A love song from our cousins on the western edge of the Iberian peninsula.

Because amid the turmoil and tragedy of our shared experience, we often forget to celebrate the beauty that makes preserving our culture worth while.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAf9TEwqgvU

Translation for my Anglophonic friends:

These are little things
little things
that's all I want to give you
and these words are just
those little things
that say I want to love you.

To love, to love, to love
is only worth it
if you agree
that a great love
is no small thing
that nothing is greater than love.

And the moment
you approach me
I am yours.
For certain, that won't be
all that there is.
The hour I awaited
all my life
is now.

And the moment
to approach me at last
For certain, is knocking
at your door.
The hour you awaited
all your life
is now.

Original Purtuguese:

Coisas pequenas são
Coisas pequenas
São tudo o que eu te quero dar
E estas palavras são
Coisas pequenas
Que dizem que eu te quero amar.
Amar, amar, amar
Só vale a pena
Se tu quiseres confirmar
Que um grande amor não é
Coisa pequena
Que nada é maior que amar.
E a hora
Que te espreita
É só tua.
Decerto, nao será
Só a que resta;
A hora
Que esperei a vida toda,
É esta.
E a hora
Que te espreita
É derradeira.
Decerto já bateu
À tua porta.
A hora
Que esperaste a vida inteira,
É agora.

He was just sitting there on the wheel well of a pickup truck. I was sitting in the rear bed, with my back against the cab. Suddenly, I saw him rise in the air and float towards me as my back slammed against the cab and slid up against the rib of the bed. An instant later his head smashed into my nose, and fat boy did a somersault over me and landed feet first on the pavement.

The truck had collided at a traffic intersection with four people in the cab, six in the bed. My father was a passenger in the cab and smashed the windshield with his forehead.

My back was one purple welt from shoulder blades to kidneys. My nose was broken. Again. And there was a stream of blood coming from my nose, to my shirt and pants, and pooling on the bed of the truck. Fat boy was standing outside the truck looking at me dazed and confused. I'll eave the rest of the story for another day. Suffice it to say that I still made it to the nightclub that night to see my girlfriend. Hey, it was Saturday night!

To this day, I still have flashbacks to that day, and I see a cherub floating towards me, head first.

Season 12, Episode 8, Dec 20, 1986?

Help would be much appreciated.

De vez en cuando la vida~J.M. Serrat

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIkGVAsqLE8


Every once in a while,
life kisses us full in the mouth
And opens up in color like an atlas,
and we feel ourselves in good hands.

She takes our proper measure,
and matches our stride
pulls a rabbit out of a hat
and we become happy as children
when school lets out.

Every once in a while
life drinks coffee with us
and becomes so beautiful, that it's a pleasure to see.
She lets her hair lose and invites us
up on the stage.

Every once in a while
she offer herself in full
and grants gifts so slippery
we must walk on tip-toes
to keep from breaking the spell.


Every one in a while
life pulls out the paint brushes
we get goosebumps, and words fail
to describe what she offers
to those that that know how to use them.

And every once in a while
Life plays a joke on us
and we wake up without knowing
what happened; sucking our thumbs
sitting on a pumpkin.

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: —
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle’s edge,
And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel —
That blue blade that the king’s son bears, — but this
Blunt thing!” — he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

- Edward Rowland Sill

That's the MBTA for those outside the Boston area.

He was in full regalia and looked nervously around, surrounded by westerners.

We made eye contact, and I bowed as a courtesy.

He beamed me the biggest smile I've ever seen and bowed back.

That was the extent of our engagement, but I think it made his day.

It certainly made mine.

(Cancion ultima)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Pm-cQ9xQnE


Painted, not empty:
my house is painted
in the colors
of great passions and tragedies.

The empty dinner table,
and noisy bed will return
from the tears to which
they were taken.

Kisses will blossom on the pillows,
And sheets will rise again over bodies
entangled like vines
nocturnal and perfumed.

Hatred will vanish
behind those windows.

Claws will be softened.

Leave me hope, at least.

(Written in prison, from which he never returned)

Do not surrender even when defeated,
and do not be a slave even in bondage,
trembling with fear advance bravely,
and attack with fury, though badly wounded.

Be as stubborn as a rusting nail,
that refuses to yield though old and ruined,
and do not envy the peacock's plumage,
that drops in fear at the first noise.

Be as a god that never cries,
or as a devil that never prays,
or as the oak whose mighty canopy,
needs of water but does not beg it.

Even when it rolls to the dust,
let your head scowl and bite,
and scream for vengeance.

- Pedro Palacios Almafuerte
Argentinian poet 1854-1917

Believe it or not, this is my mother's favorite poem.
She is my guiding light.
God bless her and keep her.

I first encountered this word in a conversation with a cousin of mine as he related to me how he used to be his father's achichincle. This of course, was in the context of an armed standoff between himself and the chief of police, in a brothel somewhere in Veracruz Mexico, while his dad (my uncle) and a few of his close friends held the police chief's deputies at gunpoint outside the brothel. The police chief, still bleeding from the nose was considering his options...

But that's not important right now, and besides, my cousin is now working as a fishing boat captain somewhere off the coast of Oregon, without papers, of course, literally, a mojado.

Anyway, my point is, are you offended by the term achichincle?

An achichincle (a-chee-CHEEN-kleh) is a sidekick, a servant or a member of an entourage. It is a derogatory term. If you are the achichincle of someone, that means you’re intellectually and emotionally dependent on that person.

To make it more effective, use it along with pinche, as in vino con su pinche achichincle, which means “he came with his stupid sidekick”. A less folkloric synonym is gato (GAH-taw, lit. cat).

Probably the best known achichincle in the Spanish-speaking world is Don Quixote's: Sancho Panza.

http://swearindf.blogspot.com/2008/01/achi...

Coming home on the train today I heard a cell phone conversation in Spanglish, a mixture of Spanish and English that rapidly switches back and forth between them, depending on which is the most appropriate to convey a thought at any given moment. The accent, as best I could tell, was Puerto Rican.

Then I heard the word 'watchear' which is neither English nor Spanish, but a combination of the verb to watch, with a Spanish 'ar' verb ending.

And I thought oh, my God, here we go again, mixing apples and oranges! Why couldn't she use a proper Spanish verb!

And then it dawned on me. The three closest Spanish verbs are 'ver' and 'observar' and 'vigilar' The first means to see, the second to observe. The third is closest in meaning - to lay vigil. None of these verbs carry the exact meaning of 'to watch', which is less formal than a vigil but less passive than to see or to observe. Yet English verb conjugation is not a subtle or nuanced as Spanish. For example 'watcheandola' means "while I was in the process of watching her", carrying the sense of action in the past, incomplete, and gender specific to boot!

The point of this post is that both English and Spanish are being transformed through contact and interaction. There are purist on both sides demanding English only, or Spanish only.

Both are delusional. Language is fluid and ever changing. English especially is a hodgepodge of borrowings from other languages so profound that the Shakespearean English of 500 years ago is already difficult to understand, and Beowulf from only 1,000 years ago impossible.

Sung by Nana Mouskori

Composers:

Poem composed in 1862 by Niceto de Zamacois, Mexican poet, historian, and journalist born in Bilbao, Viscaya, Spain.

Music by Narciso Serradell Sevilla, composer and Physician, born in Alvarado, Veracruz, Mexico. Captured and exiled to France during the French intervention in Mexico. During his exile he taught Music and Spanish and composed this song which has become, for all Mexicans, a song of exile.


translated by yours truly

Where will she go, swift and exhausted
the swallow that leaves this place.

If in her flight she should loose her way
looking for shelter that isn't there.

Next to my bed I will make a nest
where she may pass the season.

For I too am lost in this place,
oh blessed heaven, and cannot fly.

For I, too, left the country I love
the home that saw my birth

Today my life is wandering and lonely
and I cannot find my way home

dear bird beloved traveler
my heart I lay next to yours

Today through your song, my tender swallow,
I will remember my country, and cry.

This is a poem I once got from my mother. Yes, my mother. Bravest woman I ever met.

After her second bout with breast cancer.

PS: She is still alive.

(I don't think I should have to explain why I'm posting this today...)


Do not surrender even when defeated,
and do not be a slave even in bondage,
trembling with fear advance bravely,
and attack with fury, though badly wounded.

Be as stubborn as a rusting nail,
that refuses to yield though old and ruined,
and do not envy the peacock's plumage,
that hides in fear at the first noise.

Be as a god that never cries,
or as a devil that never prays,
or as the oak whose mighty canopy,
needs of water but does not beg it.

Even when it rolls to the dust,
let your head scowl and bite,
and scream for vengeance.

- Pedro Palacios Almafuerte
Argentinian poet 1854-1917

Paint Me Some Black Angels

Oh world, to that black woman, Juana
what a bad hand was dealt,
Her black man has died,
yes sir.

—Ay, my dearest compadre,
¡he was so healthy, my black man!
I could not feel his folds,
I could not see his bones;
as I became thiner,
I used my body as measure,
and he began to thin out
as I thinned out as well.

My black man has died;
as God willed it;
he will be next to him now
like an angel in heaven.

Face reality, comadre,
black angels don't exist.


Oh Painter who paints bedroom saints,
painter who's heart knows no land,
that while painting these saints
never remembers your countrymen,
that when you paint virgins,
always paints such beautiful angels,
but never remembers
to paint a black angel.


Painter born in my country,
with a foreign paintbrush,
painter that follows the path,
of so many painters of old,
even if the Virgin is white,
paint her some black angels.


There are no painters to paint
angels for my countrymen.
I want some white angels
next to the brown skinned ones.
Angels from good families
are not enough for my heaven.


If there is a painter of saints left,
if there is a painter of heavens left,
to make a heaven for this land,
with the hues of my countrymen,
with angels of fine pearl,
and angels of auburn hair,
with blond angels,
and brown skinned angels,
with white angels,
and Indian angels,
and black angels,
walking along eating mangoes
through the neighborhoods of heaven.


If I go to heaven someday,
I will search for him there,
my devil of an angel,
my dark black seraphim.

If you know how to paint your land,
you should paint your heaven thus,
with a sun that toasts the whites,
and makes the black ones sweat,
for that’s what it’s for,
warm and good to all.
So even if the Virgin is white,
paint me some black angels.


Is there no church anywhere,
Is there no church in any country,
where they have allowed
black angels on the canvass?
If not, where do they go,
the angels of my country,
the little vultures of the Guaribe,
or the black crows of Barvolento?

Painter that paints this country,
if you want to paint your heaven,
when you paint angels,
remember your countrymen
and next to the blond angel
side by side with the brunette one
Even if the Virgin is white
paint me some black angels.

Andrés Eloy Blanco