Ballad of the Landlord - Weebly



A Poetic Anthology

Haikus are easy

But sometimes they don’t make sense

Refrigerator

Selected by

K. Garbe

English

[pic]

Table of Contents

3. “Ballad of the Landlord” Langston Hughes

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

5. “Lineage” Margaret Walker

6. “Forgiving My Father” Justin Morris

7. “Love’s Gonna Get Us (Material Love)” Damon Turner

8. “What the Mirror Said” Lucille Clifton

9. “The Road Not Taken” Robert Frost

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

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

12. “The Cities Inside Us” Alberto Rios

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

14. “Bilingual/Bilingüe” Rhina Espaillat

15. “Those Winter Sundays” Robert Hayden

16. “To the Ladies” Lady Mary Chudleigh

17. “Why I Hate Raisins” Natalie Diaz

18. “Ode to My Socks” Pablo Neruda

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

20. “Litany” Billy Collins

21. “For a Girl Becoming” Joy Harjo

“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

“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 vial

will 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 has

a lot of time. Death can

attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is

just 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 Cool

BY 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.

Margaret Walker

Lineage

My grandmothers were strong.

They followed plows and bent to toil.

They moved through fields sowing seed.

They touched earth and grain grew.

They were full of sturdiness and singing.

My grandmothers were strong.

My grandmothers are full of memories

Smelling of soap and onions and wet clay

With veins rolling roughly over quick hands

They have many clean words to say.

My grandmothers were strong.

Why am I not as they?

“Forgiving My Father”

by Justin Morris

I’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 fire

that your face might be able to extinguish.

I’d like to forgive you father, but my last name isn’t

the same as yours

like it’s supposed to be.

You rejected me, dad,

but can I sympathize for you ignorance?

for all the birthdays

you 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 that

I hate you.

“Love’s Gonna Get Us (Material Love)”

by Damon Turner

Hey, Mr. Smooth! Mr. Ladies’ Man!

Yeah, I’m talking to you, Man;

I see those threads you have on.

Yeah, I see the Reebok Pumps,

Avia sweats, and Nike cross trainers

you wearin’,

And you’re not even an athlete,

Brothaman.

I know what these David Robinson,

Michael Jordon, Bo Jackson commercials

Do for you.

Now you seem to think

That you can go out

There and do it all.

What do they tell you?

Oh, yeah,

They tell you to ‘Just Do It.’

That is, just do it wearing your Nike,

Your Reebok, your Adidas,

and your Converse.

Who are you trying to be

Wearing that Mars Blackmon/Michael

Jordon t-shirt?

Do you think wearing that shirt

Allows you to defy the forces

of gravity as we know it?

Hell no! I don’t think so.

What Nike, Reebok, Adidas,

Avia and Converse

Don’t care about is you.

What they ‘care’ about

Is yo’ money, yo’ money,

and mo’ of yo’ money.

Next tiem you wear your athletic attire

Endorsed by those million dollar brothers,

Think about the economic dividends

Taken out of your community

And placed into their greedy little hands.

Yeah, when you jump another brother

For his NFL or NBA endorsed starter,

Think about what good it does for your people.

Yeah, brothaman. Mr. Nike, Mr. Adidas

Mr. Reebok pump you up.

Just think about it.

“what the mirror said”

listen,

you a wonder.

you a city

of a woman.

you got a geography

of your own.

listen,

somebody need a map

to understand you.

somebody need directions

to move around you.

listen,

woman,

you not a noplace

anonymous

girl;

mister with his hands on you

he got his hands on

some

damn

body!

- Lucille Clifton

“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.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

BY 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.

I Hear America Singing

BY 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 Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

The Cities Inside Us – Alberto Rios

We live in secret cities

And we travel unmapped roads.

We speak words between us that we recognize

But which cannot be looked up.

They are our words.

They come from very far inside our mouths.

You and I, we are the secret citizens of the city

Inside us, and inside us

There go all the cars we have driven

And seen, there are all the people

We know and have known, there

Are all the places that are

But which used to be as well. This is where

They went. They did not disappear.

We each take a piece

Through the eye and through the ear.

It's loud inside us, in there, and when we speak

In the outside world

We have to hope that some of that sound

Does not come out, that an arm

Not reach out

In place of the tongue

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 Desert

BY 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 brand

Your breath into my mouth. You reach—then bend

Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

You wrap your name tight around my ribs

And keep me warm. I was born for you.

Above, below, by you, by you surrounded.

I wake to you at dawn. Never break your

Knot. Reach, rise, blow, Sálvame, mi dios,

Trágame, mi tierra. Salva, traga, Break me,

I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst.

Bilingual/Bilingüe

BY 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) from

any 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 run

where 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 fear

of words he loved but wanted not to hear.

Those Winter Sunday by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early

And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked 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 cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

Deliberate

By Amy Uyematsu

So by sixteen we move in packs

learn to strut and slide

in deliberate lowdown rhythm

talk in a syn/co/pa/ted beat

because we want so bad

to be cool, never to be mistaken

for white, even when we leave

these rowdier L.A. streets—

remember how we paint our eyes

like gangsters

flash our legs in nylons

sassy black high heels

or two inch zippered boots

stack them by the door at night

next to Daddy’s muddy gardening shoes

To the Ladies

BY LADY MARY CHUDLEIGH

Wife and servant are the same,

But only differ in the name:

For when that fatal knot is tied,

Which nothing, nothing can divide:

When she the word obey has said,

And man by law supreme has made,

Then all that’s kind is laid aside,

And nothing left but state and pride:

Fierce as an Eastern prince he grows,

And all his innate rigour shows:

Then but to look, to laugh, or speak,

Will the nuptial contract break.

Like mutes she signs alone must make,

And never any freedom take:

But still be governed by a nod,

And fear her husband as a God:

Him still must serve, him still obey,

And nothing act, and nothing say,

But what her haughty lord thinks fit,

Who with the power, has all the wit.

Then shun, oh! shun that wretched state,

And all the fawning flatt’rers hate:

Value your selves, and men despise,

You must be proud, if you’ll be wise.

Why I Hate Raisins by Natalie Diaz

 

And is it only the mouth and belly which are

injured by hunger and thirst?

-Mencius

 

Love is a pound of sticky raisins

packed tight in black and white

government boxes the day we had no

groceries. 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. Ate

too many too fast. It wasn’t long

before those old grapes set like black

clay at the bottom of my belly

making 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 me

holding my mouth and stomach—

devoured by shame.

I still hate raisins,

but not for the crooked commodity lines

we stood in to get them—winding

around and in the tribal gymnasium.

Not for the awkward cardboard boxes

we carried them home in. Not for the shits

or how they distended my belly.

I hate raisins because now I know

my mom was hungry that day, too,

and I ate all the raisins.

 

Ode to My Socks

Mara Mori brought me

a pair of socks

which she knitted herself

with her sheepherder's hands,

two socks as soft as rabbits.

I slipped my feet into them

as if they were two cases

knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,

Violent socks,

my feet were two fish made of wool,

two long sharks

sea blue, shot through

by one golden thread,

two immense blackbirds,

two cannons,

my feet were honored in this way

by these heavenly socks.

They were so handsome for the first time

my feet seemed to me unacceptable

like two decrepit firemen,

firemen unworthy of that woven fire,

of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation

to save them somewhere as schoolboys

keep fireflies,

as learned men collect

sacred texts,

I resisted the mad impulse to put them

in a golden cage and each day give them

birdseed and pieces of pink melon.

Like explorers in the jungle

who hand over the very rare green deer

to the spit and eat it with remorse,

I stretched out my feet and pulled on

the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:

beauty is twice beauty

and what is good is doubly good

when it is a matter of two socks

made of wool in winter.

Pablo Neruda

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.

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 grass

and 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 close

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the boots in the corner

nor 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 alley

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees

and 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. 

FOR A GIRL BECOMING

for Krista Rae Chico

That day your spirit came to us rains came in from the Pacific to bless

They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants

Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist

Your 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 them

To 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 mother

Even 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.

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 assistance

to 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 us

When rains came in from the Pacific to bless

They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants

Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist

Your 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

................
................

In order to avoid copyright disputes, this page is only a partial summary.

Google Online Preview   Download