Do you like poetry?

April is National Poetry Month. There are all sorts of activities for the month at Poets.org.

I'm not a big poetry person, I have to be in the mood for it, and even then I much prefer to see the poem "performed" rather than read it.

However, in honor of Poetry Month, I thought I'd post one of my favorite poems "Mother to Son" by Langston Hughes. I read this when I was in about 4th or 5th grade and I think this, later reinforced by the original airing of "Roots" , is what taught me about the reality of racism.

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor --

Bare.

But all the time

I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark

Where there ain't been no light.

So boy, don't you turn back.

Don't you set down on the steps

'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.

Don't you fall now --

For I'se still goin', honey,

I'se still climbin',

And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

What's your favorite poem? If you post it to your Blog to commemorate National Poetry Month, please let me know in my comments.

Toni Morrison and Barack Obama

I just found Toni Morrison's Letter to Barack Obama that was published in The New York Observer on January 28. I had of course, heard that Morrison had endorsed Obama, but I hadn't read the letter. Phenomenal! Here's part of it:

In thinking carefully about the strengths of the candidates, I stunned myself
when I came to the following conclusion: that in addition to keen intelligence,
integrity and a rare authenticity, you exhibit something that has nothing to do
with age, experience, race or gender and something I don't see in other
candidates. That something is a creative imagination which coupled with
brilliance equals wisdom. It is too bad if we associate it only with gray hair
and old age. Or if we call searing vision naivete. Or if we believe cunning is
insight. Or if we settle for finessing cures tailored for each ravaged tree in
the forest while ignoring the poisonous landscape that feeds and surrounds it.
Wisdom is a gift; you can't train for it, inherit it, learn it in a class, or
earn it in the workplace--that access can foster the acquisition of knowledge,
but not wisdom.

Speaking of phenomenal women, I found Morrison's letter on Seamless Skin, a beautiful Blog by one of my favorite *cyber-friends* who in cyberspace goes by the name Karoda. Karoda is a wise, funny, caring soul whose colors she shares via her art, mostly quilts and fabric postcards. We've been *friends who've never met* for years now, and she remains someone whose voice I respect and enjoy.

"Cultivo una Rosa Blanca" by José Martí

For today's Language Week entry, I'm posting a poem by José Martí , a Cuban patriot, poet and statesman. While it's definitely not my favorite poem in Spanish, or even my favorite Cuban poem, it is a poem every Cuban child and practically every Cuban-American child raised in Miami memorized at some point during their childhood. I have no retention at all for poetry, yet this poem is ingrained deep in my cerebral cortex.

My translation of the poem, of course, doesn't do justice to rhythm and meter, but hopefully conveys the spiriti of forgiveness and generosity of spirit.

"Cultivo Una Rosa Blanca" - José Martí

Cultivo una rosa blanca,

en julio como en enero,

para el amigo sincero

que me da su mano franca.

Y para el cruel que me arranca

el corazón con que vivo,

cardo ni oruga cultivo:

cultivo la rosa blanca.

********************************

TRANSLATION:

I nurture a white rose

in July as in January,

for the true friend

who offers me his loyal hand.

And for the merciless one who wrenches out

the heart by which I live,

thistle nor thorn do I nurture:

for him, I nurture a white rose.

10 Year Anniversary of Allen Ginsberg's Death

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull...
excerpt of "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg

The 10th anniversary of Ginsberg's death was actually Thursday, April 5th. I completely missed it. I only realized it when I read Poppy Mom. If you want to read about my *Allen Ginsberg moment*, check out my comment in Poppy's Ginsberg post.

Or forget about me and just check out her blog - it's great!