In honor of V-E Day, we present this work by a poet of the French Resistance.
Louis Aragon French 1897 – 1982
In the grey sky were porcelain angels In the grey sky were stifled cries I remember those days at Mainz The Black Rhine and the weeping Loreleis
You would find sometimes at the end of an alley A Frenchman dead with a knife-blade in the back You would find sometimes that the peace was cruel For all the young white wine of the terraces
I drank their transparent Kirschwasser I drank the vows they whispered with clasped hand How lovely were the palaces and churches I was twenty then, I did not understand
What did I know about days of defeat When you r country is a love forbidden When you need the voice of false prophets To bring lost hope to life again ?
I remember songs that touched the heart I remember signs chalked in red Found in the morning scribbled on walls We never once deciphered what they said
Who can say where memory begins Who can say where the present ends Where the past becomes a sentimental ballad And sorrow a paper yellowed with age?
Like a child surprised among his dreams The blank looks of the vanquished made you Then, at the tramp of guard relieving guard The Rhenish silence shuddered to its heart.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 160th birthday.
Rabindranath Tagore Indian 1861 – 1941
The night is black and the forest has no end; a million people thread it in a million ways. We have trysts to keep in the darkness, but where or with whom – of that we are unaware. But we have this faith – that a lifetime’s bliss will appear any minute, with a smile upon its lips. Scents, touches, sounds, snatches of songs brush us, pass us, give us delightful shocks. Then peradventure there’s a flash of lightning: whomever I see that instant I fall in love with. I call that person and cry: `This life is blest! for your sake such miles have I traversed!’ All those others who came close and moved off in the darkness – I don’t know if they exist or not.
In the garden, the rose commanded a cavalry of flowers, And put to flames again the dwelling place of the bulbul.
In the crucible of the bud the nightingale purifies gold, That the rose might craft itself a ring for its ear.
The rose will not open the opium-vial of the bud to the knowers of mysteries, So long as it is withdrawn, master of the secret of the trance.
The bulbul teaches the Parliament of birds to the garden of children, Like the Perfumer, ‘Attar, the rose makes clear its every chapter.
Eager waiting opens wounds in the nightingale’s heart. O Lord! Why does the rose keep such a tight collar on the bud?
Know this! In the rosebower every leaf is a page of delicate meaning, Each bud The treasury of inner truth, each rose The dawn of illumination.
Truly, the flame and cotton can have no dance together. The roses enfold the bulbul, like a salamander, in flames.
It is the black burn at its breast that makes each poppy loved, So the rose in the meadow cannot shy from the cruelty of the thorn.
No wonder the flames of jealousy turn the bulbul to ash; The playful rose hangs, laughing from the neck of every branch.
The rose made the bulbul’s nest a howdah for its kin, Thus it seems to have made ready its caravan of exile.
It is time the rose caused the mouths of baby nightingales to open, And thus make shepherd’s pipes of the bulbul’s nest.
The rose begs the morning breeze for the dust of the Monarch’s feet As salve to cure the eye of the ailing narcissus of the garden.
What a Lord is Sultan Suleyman, the sound and firm of heart, For whom the sun is but a gilded rosette on the portico of his palace!
The scent that wafts from the markets of China is but a trace of his virtue’s scent. The rose, lord of flowers, is but a leaf in the chapter of his generosity.
Were it not, once a year, to bow its head in the dust at his feet, The rose would not have bejewelled its ruby crown with pearls of dew.
Your enemy’s head, drenched in blood on the point of your spear, Is like that tall and slender sapling tipped by a rose.
In the era of your justice, it is time that the rose beg mercy, O Shah! For taking the blood of the bulbul, to rouge its face.
The bud is ever tight-lipped but in describing your justice; And the rose recites no litany but that of your kind gifts.
My Lord, I came but to rub my face in the tracks of your hounds. To me they are the only thornless roses in the bower of this world.
The rose made the nest of the bulbul a bowl for begging, And thus came importunate to your court like a ragged dervish.
The rose-bush has adorned itself with brands all bloody, O lord of beauty, since it became the lover of your face.
Tears made of dew are born on the rose’s face, As it bewails the ill fortune of your slave Hayâlî.
O you, mighty as Jemshid, though I be transitory, my words live on. The rose itself is destroyed but its traces remain in the rose-water.
Though I have come after Necâtĺ and Nevâyî, why sorrow? The thorn sprouts first from the branch and after the thorn, a rose.
Though the thorn of grief bloodied my heart like the bud, The fruit of the sprout of my fortune’s garden is a rose.
Just as every point of rain has for its source a cloud, As the roses are drawn without compasses in the shapes of circles,
Let prosperity be the bud of the rose-bower of your reign, And you, with rose-garden cheeks, smile like a rose at every breath.
We present this work in honor of the 70th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Marriott Edgar Scots 1880 – 1951
There’s a famous seaside place called Blackpool, That’s noted for fresh air and fun, And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom Went there with young Albert, their son.
A grand little lad was young Albert, All dressed in his best; quite a swell With a stick with an ‘orse’s ‘ead ‘andle, The finest that Woolworth’s could sell.
They didn’t think much of the Ocean: The waves, they were fiddlin’ and small, There was no wrecks and nobody drownded, Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.
So, seeking for further amusement, They paid and went into the Zoo, Where they’d Lions and Tigers and Camels, And old ale and sandwiches too.
There were one great big Lion called Wallace; His nose were all covered with scars – He lay in a somnolent posture, With the side of his face on the bars.
Now Albert had heard about Lions, How they was ferocious and wild – To see Wallace lying so peaceful, Well, it didn’t seem right to the child.
So straightway the brave little feller, Not showing a morsel of fear, Took his stick with its ‘orse’s ‘ead ‘andle And pushed it in Wallace’s ear.
You could see that the Lion didn’t like it, For giving a kind of a roll, He pulled Albert inside the cage with ‘im, And swallowed the little lad ‘ole.
Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence, And didn’t know what to do next, Said ‘Mother! Yon Lion’s ‘et Albert’, And Mother said ‘Well, I am vexed!’
Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom – Quite rightly, when all’s said and done – Complained to the Animal Keeper, That the Lion had eaten their son.
The keeper was quite nice about it; He said ‘What a nasty mishap. Are you sure that it’s your boy he’s eaten?’ Pa said “Am I sure? There’s his cap!’
The manager had to be sent for. He came and he said ‘What’s to do?’ Pa said ‘Yon Lion’s ‘et Albert, ‘And ‘im in his Sunday clothes, too.’
Then Mother said, ‘Right’s right, young feller; I think it’s a shame and a sin, For a lion to go and eat Albert, And after we’ve paid to come in.’
The manager wanted no trouble, He took out his purse right away, Saying ‘How much to settle the matter?’ And Pa said “What do you usually pay?’
But Mother had turned a bit awkward When she thought where her Albert had gone. She said ‘No! someone’s got to be summonsed’ – So that was decided upon.
Then off they went to the P’lice Station, In front of the Magistrate chap; They told ‘im what happened to Albert, And proved it by showing his cap.
The Magistrate gave his opinion That no one was really to blame And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms Would have further sons to their name.
At that Mother got proper blazing, ‘And thank you, sir, kindly,’ said she. ‘What waste all our lives raising children To feed ruddy Lions? Not me!’
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
Salah Abdel Sabour Egyptian 1931 – 1981
You spoke to me Of winged horse-shoes Sparking all round, Flashing, igniting The golden crescents Of city minarets; You spoke to me Of a bunch of swords hard, Stuck in a rock so stark, To be drawn only on a spell: Namely, the names, the charmed names of your bunch, How great, how formidable, How good, how nice, how sweet – unconquerable! ‘O minstrel’, you ordered, ‘Sing us a song ‘(But keep your eyes down ‘In our presence) ‘Sing us a lay ‘To tickle our pride ‘In the victory of the side, ‘And when the appointed hour comes ‘(An hour unveiled ‘By a cloud dispelled) ‘We’ll drink up the dregs ‘When the devil’s helmet begs ‘To be a goblet bright ‘For the wine of superior knight’.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 60th birthday.
Lisa Bellear Australian 1961 – 2006
Weep for this wounded desperate soul that never seems to heal, alone, vocalising to any passer by. Uncomfortable for some, they turn away, but that won’t stop her swaying, or mend her destructive pain
Pray for this tired old and embittered lady who fought courageously against the colonisers classified as ‘tribal’ whose love across the racial lines meant government sanctioned interference: the Bullyman, welfare, local school teacher – informant, would not relent till Ruby was removed
Three long years of hiding from the tentacles of institutionalised racism, till a moments lapse and then she’s gone Ruby’s gone, like she never existed, nor was ever loved. Rocking to and fro, she still dreams of little Ruby and of that fateful day and wonders what their life could’ve been like without this government sanctioned cruelty
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 270th birthday.
Judith Sargent Murray American 1751 – 1820
When will these rude tumultuous clamours cease, When shall we hear the genial voice of peace; My tir’d soul is sick of these alarms, This vain parade, this constant din of arms. I wish, devoutly wish, for some retreat, Where but the shepherd’s pipe my ear may greet, Where I may calmly hail the rising day, On life’s eventful threshold while I stray. I would in its variety enjoy, The mental feast I would my hours employ, To cull the flowers of wisdom as they grow, To reap the fruits which love and truth bestow.
But ah! Alas! On a rough Ocean tost, To all the bliss of social pleasures lost; My little back by winds of passion driv’n, Blown to, and fro, by each opinion giv’n; Sees in perspective no auspicious shore
Which can its safety, or its hopes restore; Terrifick visions in succession rise, A host of fears the trembling soul surprise.
And can it be, will dark vindictive rage, ‘Gainst helpless towns revengeful battle wage, When far removed from the hostile scene When cities rise, when Oceans roll between
Must Glous’ter though obscure be doom’d to feel, The British thunder, and the British steel, Forbid it British valour, British grace, And spare so little, so remote a place.
