We present this work in honor of the 10th anniversary of the poet’s death.
M.Z. Ribalow American 1948 – 2012
It takes so little for the unraveling to commence—a careless gesture, a reassuring phrase never quite uttered, a heedless moment that seemed rhapsodically hopeful but which left resonant repercussions that altered everything. A legacy of scars: emotional ones fade but not away, physical ones blend but don’t tan.
The rap music you give as a birthday gift to your nephew because it’s what he likes, the visit you force yourself to make because your relatives need cheering up, your friend’s neurotic phone call that consumes the night— the recipients are grateful, but none of it ever washes away your secret detritus. Expiation seems a goal, but is a way of life.
It began happening so long ago, in details too nuanced to notice. A slight misstep sprains an ankle that never fully heals; a dropped stitch subtly renders imperfect the entire tapestry. Nothing to be done now but to recover; make The most of what remains, the best of what May be. Though you recall the white whale, Do not pursue him through the oceanic past.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Meira Delmar Colombian 1922 – 2009
There’s nothing like this bliss of feeling so alone in mid-afternoon and in the middle of the wheat field; under the summer sky and in the arms of the wind I am one more ear of wheat.
I have nothing in my soul,not even a small sorrow, nor an old remembrance that would make me dream… I only have this bliss of being alone in the afternoon, just with the afternoon!
A very long silence is falling on the field, for already the sun is leaving and already the wind is leaving; who would give me forever this inexpressible bliss of being, alone and serene, a miracle of peace!
We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Revolution Day.
Amal Al Akhdar Moroccan 21st century
Do not open the windows wide… Outside… there are things With no names, Transcending the space in the air . The trees bow its length to it, The sun… shrinks to itself… It was blinded by its light She backed up sighing Outside… The dust assumes the forms of humans, Licking the buildings… the pavement Ivy climbing… The small café at the end of the street Do not open the windows wide… Let them be closed. The descents of Tatars are coming The bells are tolled from afar… And the sky is growls and rumbles The windmills… Hardly stop Electricity poles on the wall Bend… Crackling and neighing Horses struck by panic, And they chose to leave Do not open the windows wide .. Your dreams may fall On the pavement And the climbing bulldozer may smash you Or your heavy bodies may fall. Do not ask about a beloved who did not return Nor a kid of yours in school Do not buy morning bread… Nor Newspaper Do not greet your neighbor as usual… Do not fix the clock’s hands No, no do not open the windows Hide behind it on oblique chairs Enjoy polishing an old coat Or caress the backs of luxurious cats Or sip evening tea Or laugh on the impact of an insipid joke Do not open wide the windows wide… Swarms of swallows Kidnap their small bodies, And flee dripping The tree shake their roots, Wishing they would to fly. But they only swallow their disappointments And remain a witness of current events Crackle of imminent thunder The specters of the death… Leaving their long slumber Grumbling… And moaning As if… horses of resurrection Are coming
We present this work in honor of National Aviation Day.
Robert Graves English 1895 – 1985
The butterfly, the cabbage white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight, Yet has – who knows so well as I? – A just sense of how not to fly: He lurches here and here by guess And God and hope and hopelessness. Even the aerobatic swift Has not his flying-crooked gift.
O dark one, with beautiful eyes, have mercy on me, my birth is low, my reputation black as night.
O dark one, with beautiful eyes, please, have mercy on me. The Vedas proclaim you champion of the low savior of the downtrodden like me. Kanhopatra surrenders again and again, O dark one, have mercy on me.
Either carrying shells as gifts
From the Erythaian cliff
Or halcyon chicks still unwinged
Presents for the girl from an anxious man.
His Siren girl neighbor felt pity
For he was swimming toward that beach
And the regions close to Aitna.
We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Allegiance Day.
Mohammed Bennis Moroccan b. 1948
A ghost You attend to the ruby time No east will rise in you or west A niche Drowned in blue rustle shrouded by the Kingdom A clay horizon Eternity Dangling like a bunch of grapes For a hand that drifts away And dies
A stone Forgets its master Was he Here Or was he there A stone above a stone Rises to watch you The comer No one Is still awake but you
A silence attends to me And for you my guest There will be a night of papyri And a night of Ageless Distances Arriving in hissing scents The night’s end And beginning Are identical Friezes are becoming one Under the feet of the river’s dusk Intoxication echoes resonate inside me And fade away
Poets Corner 