O’er all my song the image of a face
Lieth, like shadow on the wild sweet flowers.
The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers;
The golden lyre’s delights bring little grace
To bless the singer of a lowly race.
Long hath this mocked me: aye in marvelous hours,
When Hera’s gardens gleamed, or Cynthia’s bowers,
Or Hope’s red pylons, in their far, hushed place!
But I shall dig me deeper to the gold;
Fetch water, dripping, over desert miles.
From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles
Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold.
So shall men know me, and remember long,
Nor my dark face dishonor any song.
From The Book of American Negro Poetry (Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1922), edited by James Weldon Johnson. This poem is in the public domain.
translated from the Spanish by Ursula K. Le Guin
Life of my life, what you loved I sing.
If you're near, if you’re listening,
remembering earth, in the evening,
my life, my shadow, hear me sing.
Life of my life, I can’t be still.
What is a story we never tell?
How can you find me unless I call?
Life of my life, I haven’t changed,
not turned aside and not estranged.
Come to me as the shadows grow long,
come, life of my life, if you know the song
you used to know, if you know my name.
I and the song are still the same.
Beyond time or place I keep the faith.
Follow a path or follow no path,
don’t fear the night or the rainy wind.
call me to come to you, now at the end,
and come to me, soul of my soul, my friend.
Canto Que Amabas
Yo canto lo que tú amabas, vida mía,
por si te acercas y escuchas, vida mía,
por si te acuerdas del mundo que viviste,
al atardecer yo canto, sombra mía.
Yo no quiero enmudecer, vida mía.
¿Cómo sin mi grito fiel me hallarías?
¿Cuál señal, cuál me declara, vida mía?
Soy la misma que fue tuya, vida mía.
Ni lenta ni trascordada ni perdida.
Acude al anochecer, vida mía;
ven recordando un canto, vida mía,
si la canción reconoces de aprendida
y si mi nombre recuerdas todavía.
Te espero sin plazo ni tiempo.
No temas noche, neblina ni aguacero.
Acude con sendero o sin sendero.
Llámame a donde tú eres, alma mía,
0201y marcha recto hacia mí, compañero.
From Selected Poems of Gabriela Mistral: Translated by Ursula K. Le Guin. Copyright © 2003 Ursula K. Le Guin. Courtesy of University of New Mexico Press.
I am the river of Spavinaw,
I am the river of pain;
Sadness and gladness must answer my law;
Measure for measure I give, and withdraw
Back through the hills of the Spavinaw,
Hiding away from the plain.
I am the river of Spavinaw;
I sing the songs of the world;
Dashing and whirling, swishing and swirling,
Delicate, mystical, silvery spray hurling,
Sing I the songs of the world,
The passionate songs of the world.
I sing of laughter and mirth,
And I laugh in a gurgle of glee
As the myriad joys of the earth
Trip through the light with me.
Gay shallows dimple, sparkle and ripple.
Like songs that a lover would sing,
Skipping in moonlight,
Tripping in moonlight,
Whispering echoes of spring.
And again
I move with the slow sadness of pain.
In my dark blue deep, where the shadows creep,
I catch up life’s sorrows and mirror them back again.
And my song is a throbbing, pitiful sobbing,
Choked by an agonized pain.
And then
I move forth toward the beckoning north,
And I sing of the power of men.
As I dash down my falls,
As I beat at my walls
Frantically fighting, running and righting,
All through the flood, through the snarling and biting,
I sing of the power of men,
Of the hurry and power of men.
I am the river of Spavinaw,
I am the giver of pain;
Sadness and gladness must answer my law;
Measure for measure I give, and withdraw
Back through the hills of the Spavinaw,
Hiding away from the plain.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on December 15, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.
What makes
a voice
distinct?
What special
quality
makes it
indelible?
Yours is plaintive,
as any singer
of torch songs
must be,
yet endowed
with confidence,
and fully
in command.
Deep and
resonant,
a bit husky
if you like.
A voice that rises—
or skyrockets,
rather—from
a wellspring
of pure emotion.
Manically
infatuated
in “I Only
Want to Be
with You.”
Desperate to
keep your
lover from
leaving in
“Stay Awhile.”
Despondent
in “I Just
Don’t Know
What to Do
with Myself”
and “You Don’t
Have to Say
You Love Me.”
All cried out
in “All Cried
Out.” But then
amazingly
on the rebound
in “Brand New Me.”
I hear your
voice, Dusty,
and I am
instantly
whisked
back in time,
not quite
a teenager
all over
again,
full of longing
and confusion,
listening
to your
latest hit
on my
red plastic
transistor
radio on
a mid-sixties
Los Angeles
suburban
summer
afternoon.
Twice in
my life, I
found myself
in the same
room as you.
Can one fathom
anything more
miraculous?
The first
time was
in 1983, late
November,
in the basement
of a church
in Los Feliz,
around the
corner from
where I lived.
Sober only
a few weeks,
I watched
you approach
the podium,
but didn’t
realize who
you were
until you
identified
yourself as
“Dusty S.”
For the next
twenty minutes,
you told us
the story
of your
drinking.
How early in
your career,
backstage
before a
performance,
one of the
Four Tops
handed you
your first
drink, vodka.
How smoothly
it went down
and loosened
you up,
lit you from
within,
gave you
enough
courage
to go out on
stage, into that
blinding spot,
and sing like
no one else.
The alcohol
eventually
stopped working—
it always does,
that brand
of magic
is transient—
and here you
were, two
decades
later, sober
and clean
and still singing,
so to speak,
before a live
audience.
In my youth,
your words
had come over
the radio
and stirred
feelings
of heartbreak
and infatuation.
Now they
inspired me
to keep
coming back.
The second
time, 1987,
four years
sober, at a more
upscale meeting
at Cedars-Sinai
in West Hollywood,
I sat directly
behind you.
It was hard
to breathe
being in such
close proximity.
I didn’t hear
a word the
speaker said.
During his
drunkalog,
I slowly,
surreptitiously,
moved the
toe of my
white high-top
until it touched
the back of
your folding chair.
Then said a
little prayer.
I hoped
(should I be
embarrassed
admitting this?)
that some
of your
stardust
might travel
down the
metal leg
of your chair,
like a lightning
rod, and be
passed on
to me.
It’s after
midnight
again, Dusty,
half a century
since, on
a suburban
lawn or alone
in my room,
I suffered
through hits
by Paul Revere
& the Raiders
and Herman’s
Hermits,
just to
experience
two or
three minutes
of your
sultry voice.
I’m on
YouTube
again, watching
the black-and-white
video of you
singing “I
Only Want
to Be
with You.”
Your 1964
appearance
on some teen
variety show.
I’ve viewed
it innumerable
times, but
it’s always
exciting to see
you dance
out of the
darkness into
the round
spotlight,
exuberant
as the song’s
intro, arms
outspread,
in a chiffon
cocktail
dress and
high heels,
your platinum
hair, sprayed
perfectly
in place,
as bright
and shiny
as the moon.
Midway
through the
song—the
instrumental
bridge—you
turn and
sashay around
the edge of
the spotlight,
the ruffled
hem of your
chiffon dress
twisting with
your hips
and intricate
footwork.
Circle circling
circle: your
full backlit
hair orbiting
the pool of
white light
in the center
of the stage.
I watch this
again and again,
like Bashō’s moon
walking around
the pond
all night long.
Copyright © 2018 by David Trinidad. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 13, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.