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Poem of the week: To Be Happy! !

This is the last week of the semester and here is a poem to help with the stress! Hope you enjoy this!

Listen To The Beat Drops
Hanging In The Tree
Listen To The Beat Drops
Be Careful Of The Bee

Go…Ahead…Climbing Up The Sky
Sweep…The stars…Go Glancing Together

All Is To Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy
Be Happy Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy

Though You Have A Bit Of
Gloominess In Mind
Never Mind Of The
Hard Part Of Life
Oh…Yeah Be Careful Of The Bee
Listen To The Beat Drops
Hanging In The Tree

Go…Ahead…Climbing Up The Sky
Sweep…The Stars…Go Glancing Together
All Is To Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy
Happy Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy

Be In Present
Thinking Of The Future
Never Let Yourself
Broken Down And Cry

Go…Ahead…Climbing Up The Sky
Sweep…The Stars..Go Glancing Together
All Is To Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy
Be Happy Be Happy
All Is To Be Happy

To Be Happy…..Everyday…
To Be Happy……Everyhours…
To Be Happy……FOREVER…

Go..Ahead Climbing Up….

- Ashmiya Thalvan

Source: poemhunter.com

Bilingual Poem of the Week!

Viejas raíces empolvadas
Por Pita Amor

Son mis viejas raíces empolvadas
la extraña clave de mi cautiverio;
atada estoy al polvo y su misterio,
llevo ajenas esencias ignoradas.
En mis poros están ya señaladas
las cicatrices de un eterno imperio;
el polvo en mí ha marcado su cauterio,
soy víctima de culpas olvidadas.
En polvorienta forma me presiento
y a las nuevas raíces sobresalto
he de legar, con mi angustioso aliento.
Mas conquistando el aire por asalto,
nada tengo que ver con lo que siento,
soy cómplice infeliz de algo más alto.

Traducción Inglés/Loose English Translation:
They are my old, dusty roots
The strange code of my captivity;
Tied am I to the dust and its mystery,
I bring strange, unknown essences.
In my pores they are already outlined
The scars of an eternal empire;
The dust has marked its cauterization,
I am a victim of forgotten guilt.
In a dusty form I forsee
And to the new roots I startle
I must bequeath my anguished breath.
Conquering the air by storm,
I have nothing to do with what I feel,
I am an unhappy accomplice to something higher.

About the Author/Sobre La Autór:

Pita Amor
May 30, 1918 — May 8, 2000
“Born in 1918, Amor was the youngest of seven children. Her parents were upper class but lost their land as the result of the revolution and moved to Mexico City, where Pita was born. Amor was exposed to art at an early age through her sister Ines, who ran a gallery in Mexico City.

A striking woman, Amor was for a time an important model for painters such as Diego Rivera, Juan Soriano, Raul Anguiano and Antonio Pelaez.

She did not begin to write poetry until the early 1940s. Although she wrote in such classical forms as the sonnet, the content was unconventional. She also favored the decima, a 10-line poem or stanza.

"Her poetry was metaphysical, at the same time bordering on mystical and heretical," said Schuessler.

"Her work was very popular among intellectuals in Mexico," he added, "but at the same time some of her work—the decimas—were also popular with the working class."
Bio courtesy of Los Angeles Times

Photo and Original poem Courtesy of Amor.com.mx

Spanish-English Translation by Stacey Shaughnessy

Happy Translation Thursday! Check out our Bilingual Poem of the week!

Por Federico García Lorca

El remanso de aire
bajo la rama del eco.

El remanso del agua
bajo fronda de luceros.

El remanso de tu boca
bajo espesura de besos.

Loose English Translation/Traducción Inglés

By Federico García Lorca

The still waters of the air
under the bough of the echo.

The still waters of the water
under a frond of stars.

The still waters of your mouth
under a thicket of kisses.

Original and English Translation retrieved from Poetry Society of America

About the Author/Sobre el autor

"En sus poemas y en sus dramas se revela como agudo observador del habla, de la música y de las costumbres de la sociedad rural española. Una de las peculiaridades de su obra es cómo ese ambiente, descrito con exactitud, llega a convertirse en un espacio imaginario donde se da expresión a todas las inquietudes más profundas del corazón humano: el deseo, el amor y la muerte, el misterio de la identidad y el milagro de la creación artística."

"In his poems and in his dramas, he is revealed as an acute observer of speech, of music and of the societal customs of rural Spain. One of the peculiarities of his work is that environment, accurately described, changes into an imaginary space where expression is given to all of the deepest concerns of the human heart: desire, love and death, the mystery of identity and the miracle of the artistic creation."

Photo and Biography courtesy of Fundación Federico García Lorca

Spanish-English Translation By Stacey Shaughnessy

Poem of the week

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me—who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white—
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that’s true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me—
although you’re older—and white—
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15614#sthash.bT1zllg0.dpuf