Ballad of the Landlord - MR. GARBE'S LANGUAGE ARTSgarbe.weebly.com/uploads/6/1/3/0/61303627/1_poetry_as…  · Web viewI Am Offering this Poem” Jimmy Santiago Baca “Legal Alien”

A Poetic Anthology

Haikus are easyBut sometimes they don’t make sense

Refrigerator

Selected byK. GarbeEnglish

January, 2017

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Table of Contents

3. “Ballad of the Landlord” Langston Hughes

4. “To the Young Who Want to Die”, “We Real Cool” Gwendolyn Brooks

5. “Same Song” Pat Mora

6. “Forgiving My Father” Justin Morris

7. “The Road Not Taken” Robert Frost

8. “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” Robert Frost

9. “I America Singing” W. Whitman and “‘Hope’ is a thing with feathers” E.

Dickinson

10. “To the Desert” B.A. Saenz and “This is Just to Say” W.C. Williams

11. “Bilingual/Bilingüe” Rhina Espaillat

12. “Those Winter Sundays” Robert Hayden and “Deliberate” by Amy Uyematsu

13. “Why I Hate Raisins” Natalie Diaz

14. “Ode to My Socks” Pablo Neruda

15. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” William Shakespeare

16. “Litany” Billy Collins

17. “Today” Billy Collins

18. “I Am Offering this Poem” Jimmy Santiago Baca

19. “Legal Alien” Pat Mora

20. “For a Girl Becoming” Joy Harjo

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“Ballad of the Landlord”

by Langston Hughes

Landlord, landlord,

My roof has sprung a leak.

Don't you 'member I told you about it

Way last week?

Landlord, landlord,

These steps is broken down.

When you come up yourself

It's a wonder you don't fall down.

Ten Bucks you say I owe you?

Ten Bucks you say is due?

Well, that's Ten Bucks more'n I'll pay you

Till you fix this house up new.

What? You gonna get eviction orders?

You gonna cut off my heat?

You gonna take my furniture and

Throw it in the street?

Um-huh! You talking high and mighty.

Talk on-till you get through.

You ain't gonn a be able to say a word

If I land my fist on you.

Police! Police!

Come and get this man!

He's trying to ruin the government

And overturn the land!

Copper's whistle!

Patrol bell!

Arrest.

Precinct Station.

Iron cell.

Headlines in press:

MAN THREATENS LANDLORD

TENANT HELD NO BAIL

JUDGE GIVES NEGRO 90 DAYS IN COUNTY JAIL

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“To the Young Who Want to Die” by Gwendolyn   Brooks

Sit down. Inhale. Exhale.The gun will wait. The lake will wait.The tall gall in the small seductive vialwill wait will wait:will wait a week: will wait through April.You do not have to die this certain day.Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.I assure you death will wait. Death hasa lot of time. Death canattend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death isjust down the street; is most obliging neighbor;can meet you any moment.You need not die today.Stay here — through pout or pain or peskyness.Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow.

Graves grow no green that you can use.Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

We Real CoolBY GWENDOLYN BROOKS

                        The Pool Players.         Seven at the Golden Shovel.

            We real cool. We               Left school. We

            Lurk late. We            Strike straight. We

            Sing sin. We               Thin gin. We

            Jazz June. We               Die soon.

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Same Song by Pat Mora

While my sixteen-year-old son sleeps,my twelve-year-old daughterstumbles into the bathroom at six a.m.plugs in the curling ironsqueezes into faded jeanscurls her hair carefullystrokes Aztec Blue shadow on her eyelidssmooth’s Frosted Mauve blusher on her cheeksoutlines her mouth in Neon pinkpeers into the mirror, mirror on the wallfrowns at her face, her eyes, her skin,not fair.

At night this daughter stumbles off to bed at nineeyes half-shut while my sonjogs a mile in the cold darkthen lifts weights in the garagecurls and bench pressesexpanding biceps, triceps pectorals,one-handed push-s, one hundred sit-upspeers into the mirror, mirror and frowns too.

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“Forgiving My Father” by Justin MorrisI’d like to forgive you father, but I don’t know your heart. Your face,is it a mirror image of mine?I’d like to forgive you father,but I find your absence a firethat your face might be able to extinguish.I’d like to forgive you father, but my last name isn’t the same as yourslike it’s supposed to be.You rejected me, dad,but can I sympathize for you ignorance? for all the birthdaysyou didn’t send me a card,for the Christmases when I’d wake up,and you weren’t sitting by the tree waiting for me.What about summer nights where prospects of you began to fade?Fade like you did seventeen years ago.Out of my life. I’d like to forgive you father, but I don’t know you. And for thatI hate you.

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“The Road Not Taken”

BY ROBERT FROST

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningBY ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.   His house is in the village though;   He will not see me stopping here   To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   To stop without a farmhouse near   Between the woods and frozen lake   The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   To ask if there is some mistake.   The only other sound’s the sweep   Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   But I have promises to keep,   And miles to go before I sleep,   And miles to go before I sleep.

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I Hear America SingingBY WALT WHITMAN

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and

strong,The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand

singing on the steamboat deck,The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he

stands,The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or

at noon intermission or at sundown,The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of

the girl sewing or washing,Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,

robust, friendly,Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)BY EMILY DICKINSON

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -That perches in the soul -And sings the tune without the words -And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -And sore must be the storm -That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -And on the strangest Sea -Yet - never - in Extremity,

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It asked a crumb - of me.

THIS IS JUST TO SAY

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold.

William Carlos Williams

To the DesertBY BENJAMIN ALIRE SÁENZ

I came to you one rainless August night.You taught me how to live without the rain.You are thirst and thirst is all I know.You are sand, wind, sun, and burning sky,The hottest blue. You blow a breeze and brandYour breath into my mouth. You reach—then bendYour force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.You wrap your name tight around my ribsAnd keep me warm. I was born for you.Above, below, by you, by you surrounded.I wake to you at dawn. Never break yourKnot. Reach, rise, blow, Sálvame, mi dios,Trágame, mi tierra. Salva, traga, Break me,I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst.

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Bilingual/BilingüeBY RHINA P. ESPAILLAT

My father liked them separate, one there,one here (allá y aquí), as if aware

that words might cut in two his daughter’s heart(el corazón) and lock the alien part

to what he was—his memory, his name(su nombre)—with a key he could not claim.

“English outside this door, Spanish inside,”he said, “y basta.” But who can divide

the world, the word (mundo y palabra) fromany child? I knew how to be dumb

and stubborn (testaruda); late, in bed,I hoarded secret syllables I read

until my tongue (mi lengua) learned to runwhere his stumbled. And still the heart was one.

I like to think he knew that, even when,proud (orgulloso) of his daughter’s pen,

he stood outside mis versos, half in fearof words he loved but wanted not to hear.

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Those Winter Sunday by Robert HaydenSundays too my father got up earlyAnd put his clothes on in the blueback cold,then with cracked hands that achedfrom labor in the weekday weather madebanked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.When the rooms were warm, he'd call,and slowly I would rise and dress,fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,who had driven out the coldand polished my good shoes as well.What did I know, what did I knowof love's austere and lonely offices?

Deliberate by Amy UyematsuSo by sixteen we move in packslearn to strut and slidein deliberate lowdown rhythmtalk in a syn/co/pa/ted beatbecause we want so badto be cool, never to be mistakenfor white, even when we leavethese rowdier L.A. streets—remember how we paint our eyeslike gangstersflash our legs in nylonssassy black high heelsor two inch zippered bootsstack them by the door at nightnext to Daddy’s muddy gardening shoes

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Why I Hate Raisins by Natalie Diaz And is it only the mouth and belly which areinjured by hunger and thirst?-Mencius Love is a pound of sticky raisinspacked tight in black and whitegovernment boxes the day we had nogroceries. I told my mom I was hungry.She gave me the whole bright box.USDA stamped like a fist on the side.I ate them all in ten minutes. Atetoo many too fast. It wasn’t longbefore those old grapes set like blackclay at the bottom of my bellymaking it ache and swell. I complained, I hate raisins.I just wanted a sandwich like other kids.Well that’s all we’ve got, my mom sighed.And what other kids?Everoyone but me, I told her.She said, You mean the white kids.You want to be a white kid?Well too bad ’cause you’re my kid.I cried, At least the white kids get a sandwich.At least the white kids don’t get the shits. That’s when she slapped me. Left meholding my mouth and stomach—devoured by shame.I still hate raisins,but not for the crooked commodity lineswe stood in to get them—windingaround and in the tribal gymnasium.Not for the awkward cardboard boxeswe carried them home in. Not for the shitsor how they distended my belly.I hate raisins because now I knowmy mom was hungry that day, too,and I ate all the raisins. 

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Ode to My SocksMara Mori brought mea pair of sockswhich she knitted herselfwith her sheepherder's hands,two socks as soft as rabbits.I slipped my feet into themas if they were two casesknitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,Violent socks,my feet were two fish made of wool,two long sharkssea blue, shot throughby one golden thread,two immense blackbirds,two cannons,my feet were honored in this wayby these heavenly socks.They were so handsome for the first timemy feet seemed to me unacceptablelike two decrepit firemen,firemen unworthy of that woven fire,of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptationto save them somewhere as schoolboyskeep fireflies,as learned men collectsacred texts,I resisted the mad impulse to put themin a golden cage and each day give thembirdseed and pieces of pink melon.Like explorers in the junglewho hand over the very rare green deerto the spit and eat it with remorse,I stretched out my feet and pulled onthe magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:beauty is twice beautyand what is good is doubly goodwhen it is a matter of two socksmade of wool in winter. Pablo Neruda

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Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

By William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

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Litany by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,The crystal goblet and the wine...-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,the crystal goblet and the wine.You are the dew on the morning grassand the burning wheel of the sun.You are the white apron of the baker,and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,the plums on the counter,or the house of cards.And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,but you are not even closeto being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will showthat you are neither the boots in the cornernor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,the evening paper blowing down an alleyand the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the treesand the blind woman's tea cup.But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.You are still the bread and the knife.You will always be the bread and the knife,not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine. 

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Today BY BILLY COLLINS

If ever there were a spring day so perfect, so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze 

that it made you want to throw open all the windows in the house 

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage, indeed, rip the little door from its jamb, 

a day when the cool brick paths and the garden bursting with peonies 

seemed so etched in sunlight that you felt like taking 

a hammer to the glass paperweight on the living room end table, 

releasing the inhabitants from their snow-covered cottage 

so they could walk out, holding hands and squinting 

into this larger dome of blue and white, well, today is just that kind of day.

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I Am Offering this Poem BY JIMMY SANTIAGO BACAI am offering this poem to you,since I have nothing else to give.Keep it like a warm coatwhen winter comes to cover you,or like a pair of thick socksthe cold cannot bite through,

                         I love you,

I have nothing else to give you,so it is a pot full of yellow cornto warm your belly in winter,it is a scarf for your head, to wearover your hair, to tie up around your face,

                         I love you,

Keep it, treasure this as you wouldif you were lost, needing direction,in the wilderness life becomes when mature;and in the corner of your drawer,tucked away like a cabin or hoganin dense trees, come knocking,and I will answer, give you directions,and let you warm yourself by this fire,rest by this fire, and make you feel safe

                         I love you,

It’s all I have to give,and all anyone needs to live,and to go on living inside,when the world outsideno longer cares if you live or die;remember,

                         I love you.

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Legal Alienby Pat Mora

Bi-lingual, Bi-cultural,able to slip from “How’s life?”to “Me’stan volviendo loca,”able to sit in a paneled officedrafting memos in smooth English,able to order in fluent Spanishat a Mexican restaurant,American but hyphenated,viewed by Anglos as perhaps exotic,perhaps inferior, definitely different,viewed by Mexicans as alien,(their eyes say, “You may speakSpanish but you’re not like me”)an American to Mexicansa Mexican to Americansa handy tokensliding back and forthbetween the fringes of both worldsby smilingby masking the discomfortof being pre-judgedBi-laterally.From Chants by Pat Mora, Arte Publico Press© 1985 Pat Mora, republished with permission of Arte Publico Press

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FOR A GIRL BECOMING

for Krista Rae Chico

That day your spirit came to us rains came in from the Pacific to blessThey peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants Who danced back and forth in shawls of mistYour mother labored there, so young in earthly years And your father, and all of us who loved you gathered, where Pollen blew throughout that desert house to bless With the fragrant knowledge of your pending arrival here.And horses were running the land, hundreds of themTo accompany you here, to bless.

Girl, I wonder what you thought as you paused there in your spirit house Before you entered into the breathing world to be with us?Were you lonely for us, too?Our relatives in that beloved place dressed you in black hair, Brown eyes, skin the color of earth, and turned you in this direction.We want you to know that we urgently gathered to welcome you here; we came Bearing gifts to celebrate:From your mother’s house we brought: poetry, music, medicine makers, stubbornness, beauty, tribal leaders, a yard filled with junked cars and the gift of knowing how to make them run. We carried tobacco and cedar, new clothes and joy for you.And from your father’s house came educators, thinkers, dreamers, weavers and mathematical genius. They carried a cradleboard, hope, white shell and turquoise for you.We brought blankets to wrap you in, soft beaded moccasins of deerskin.

Did you hear us as you traveled from your rainbow house? We called you with thunder, with singing.Did you see us as we gathered in the town beneath the mountains?We were dressed in concern and happiness.We were overwhelmed, as you moved through the weft of your motherEven before you took your first breath, your eyes blinked wide open.

Now, breathe. And when you breathe remember the source of the gift of all breathing.When you walk, remember the source of the gift of all walking.And when you run, remember the source of the gift of all running.And when you laugh, remember the source of the gift of all laughter.And when you cry, remember the source of the gift of all crying.And when you think, remember the source of the gift of all thinking.And when your heart is broken, remember the source of the gift of all breaking.And when your heart is put back together, remember the source of all putting back together.

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Don’t forget how you started your journey from that rainbow house, How you traveled and will travel through the mountains and valleys of human tests. There are treacherous places along the way, but you can come to us.There are lakes of tears shimmering sadly there, but you can come to us.And valleys without horses or kindnesses, but you can come to us. And angry, jealous gods and wayward humans who will hurt you, but you can come to us.You will fall, but you will get back up again, because you are one of us.

And as you travel with us remember this:

Give a drink of water to all who ask, whether they be plant, creature, human or spirit; May you always have clean, fresh water.

Feed your neighbors. Give kind words and assistanceto all you meet along the way--We are all related in this place--May you be surrounded with the helpfulness of family and good friends.

Grieve with the grieving, share joy with the joyful. May you build a strong path with beautiful and truthful language.

Clean your room. May you always have a home: a refuge from storm, a gathering place for comfort.

Bury what needs to be buried. Uncover the dreams of truthful warriors.

Do not harbor hurt. Laugh easily at yourself; grow kindness with others.May you always travel lightly and well.

Praise and give thanks for each small and large thing. Review each act and thought.May you grow in knowledge, in compassion, in beauty.

Always within you is that day your spirit came to usWhen rains came in from the Pacific to blessThey peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants Who danced back and forth in shawls of mistYour mother labored there, so young in earthly years.

And we who love you gather here, Pollen blows throughout this desert house to bless With the fragrant knowledge of your appearance here.And horses run the land, hundreds of them for you, And you are here to bless.

c Joy Harjo 2005