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Jimmy P.

Cast: Benicio Del Toro, Mathieu Amalric, Gina McKee, Larry Pine, Joseph Cross, Gary Farmer, Michelle Thrush

trailer for Jimmy P, directed by Arnaud Desplechin (2013)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Joseph’s Dreams and Reuben's Brethren [A Recital in Six Chapters]

CHAPTER I

I cannot blame old Israel yet,
For I am not a sage—
I shall not know until I get
The son of my old age.
The mysteries of this Vale of Tears
We will perchance explain
When we have lived a thousand years
And died and come again.

No doubt old Jacob acted mean
Towards his father’s son;
But other hands were none too clean,
When all is said and done.
There were some things that had to be
In those old days, ’tis true—
But with old Jacob’s history
This tale has nought to do.

(They had to keep the birth-rate up,
And populate the land—
They did it, too, by simple means
That we can’t understand.
The Patriarchs’ way of fixing things
Would make an awful row,
And Sarah’s plain, straightforward plan
Would never answer now.)
his is a tale of simple men
And one precocious boy—
A spoilt kid, and, as usual,
His father’s hope and joy
(It mostly is the way in which
The younger sons behave
That brings the old man’s grey hairs down
In sorrow to the grave.)

Old Jacob loved the whelp, and made,
While meaning to be kind,
A coat of many colours that
Would strike a nigger blind!
It struck the brethren green, ’twas said—
I’d take a pinch of salt
Their coats had coloured patches too—
But that was not their fault.

Young Joseph had a soft thing on,
And, humbugged from his birth,
You may depend he worked the thing
For all that it was worth.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Piedra de Sol

La treizième revient...c’est encor la première;
et c’est toujours la seule-ou c’est le seul moment;
car es-tu reine, ô toi, la première ou dernière?
es-tu roi, toi le seul ou le dernier amant?
Gérard de Nerval, Arthèmis
Un sauce de cristal, un chopo de agua,
un alto surtidor que el viento arquea,
un árbol bien plantado mas danzante,
un caminar de río que se curva,
avanza, retrocede, da un rodeo
y llega siempre:
un caminar tranquilo
de estrella o primavera sin premura,
agua que con los párpados cerrados
mana toda la noche profecías,
unánime presencia en oleaje,
ola tras ola hasta cubrirlo todo,
verde soberanía sin ocaso
como el deslumbramiento de las alas
cuando se abren en mitad del cielo,
un caminar entre las espesuras
de los días futuros y el aciago
fulgor de la desdicha como un ave
petrificando el bosque con su canto
y las felicidades inminentes
entre las ramas que se desvanecen,
horas de luz que pican ya los pájaros,
presagios que se escapan de la mano,

una presencia como un canto súbito,
como el viento cantando en el incendio,
una mirada que sostiene en vilo
al mundo con sus mares y sus montes,
cuerpo de luz filtrado por un ágata,
piernas de luz, vientre de luz, bahías,
roca solar, cuerpo color de nube,
color de día rápido que salta,
la hora centellea y tiene cuerpo,
el mundo ya es visible por tu cuerpo,
es transparente por tu transparencia,

voy entre galerías de sonidos,
fluyo entre las presencias resonantes,
voy por las transparencias como un ciego,
un reflejo me borra, nazco en otro,
oh bosque de pilares encantados,
bajo los arcos de la luz penetro
los corredores de un otoño diáfano,

voy por tu cuerpo como por el mundo,

[...] Read more

poem by Octavio Paz
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The Crazy Bull

Look out, here comes a crazy bull
He is crazy
Hide behind the fence, my love
He is coming fast
Just toss me your jacket
And I will fight him for you

Toro, Toro, Toro
Enter the arena
everyone
Is watching me now

Toro, Toro, Toro
Crazy bull
Little by little
I am taming you

They are going to open up the gates
To his pen
So this beaten bull can leave
Now he returns back home
Looking like a lamb

Toro, Toro, Toro

poem by Mercedes Zoller
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Joseph

With many children was the Patriarch blest,
Yet Joseph he preferr'd before the rest:
To tend his flock was all the youth's employ
To serve his God and Sire his only joy:
Jacob of his lov'd consort now depriv'd,
Beheld her graces in the son reviv'd;
And all the love he had to Rachel gone,
Was by degrees transferr'd unto her son.
A silken vest, that cast a various shade,
He fondly to the boy a present made:
Here vivid scarlet strove with lively green,
The purple, blended with the white, was seen,
And azure spots were interspers'd between.

This gaudy robe (the basis of his woe,
The source from which his future sorrows flow)
Kindled his elder brethren's wakeful pride:
(When envy mounts, affection will subside)
Their dawning hate in vain to hide they strove,
Each look too plain confess'd expiring love.

The sun obliquely shot his humid beams,
When Joseph wak'd, one morn, and told his dreams:
'My brethren, we, methought, were on a plain,
'And binding into sheaves the yellow grain;
'When mine arose; your's form'd a circle round,
'And reverently bow'd low to the ground.'
And this each face the innate rage express'd:
And Joseph thus, indignant, they address'd.
'Shalt thou indeed a sov'reign to us be?
'And shall we fall as suppliants on the knee?
'Vain boy! renounce those hopes---hence to the field
'A shepherd's crook, not sceptre, shalt thou wield.'

Again, when slumbers stole upon his eyes,
And active Fancy bade the vision rise,,
And crystal moon respectful homage pay.
This on the morn the wond'ring youth disclos'd
When Jacob the prediction thus oppos'd:
'Shall I, thine aged sire, whose silver hairs
'And arms unnerv'd proclaim my length of years,
'Prostrate on earth myself thy vassel own?
'And shall thy mother bow before her son?

'Ambition, Joseph, has thy heart possess'd,
'And dreams illusive rise from such a guest.'
But yet he wonder'd what might be design'd,
And the presaging visions treasur'd in his mind.

It chanc'd his elder sons at early dawn

[...] Read more

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Gina

Love always seemed an illusion to me
I could never make things fit
But now that thought turned around
Cause everything feels so right

You see I met you on this big day
I saw your face and got filled with emotion
So now the sky seems a different blue
Cause I know my heart belongs to you

Ohh Gina
Could you look at me once more
Before you walk out of that door
Ohh Gina
Just wanna look you in the eye
Cause I can't stand sayin' goodbye

I know it would be hard for us to be
Couldn't we just give it a shot
But I know your heart must agree
Just wanna love you till the end of time

Ohh Gina
Could you look at me once more
Before you walk out of that door
Ohh Gina
Just wanna look you in the eye
Cause I can't stand sayin' goodbye

Don't know how it's gonna be
Don't know what I've gotta do
I'm just tryin' to let you see
That I'm giving this heart to you

Ohh Gina
Could you look at me once more
Before you walk out of that door
Ohh Gina
Come close in my arms tonight
I know that love has never died
Ooh Gina
Just wanna look you in the eye
I just can't stand sayin' goodbye
Ohh Gina
Ohh Gina
Ohh Gina
Just wanna look you in the eye
And never ever say goodbye

song performed by K-otic from Bulletproof
Added by Lucian Velea
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El Toro

(words & music by giant - baum - kaye)
Theres a legend of a famous matador
Who went to meet el toro
Though he fought as he had never done before
He could not beat, el toro
The bull el toro, brought him defeat and pain
And to his sorrow, the matador knew shame
They said time would never heal the many scars
Brought by the great, el toro
And the bitterness that burned deep in his heart
Caused him to hate, el toro
The bull el toro, brought him defeat and pain
And to his sorrow, the matador knew shame
So one night, when no-one was on sight
The matador, went to finish the score
In the lonely fields, beneath the pale moonlight
He fought the bull...and they fought once more
When they found the matador and saw him dying
Hed never see tomorrow
Now they say that on the spot where he was lying
Still walks the proud el toro
The bull el toro, brought him defeat and pain
And to his sorrow, the matador knew shame....

song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Death Of Marie Toro

We're taking Marie Toro to her home in Père-La-Chaise;
We're taking Marie Toro to her last resting-place.
Behold! her hearse is hung with wreaths till everything is hid
Except the blossoms heaping high upon her coffin lid.
A week ago she roamed the street, a draggle and a slut,
A by-word of the Boulevard and everybody's butt;
A week ago she haunted us, we heard her whining cry,
We brushed aside the broken blooms she pestered us to buy;
A week ago she had not where to rest her weary head . . .
But now, oh, follow, follow on, for Marie Toro's dead.

Oh Marie, she was once a queen -- ah yes, a queen of queens.
High-throned above the Carnival she held her splendid sway.
For four-and-twenty crashing hours she knew what glory means,
The cheers of half a million throats, the délire of a day.
Yet she was only one of us, a little sewing-girl,
Though far the loveliest and best of all our laughing band;
Then Fortune beckoned; off she danced, amid the dizzy whirl,
And we who once might kiss her cheek were proud to kiss her hand.
For swiftly as a star she soared; she had her every wish;
We saw her roped with pearls of price, with princes at her call;
And yet, and yet I think her dreams were of the old Boul' Mich',

And yet I'm sure within her heart she loved us best of all.
For one night in the Purple Pig, upon the rue Saint-Jacques,
We laughed and quaffed . . . a limousine came swishing to the door;
Then Raymond Jolicoeur cried out: "It's Queen Marie come back,
In satin clad to make us glad, and witch our hearts once more."
But no, her face was strangely sad, and at the evening's end:
"Dear lads," she said; "I love you all, and when I'm far away,
Remember, oh, remember, little Marie is your friend,
And though the world may lie between, I'm coming back some day."
And so she went, and many a boy who's fought his way to Fame,
Can look back on the struggle of his garret days and bless
The loyal heart, the tender hand, the Providence that came
To him and all in hour of need, in sickness and distress.
Time passed away. She won their hearts in London, Moscow, Rome;
They worshiped her in Argentine, adored her in Brazil;
We smoked our pipes and wondered when she might be coming home,
And then we learned the luck had turned, the things were going ill.
Her health had failed, her beauty paled, her lovers fled away;
And some one saw her in Peru, a common drab at last.
So years went by, and faces changed; our beards were sadly gray,
And Marie Toro's name became an echo of the past.

You know that old and withered man, that derelict of art,
Who for a paltry franc will make a crayon sketch of you?
In slouching hat and shabby cloak he looks and is the part,
A sodden old Bohemian, without a single sou.
A boon companion of the days of Rimbaud and Verlaine,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert William Service
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Notas Perdidas

Es media noche.
Duerme el mundo ahora
bajo el ala de niebla del silencio
vagos rayos de luna
y el fulgor incierto
de lámpara velada
alumbran su aposento.
En las teclas del piano
vagan aún sus marfilinos dedos,
errante la mirada
dice algo que no alcanza el pensamiento.
¡Cómo perfuma el aire el blanco ramo
marchito en el florero,
cuán suave es el suspiro
que vaga entre sus labios entreabiertos!

¡Adriana! ¡Adriana! de tan dulces horas
guardarán el secreto
tu estancia, el rayo de la luna, el vago
ruïdo de tus besos,
la noche silenciosa,
y en mi alma el recuerdo!...

Si en vosotras algún día
se fijan sus ojos bellos,
¡pobres estrofas! habladle
con rumor suäve y ledo
como notas de una música
que oímos ha mucho tiempo,
y que impregnada de aromas
torna en las alas del viento.
Alzada cual leve brisa
besad sus blondos cabellos
y penetrad en su alma
y en los espacios perdeos
como en la santa capilla
las espirales de incienso!...

Como recuerdo de su amor sincero,
recuerdo dulce y único
de aquel amor suave y melancólico
cual la luz del crepúsculo,
guardo en un cofrecito plateado
unas rosas de musgo
las contemplo en mis horas de alegría,
las beso cuando sufro,
¡aún guardan el perfume penetrante
de los cabellos suyos!

[...] Read more

poem by Jose Asuncion Silva
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Michelle

Michelle
I heard your lured howling
I cant resist temptation
I cant resist your smile
I cought your raddle eyes
Michelle
Michelle
My hagridden goblin
Michelle
My mellow
Michelle
Michelle
I must be insane
Its not me to blame
She loves only fame
Michelle caused me really pain
Michelle
Michelle
Michelle
Michelle
Auw

song performed by Xymox
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Night Before Larry Was Stretched

The night before larry was stretched
Oh, the night before larry was stretched
Well the boys they all paid him a visit
A bit in their sacks too they fetched
For they sweated their duds till they ris it
For larry was always the lad
When a boy was condemned to the squeezer
Would fence all the duds that he had
For to help his poor friend to a sneezer--
-- and warm his ol gob fore he died
Well the boys they came crowding in fast
And they threw all their stools round about him
Six glims round his trap-case was placed
For he couldnt be well-waked without them
When one of them asked, could he die
Without having duly repented?
Said larry, thats all in me eye
And first by the clergy invented--
--for to get a fat bit for themselves
Oh and Ill be cut up like a pie:
And me nob from me body be parted.
Youre in the wrong box, then, says i,
For blast me if theyre so hard-hearted
A chalk on the back of your neck
Is all that jack catch dares to give you
Then mind not such trifles affect
Oh why should the likes of them grieve you? --
--and now boys, come tip us the deck.
Well the cards being called for they played
Until larry found one of them cheated
A point in his napper was made
For the boy hed been easily heated
Oh, hold me the hokey, you thief!
Ill scuttle your knob with me dodle!
You cheat me because Im in grief
Ah, but soon Ill demolish your noddle--
--and leave you your claret to drink
Then the clergy came in with his book
And he spoke him so smooth and so civil
Larry tipped him kill-sour look
And he pitched his big wig to the devil
Then sighing he threw back his head
For to get a sweet drop of the bottle
And dutiful sighing he said,
Oh the hempt twill be soon round me throttle--
--and choke me poor windpipe to death.
Oh then sure its the best way to die
Oh the dead are no better the living
For now when the gallows is high
Our journey is shorter to heaven.

[...] Read more

song performed by Elvis Costello
Added by Lucian Velea
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Gusto Nako Mahimo Kong Gary Soto

gusto nakong mosulat sama kang gary soto
kanang mora kog trabahante nga gadala anang
pala og piko kanang gakandos sa yuta og dayog
pangagho, kanang gahandom kos bulad nga sud-an
og humot kaayo nga mais nga luto og dayon og
inom sa bugnaw kaayong tubig gikan sa atabay,

gusto kong moadto sa uma og mosimhot sa mga
bulak sa iyang mga gapas, gusto nakong makita
ang iyang giingon nga pula kaayo nga adlaw nga
iyang gikumkom sa iyang palad, ganahan ko nga
mahimo kong gary soto, magtindog nga gary soto,
og molingkod nga gary soto, og modagan nga gary
soto, og moambak na gary soto, kadtong mokuyog
sa mga langgam nga namakwit paingon sa San
Francisco, kanang mora kog tubig sa kanal nga
mikuyog sa pagdagan sa hangin paingon sa mga
lugar nga dagko og sweldo ang hago nga trabaho,

apan dili man gyod nako makaya si gary soto,
mas nindot man gayod ang pagsulat ni gary
sa iyang mga pangagho, sa iyang mga kahiubos
og pagpalutos: dili gayod ako mahimong gary
soto, mao nga ako ania, mao lang gihapon sa
akong pagkaako niining akong mga balak sa
pag-eksperimento. Sagdi na lang, basin puhon
maawat ko ra si gary soto sa iyang pagkamaldito

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Taxes On The Farmer Feeds Us All

(traditional, adapted by ry cooder)
(d) - (a) - (e)
(a) we worked through spring and winter, through (d) summer and through (a) fall
But the mortgage worked the hardest and the (e) steadiest of us all
It (a) worked on nights and sundays, it (d) worked each holiday
(e) settled down among us and it never went (a) away
The farmer comes to town with his wagon broken down
The farmer is the man who feeds us all
If you only look and see I know you will agree
That the farmer is the man who feeds us all
(a) the farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
He buys on his credit until (e) fall
Then they (a) take him by the hand
And they (d) lead him from his land
And the (e) merchant is the man who gets it (a) all
The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
He lives on his credit until fall
With the interest rates so high
Its a wonder he dont die
But the taxes on the farmer feeds us all
Well, the banker says hes broke and the merchant stops and smoke
But they forget that its the farmer that feeds them all
It would put them to the test if the farmer took a rest
And theyd know that its the farmer that feeds them all
The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
Lives on his credit until fall
Well, his pants are wearing thin
His condition, its a sin
cause the taxes on the farmer feeds us all

song performed by Ry Cooder
Added by Lucian Velea
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Filippo Baldinucci on the Privilege of Burial

"No, boy, we must not"—so began
My Uncle (he's with God long since),
A-petting me, the good old man!
"We must not"—and he seemed to wince,
And lost that laugh whereto had grown
His chuckle at my piece of news,
How cleverly I aimed my stone—
"I fear we must not pelt the Jews!

"When I was young indeed,—ah, faith
Was young and strong in Florence too!
We Christians never dreamed of scathe
Because we cursed or kicked the crew.
But now, well, well! The olive-crops
Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks
Would always spare religious shops
Whenever he o'erflowed his banks!

"I'll tell you"—and his eye regained
Its twinkle—"tell you something choice!
Something may help you keep unstained
Your honest zeal to stop the voice
Of unbelief with stone-throw, spite
Of laws, which modern fools enact,
That we must suffer Jews in sight
Go wholly unmolested! Fact!

"There was, then, in my youth, and yet
Is, by our San Frediano, just
Below the Blessed Olivet,
A wayside ground wherein they thrust
Their dead,—these Jews,—the more our shame!
Except that, so they will but die,
Christians perchance incur no blame
In giving hogs a hoist to stye.

"There, anyhow, Jews stow away
Their dead; and,—such their insolence,—
Slink at odd times to sing and pray
As Christians do—all make-pretence!—
Which wickedness they perpetrate
Because they think no Christians see.
They reckoned here, at any rate,
Without their host: ha, ha, he, he!

"For, what should join their plot of ground
But a good Farmer's Christian field?
The Jews had hedged their corner round
With bramble-bush to keep concealed
Their doings: for the public road

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from Pacchiarotto (1876)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Preparatory Meditations - Second Series: 7

(Psalms 105:17. He sent a Man before Them, even Joseph, who was Sold, etc.)

All dull, my Lord, my spirits flat, and dead,
All water-soaked and sapless to the skin.
Oh! Screw me up and make my spirit's bed
Thy quickening virtue, for my ink is dim,
My pencil blunt. Doth Joseph type out Thee?
Heralds of angels sing out, 'Bow the knee.'

Is Joseph's glorious shine a type of Thee?
How bright art Thou? He envied was as well.
And so was Thou. He's stripped and picked, poor he,
Into the pit. And so was Thou. They shell
Thee of Thy kernel. He by Judah's sold
For twenty bits; thirty for Thee he'd told.

Joseph was tempted by his mistress vile.
Thou by the devil, but both shame the foe.
Joseph was cast into the jail awhile.
And so was Thou. Sweet apples mellow so.
Joseph did from his jail to glory run.
Thou from death's pallet rose like morning sun.

Joseph lays in against the famine, and
Thou dost prepare the bread of life for Thine,
He bought with corn for Pharaoh th' men and land.
Thou with Thy bread mak'st such themselves consign
Over to Thee, that eat it. Joseph makes
His brethren bow before him. Thine too quake.

Joseph constrains his brethren till their sins
Do gall their souls. Repentance babbles fresh.
Thou treatest sinners till repentance springs,
Then with him send'st a Benjamin-like mess.
Joseph doth cheer his humble brethren. Thou
Dost stud with joy the mourning saints that bow.

Joseph's bright shine th' Eleven Tribes must preach.
And Thine Apostles now eleven, Thine.
They bear his presents to his friends: Thine reach
Thine unto Thine, thus now behold a shine.
How hast Thou penciled out, my Lord, most bright
Thy glorious image here, on Joseph's light.

This I bewail in me under this shine,
To see so dull a color in my skin.
Lord, lay Thy brightsome colors on me Thine.
Scour Thou my pipes, then play Thy tunes therein.
I will not hang my harp in willows by,
While Thy sweet praise my tunes doth glorify.

poem by Edward Taylor
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Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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The Duke of Plaza-Toro

In enterprise of martial kind,
When there was any fighting,
He led his regiment from behind
(He found it less exciting).
But when away his regiment ran,
His place was at the fore, O-
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Noble man,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!
You always found that knight, ha, ha!
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Noble man,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

When, to evade Destruction's hand,
To hide they all proceeded,
No soldier in that gallant band
Hid half as well as he did.
He lay concealed throughout the war,
And so preserved his gore, O!
That unaffected,
Undetected,
Well connected
Warrior,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In every doughty deed, ha, ha!
He always took the lead, ha, ha!
That unaffected,
Undetected,
Well connected
Warrior,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

When told that they would all be shot
Unless they left the service,
That hero hesitated not,
So marvellous his nerve is.
He sent his resignation in,
The first of all his corps, O!
That very knowing,
Overflowing,
Easy-going
Paladin ,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Listen to 'Da Art of Storytellin' Part 1' instrumental by Outkast

There once was a boy named Gary Napp
And Gary Napp was obsessed with rap
Day in, day out he'd be on his computer
Listenin' to Biggie, Nas, and Rick the Ruler
'Thinkin' one day I'll be a fly MC,
And everyone will want to listen to me.'
He worked on his lyric game day and night
But one day lil Gary got into a fight
Some punk teenager tried to clown his flavor
Gary swung on him and the dude pulled out a razor
The kid urged Gary to keep on swingin'
But Gary knew his life was more important than winnin'
Gary turned around and he started headin' home
The kid pulled out a nine and shot Gary in the dome
The punk teenager threw down the murder weapon
Heard the cops comin' so he started steppin'
The kid got away and was never put to trial
And ended up killin' himself after a while
He couldn't contain his feelings anymore
Couldn't do anything right, he was torn
But up above, Gary Napp forgave the kid
Rest in peace the greatest MC who never lived

poem by Garrett Bradley
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Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST

I

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Himno A Los Voluntarios De La República

Voluntario de España, miliciano
de huesos fidedignos, cuando marcha a morir tu corazón,
cuando marcha a matar con su agonía
mundial, no sé verdaderamente
qué hacer, dónde ponerme; corro, escribo, aplaudo,
lloro, atisbo, destrozo, apagan, digo
a mi pecho que acabe, al que bien, que venga,
y quiero desgraciarme;
descúbrome la frente impersonal hasta tocar
el vaso de la sangre, me detengo,
detienen mi tamaño esas famosas caídas de arquitecto
con las que se honra el animal que me honra;
refluyen mis instintos a sus sogas,
humea ante mi tumba la alegría
y, otra vez, sin saber qué hacer, sin nada, déjame,
desde mi piedra en blanco, déjame,
solo,
cuadrumano, más acá, mucho más lejos,
al no caber entre mis manos tu largo rato extático,
quiebro con tu rapidez de doble filo
mi pequeñez en traje de grandeza!

Un día diurno, claro, atento, fértil
¡oh bienio, el de los lóbregos semestres suplicantes,
por el que iba la pólvora mordiéndose los codos!
¡oh dura pena y más duros pedernales!
!oh frenos los tascados por el pueblo!
Un día prendió el pueblo su fósforo cautivo, oró de cólera
y soberanamente pleno, circular,
cerró su natalicio con manos electivas;
arrastraban candado ya los déspotas
y en el candado, sus bacterias muertas...

¿Batallas? ¡No! Pasiones. Y pasiones precedidas
de dolores con rejas de esperanzas,
de dolores de pueblos con esperanzas de hombres!
¡Muerte y pasión de paz, las populares!

¡Muerte y pasión guerreras entre olivos, entendámosnos!
Tal en tu aliento cambian de agujas atmosféricas los vientos
y de llave las tumbas en tu pecho,
tu frontal elevándose a primera potencia de martirio.

El mundo exclama: '¡Cosas de españoles!' Y es verdad.
Consideremos,
durante una balanza, a quema ropa,
a Calderon, dormido sobre la cola de un anfibio muerto
o a Cervantes, diciendo: 'Mi reino es de este mundo, pero
también del otro': ¡punta y filo en dos papeles!
Contemplemos a Goya, de hinojos y rezando ante un espejo,

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poem by Cesar Vallejo
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Tale VII

THE WIDOW'S TALE.

To Farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down,
His only daughter, from her school in town;
A tender, timid maid! who knew not how
To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow:
Smiling she came, with petty talents graced,
A fair complexion, and a slender waist.
Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure,
Her father's kitchen she could ill endure:
Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat,
And laid at once a pound upon his plate;
Hot from the field, her eager brother seized
An equal part, and hunger's rage appeased;
The air surcharged with moisture, flagg'd around,
And the offended damsel sigh'd and frown'd;
The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid,
And fancy's sickness seized the loathing maid:
But when the men beside their station took,
The maidens with them, and with these the cook;
When one huge wooden bowl before them stood,
Fill'd with huge balls of farinaceous food;
With bacon, mass saline, where never lean
Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen;
When from a single horn the party drew
Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new;
When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain
Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again -
She could not breathe; but with a heavy sigh,
Rein'd the fair neck, and shut th' offended eye;
She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine,
And wonder'd much to see the creatures dine;
When she resolved her father's heart to move,
If hearts of farmers were alive to love.
She now entreated by herself to sit
In the small parlour, if papa thought fit,
And there to dine, to read, to work alone -
'No!' said the Farmer in an angry tone;
'These are your school-taught airs; your mother's

pride
Would send you there; but I am now your guide. -
Arise betimes, our early meal prepare,
And, this despatch'd, let business be your care;
Look to the lasses, let there not be one
Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done;
In every household work your portion take,
And what you make not, see that others make:
At leisure times attend the wheel, and see
The whit'ning web besprinkled on the lea;

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poem by George Crabbe
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