouth, in their ears,
oil ingrained in their fingers,
on their face.
Sisters, glistening with sweat
midst the ceaseless noise of machines
that throw out shirts, shoes, toys, carpets
for other people.
Those with soil and sweat stuck to their skin
smelling of the earth, feeding the multitude,
grinding out their lives in a harsh pitiless system
weighted down
with a sack load of half-dead dreams,
sometimes brought to their knees
by a tidal wave of despair,
never defeated,
groping in the dark to find tomorrow,
keeping hope alive;
they amaze me.
Somehow, from somewhere
in this cold, cruel
unforgiving scheme of things
they find love for their children.
Not a teaspoonful, not a cupful,
but buckets full, to bathe them in,
to pour over them.
They seem to know
that one day this world will be ours
and to take care of it
we will need those who have been loved.
And from a master, a poem I have loved for most of my adult life.
Do not go gentle into that good night
ReplyDelete(translated into Spanish)
No entres dócilmente en esa noche quieta.
No entres dócilmente en esa noche quieta.
La vejez debería delirar y arder cuando se cierra el día;
Rabia, rabia, contra la agonía de la luz.
Aunque los sabios al morir entiendan que la tiniebla es justa, porque sus palabras no ensartaron relámpagos
no entran dócilmente en esa noche quieta.
Los buenos, que tras la última inquietud lloran por ese brillo con que sus actos frágiles pudieron danzar en una bahía verde
rabian, rabian contra la agonía de la luz.
Los locos que atraparon y cantaron al sol en su carrera
y aprenden, ya muy tarde, que llenaron de pena su camino,
no entran dócilmente en esa noche quieta.
Los solemnes, cercanos a la muerte, que ven con mirada deslumbrante cuánto los ojos ciegos pudieron alegrarse y arder como meteoros,
rabian, rabian contra la agonía de la luz.
Y tú padre mío, allá, en tu triste apogeo,
maldice, bendice, que yo ahora imploro con la vehemencia de tus lágrimas.
No entres dócilmente en esa noche quieta.
Rabia, rabia contra la agonía de la luz.
Thank you, good to see it cross borders.
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