The land resists Because it cannot be Tempted, or broken In a chamber. It records, By carefully shuffling the leaves, The passage of each storm, rain And drought. The land yields In places, deliberately, Having learnt warfare from the armies It fed. The land is of one Piece and hasn’t forgotten Old miracles: the engraving of a bison On stone, for instance. The land Turns up like an unexpected Visitor and gives refuge, it cannot be Locked, or put away. The land Cannot sign its name It cannot die Because it cannot be buried It understands the language It speaks in dialect.
We present this work in honor of China’s National Day.
Yang Jiong Chinese 650 – c. 695
A String of bright beacon fires lights up the Capital; My blood’s boiling, my heart’s crying out for battle! Leaving Changan with royal warrant hastily, Armoured cavalries aim to besiege the enemy city.
Painted banners are dimmed by the heavy snows pelting, Thundering war drums are heard amidst the gusts howling. O, To be a fighting centurion I’d be most willing, Rather than a verse-reciting scholarly weakling!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 815th birthday.
Rumi Persian 1207 – 1273
The Prophet said that God has declared, “I am not contained in aught above or below, I am not contained in earth or sky, or even In highest heaven. Know this for a surety, O beloved! Yet am I contained in the believer’s heart! If ye seek Me, search in such hearts!”
We present this work in honor of the 120th anniversary of the poet’s death.
William Topaz McGonagall Scots 1825 – 1902
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay! Alas! I am very sorry to say That ninety lives have been taken away On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
‘Twas about seven o’clock at night, And the wind it blew with all its might, And the rain came pouring down, And the dark clouds seemed to frown, And the Demon of the air seem’d to say— “I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”
When the train left Edinburgh The passengers’ hearts were light and felt no sorrow, But Boreas blew a terrific gale, Which made their hearts for to quail, And many of the passengers with fear did say— “I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay.”
But when the train came near to Wormit Bay, Boreas he did loud and angry bray, And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
So the train sped on with all its might, And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight, And the passengers’ hearts felt light, Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year, With their friends at home they lov’d most dear, And wish them all a happy New Year.
So the train mov’d slowly along the Bridge of Tay, Until it was about midway, Then the central girders with a crash gave way, And down went the train and passengers into the Tay! The Storm Fiend did loudly bray, Because ninety lives had been taken away, On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
As soon as the catastrophe came to be known The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown, And the cry rang out all o’er the town, Good heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down, And a passenger train from Edinburgh, Which fill’d all the people’s hearts with sorrow, And made them all for to turn pale, Because none of the passengers were sav’d to tell the tale How the disaster happen’d on the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
It must have been an awful sight, To witness in the dusky moonlight, While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray, Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay. Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay, I must now conclude my lay By telling the world fearlessly without least dismay, That your central girders would not have given way, At least many sensible men do say, Had they been supported on each side with buttresses, At least many sensible men confesses, For the stronger we our houses do build, The less chance we have of being killed.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 140th birthday.
Vicenta Castro Cambón Argentine 1882 – 1928
“Are you feeling cold?” you asked me. I couldn’t deny that I was: you’d detected it in my countenance and possibly even my voice.
You were also feeling cold. I could tell, though not by your face; it’s as if your soul were kept on display to mine in a crystal vase. “Close the door!” you commanded. I thought: what we ought to close instead is that book of yours… That book was the source of the cold.
We present this work in honor of World Tourism Day.
Noël Coward English 1899 – 1973
Travel they say improves the mind, An irritating platitude, which frankly, entre nous, Is very far from true.
Personally I’ve yet to find that longitude and latitude can educate those scores of monumental bores Who travel in groups and herds and troupes Of varying breeds and sexes Till the whole world reels…
to shouts and squeals… And the clicking of Rolleiflexes.
Why do the wrong people travel, travel, travel When the right people stay back home? What compulsion compels them and who the hell tells them To drag their cans to Zanzibar, instead of staying quietly in Omaha. The Taj Mahal and the Grand Canal And the sunny French Rivera Would be less oppressed if the Middle West Would settle for somewhere rather nearer. Please do not think that I criticize or cavel at a genuine urge to roam. But why, oh why, do the wrong people travel
when the right people stay back home And mind their business when the right people stay back home And eat hot doughnuts when the right people stay back home I sometimes wonder why the right people stay back home.
Just when you think romance is ripe it rather sharply dawns on you That each sweet serenade is for the tourist trade Any attractive native type who resolutely fawns on you Will give as his address American Express There isn’t a rock between Bangkok and the beaches of Hispianola That does not recoil from suntan oil and the gurgle of Coca-Cola
Why do the wrong people travel, travel, travel When the right people stay back home? What explains this mass mania to leave Pennsylvania And clack around like flocks of geese. Demanding dry martinis on the isles of Greece In the smallest street, where the gourmets meet, They invariably fetch up And it’s hard to make them accept a steak that isn’t served rare and smeared with ketchup.
Millions of tourists are churning up the gravel While they gaze at St. Peter’s Dome,
But why, oh why do the wrong people travel when the right people stay back home with Cinerama when the right people stay back home with all that Kleenex when the right people stay back home I merely asking why the right people stay back home
What peculiar obsessions inspire those processions Of families from Houston Tex with all those cameras around their necks? They will take a train Or an aeroplane For an hour on the Costa Brava, And they’ll see Pompeii On the only day When it’s up to its ass in molten lava! It would take years to unravel, ravel, ravel Every impulse that makes them wanna roam. But why oh WHY do the wrong people travel When the right people stay at home.” and Yogie Bear-O when the right people stay back home won’t someone tell me why the right people stay back home.
The moon is dark tonight, a new moon for a new year. It is hollow and hungers to be full. It is the black zero of beginning.
Now you must void yourself of injuries, insults, incursions. Go with empty hands to those you have hurt and make amends.
It is not too late. It is early and about to grow. Now is the time to do what you know you must and have feared to begin. Your face is dark too as you turn inward to face yourself, the hidden twin of all you must grow to be.
Forgive the dead year. Forgive yourself. What will be wants to push through your fingers. The light you seek hides in your belly. The light you crave longs to stream from your eyes. You are the moon that will wax in new goodness.
We present this work in honor of the South African holiday, Heritage Day.
Elisabeth Eybers South African 1915 – 2007
I’ve nothing for hands and feet here, the rest was lost in transit: the dazed heart, the nervous tension – then again, what would be made of them?
To compare what’s been lost to what’s around, to grasp at light and sound though I don’t look or listen, I still have the senses on my face.
And in my breast and belly space I apprehend something else was in that place. Who’d have known that emptiness would be so heavy, that being unimpeded would result in such a bind?
Poets Corner 