That’s…the most hardcore I’ve ever seen someone make Dr. Seuss.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
Woman with stuff upon your head
What is that you carry so elegantly?
Is that a burden, is that a load?
Is that a heart break or a dirge?
Woman carrying stuff on your head
Cat-walking your way pass my hut
How do you keep your head up under such weight?
And flash pebbles of hope at each “Good morning” and “Good afternoon ” and “Good evening”?
From what deep well do you fetch your smile and kindness and grace?
Could it be that you finally saw
That your burden is also your crown?
Photo and Poem by Nana Kofi Acquah (www.nkaphoto.com) @africashowboy (Copyright: 2016). #ghana #accra #africa #beach
There’s a spanish “my name is cow” poem translation floating around, but its a word for word translation, without the same rhyme and meter so i.. fixed it
Yo soy vaca
en la noche,
cuando el sol
es ausente
y los hombres
se acuestan-
Yo trasnocho
lamo el pan.
(literally: I am cow/ in the night/ when the sun/ is absent/ and the men/ go to bed/ i stay up late/ i lik the bread)
so id like to tell you something, like, in the context of cryptid sightings
specifically, id like to tell you some things about cattle
they dont look like they move fast, but, in fact, they do. they move very fast, and theyre capable of doing so quietly
if a cow is black and has white spots, or if it is white and has black spots, both the white and black bits come together in the approximate shape of a cow
but in the dark, you cant see the black parts, and the white parts do NOT, form the approximate shape of a cow
what im saying is that i have at certain times been walking in the fields on a night with low visibility and i have, at certain times, seen an indistinct white shape zoom past me, and i am at least 95% sure it was a cow. and that if you see a white shape zoom past you in a field at night, it is also probably at least 95% of a cow
This is reposted directly from the poetry listserv I mentioned in my last post. It’s called arspoetica and if you’re interested in more you may sign up here. Note that I am a mere subscriber and have no part in running this list, and also this is a lovely example of internet ourobouros-like actions: the author of the email gathered these poems from Tumblr, sent them to me via email, and now I’m posting them back on Tumblr and giving you a way to access future emails. It’s the circle of life, or something.
Me, fifteen minutes ago: “my name is Cow…” M: Are you going to share the cow poem tonight? Me: Nah. I mean, I’m really tempted to, but, you know, it seems a little silly.
Me, five minutes ago: Screw it, I’m gonna send the cow poem.
This is unlike other Ars Poetica, and I realise not everyone is as endlessly fascinated by the language arts of the Internet as I am, so maybe this is not for you. You’ll be returned to your usual diet on Sunday.
A couple of months ago there was a Reddit thread about health inspection violations, and a user by the name of Chamale told the following story: “My stepdad used to be a baker in an authentic recreation of an 18th century New French fortress. Because they sell bread to the public, the health inspector came by, and she was ripping into my stepdad for violations like the stonework walls, the doorless entranceways, or the lack of a mosquito zapper. He pointed out that they were following the highest standards except for things that would destroy the authenticity of this 18th-century bakery. The health inspector relented and agreed to give him a pass after verifying the food storage area was secure. They went to the shed, which was a doorless building attached to the bakery. As thehealth inspector went in, there happened to be an escaped cow licking all of the loaves. My stepdad could only say, ‘Honestly, this never happens.’ They passed the health inspection.”
In response to this, another Reddit user named Poem_for_your_sprog (whose work is generally worth a look, btw) wrote him a little poem, with vaguely ye olde spellings:
my name is Cow, and wen its nite, or wen the moon is shiyning brite, and all the men haf gon to bed – i stay up late.
i lik the bred.
And the internet did what the internet does, and latched onto this ditty and wrote sequels and variations, often in a call-and-response fashion with a conversation between some other creature & the Cow (and yes, I’m about to share several of them with you). Someone even recorded the poems to the tune of ‘Greensleeves’. And I got really excited because as far as I’m concerned, this is what poetry is all about. When I tell people Irun a poetry newsletter, I often get these strange responses about how they don’t really like poetry and aren’t “a poetry person”, implying that enjoyment of poetry is an exclusive club practised only in the rarified atmosphere of literary circles and the academy. To which I say: fuck that noise. Poetry can and should be accessible and funny and touching and easy to enjoy, making its readers want to respond in kind. It should allow us to celebrate together and share our sorrows and develop our ideas, be they ferocious political critiques or philosophical meditations. You should not let preconceived notions about what who is and is not “a poetry person” dictate whether you can enjoy poetry.
Go out and enjoy reading and writing! Share your verse! Seize the day! Lik the bred!
—–
my name is Dog and wen its tea, i hope they giv sum foode to me – i hope they shair befor its gon – they never do.
i don’t get non.
my name is Cow, and this is tru – my caynine friend, its up to yu. so just be brayve and smart insted – and be like me.
i lik the bred.
—–
my name is Cat, no cares have i be it sun or moone that lytes the sky by night i prowl by day i stretch i salute yu, Cow
yu bold old wretch.
o clevr Cat who roams the barn i promys yu i mean no harm – as yor a friend with stelthy tred i invite yu
to lik sum bred.
—–
i am the Bred with yeast i ryse mine amber crust doth pleas thyn eys
the Cow and Cat whos tongues delite upon my crust both noon and nite
are easy stop’d by dor and slat. perhaps the baker noes not that?
—–
my name is Cow and in the spring when other Beastes are frollicking, upon yor legs i rest my hed and in my dreams
i lik the bred.
end note from me, starstuffandalotofcoffee. Ars Poetica’s author was unable to credit the other verses. I believe the last verse is from the talented and hilarious @sashayed.. I don’t know who wrote the rest and they may be from the original reddit thread, but if you do and you can send me a source, I’ll edit this with credits.
ORIGIN STORY!!!
OMG IT TOTALLY SCANS TO GREENSLEEVES. Life changing.
This is what the internet was born for, honestly.
i lik the meme
If you want sources for a bunch of ‘em, they’re here 🙂 The first line of every stanza links to its original posting.
I’m so sorry to do this, but am I seriously the only one who thought of this when I first read the poem?
Steel Phoenix Studios 