We present this work in honor of the 530th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Jami Persian 1414 – 1492
The price of a man consists not in silver and gold; The value of a man is his power and virtue. Many a slave has by acquiring virtue Attained much greater power than a gentleman And many a gentleman has for want of virtue, Become inferior to his own slave.
In the older photograph my eyes are two frowning pockets, and my chest only housed knots and clauses. I used fast shutter speeds to capture photographs before sadness spilled into the frame. I was never one to track progress, but today I did.
Before taking that selfie, I bent the sun toward my face and poured it into my void like cement filling the cracks of a wall. My troubled teenage years lingered in my throat like a shoplifter in a supermarket aisle.
What a difference 5 years makes, today my skin is no longer a carousel of masks. Praises be to a thick syrup of therapy, a puree of prayer, peelings of coping mechanisms, a cup of my mother’s honeyed voice.
In the second photograph the white space is filled with a safe noise. My shoulders are firm and upward, my eyes are two glowing pebbles. Not even an edit can smudge this moment.
The Prophet, who dwells in the Garden’s summit, Most deserving of God’s praise and glory, Experienced, worthy to guide God’s servants, The beloved, who knows the secrets of hearts Leads the messengers from beginning to end The beautiful dhikr begins and ends on him. From the signs of the messengers they were ahead. The most brilliant are those from our Messenger.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 265th birthday.
Mikhail Nikitich Muravyov Russian 1757 – 1807
Your evening is full of coolness— The shore is moving in crowds Like a magical serenade The voice is carried by the wave Reveal the goddess of grace Seeing enthusiastic piit. That spends sleepless nights Leaning on granite.
We present this work in honor of National Unity Day.
Mikhail Lomonosov Russian 1711 – 1765
on the birthday of her majesty, the sovereign empress Elisaveta Petrovna, autocrat of all Russia, in the year 1746
This very day, most blessèd Russia, A pleasing land in heaven’s eyes, This very day from holy heights Elisaveta’s given thee. To raise our Peter posthumously, To crush our foes’ o’erweening pride And cast them also into horror, To make thee safe from dire misfortunes, To place thee judge above the kingdoms And elevate thee o’er the clouds.
Oh child of Him who thunders above us, Mother of all the tribes of earth, Oh Nature, marvelous in actions, As if you judge me to be worthy To know the deepest of your secrets, And if the weak engine of thoughts May penetrate into your mansions, Present to me that fateful epoch And the stars’ whole course in order, As He most high gave us this token.
Through stormy clouds of former sadness, Which cruèl fate brought unto us, Oh, how the mountains wept for Peter And Pontus roared within its banks, Through changes dreadful for the Rossians, Through the dust that wars disturbed, I see that bright and radiant moment: There ’round the young Elisaveta Shine planets bearing happy fate, I hear the voice of Nature present.
How clear the sun when that first time Upon you shone its gleaming ray, Already fortune stretched her hand With love for all your pleasant ways, She held the crown above your head And elevated there before you The trophies of your fathers’ conquests, Most glorious to the ends of earth. How fortunate was Russia then When first upon the world you gazed!
Then from Poltava, filled with gladness, The sound of Rossian vict’ry roared, Then all the universe’s limits Could not contain the fame of Peter, Then the heads of vanquished vandals Bowed low as they were herded past, E’en when you were in swaddling clothes; Then it was that fate made known, The regiments of their descendants Would fall before you tremorously.
But lo, the various tongues and peoples From the great rivers and the seas Lift up harmonious exclamations, To you, their monarch and their lady, They spread out wide their hearts and hands, And many a time do they repeat: “Long live the great Elisaveta, Born on this day for Rossian glory, And may the heavens fortify her Through multitudes of happy years.”
Poets Corner 