We present this work in honor of the 250th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Thomas Gray English 1716 – 1771
T’was on a lofty vase’s side, Where China’s gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purred applause.
Still had she gazed; but ‘midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The genii of the stream: Their scaly armor’s Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What cat’s averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to every watery god, Some speedy aid to send. No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred; Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard; A favorite has no friend!
From hence, ye beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold.
My steadfast love! When I saw you one day by the market-house gable my eye gave a look my heart shone out I fled with you far from friends and home.
And never was sorry: you had parlours painted rooms decked out the oven reddened and loaves made up roasts on spits and cattle slaughtered; I slept in duck-down till noontime came or later if I liked.
My steadfast friend! it comes to my mind that fine Spring day how well your hat looked with the drawn gold band, the sword silver-hilted your fine brave hand and menacing prance, and the fearful tremble of treacherous enemies. You were set to ride your slim white-faced steed and Saxons saluted down to the ground, not from good will but by dint of fear – though you died at their hands, my soul’s beloved…
My steadfast friend! And when they come home, our little pet Conchúr and baby Fear Ó Laoghaire, they will ask at once where I left their father. I will tell them in woe he is left in Cill na Martar, and they’ll call for their father and get no answer…
My steadfast friend! I didn’t credit your death till your horse came home and her reins on the ground, your heart’s blood on her back to the polished saddle where you sat – where you stood…. I gave a leap to the door, a second leap to the gate and a third on your horse.
I clapped my hands quickly and started mad running as hard as I could, to find you there dead by a low furze-bush with no Pope or bishop or clergy or priest to read a psalm over you but a spent old woman who spread her cloak corner where your blood streamed from you, and I didn’t stop to clean it but drank it from my palms.
My steadfast love! Arise, stand up and come with myself and I’ll have cattle slaughtered and call fine company and hurry up the music and make you up a bed with bright sheets upon it and fine speckled quilts to bring you out in a sweat where the cold has caught you.
II
My friend and my treasure! Many fine-made women from Cork of the sails to Droichead na Tóime would bring you great herds and a yellow gold handful, and not sleep in their room on the night of your wake.
My friend and my lamb! Don’t you believe them nor the scandal you heard nor the jealous man’s gossip that it’s sleeping I went. It was no heavy slumber but your babies so troubled and all of them needing to be settled in peace.
People of my heart, what woman in Ireland from setting of sun could stretch out beside him and bear him three sucklings and not run wild losing Art Ó Laoghaire who lies here vanquished since yesterday morning?…
Long loss, bitter grief I was not by your side when the bullet was fired so my right side could take it or the edge of my shift till I freed you to the hills, my fine-handed horseman!
My sharp bitter loss I was not at your back when the powder was fired so my fine waist could take it or the edge of my dress, till I let you go free, My grey-eyed rider, ablest for them all.
III
My friend and my treasure trove! An ugly outfit for a warrior: a coffin and a cap on that great-hearted horseman who fished in the rivers and drank in the halls with white-breasted women. My thousand confusions I have lost the use of you. Ruin and bad cess to you, ugly traitor Morris, who took the man of my house and father of my young ones – a pair walking the house and the third in my womb, and I doubt that I’ll bear it.
My friend and beloved! When you left through the gate you came in again quickly, you kissed both your children, kissed the tips of my fingers. You said: ” Eibhlín, stand up and finish with your work lively and swiftly: I am leaving our home and may never return.” I made nothing of his talk for he spoke often so.
My friend and my share! O bright-sworded rider rise up now, put on your immaculate fine suit of clothes, put on your black beaver and pull on your gloves. There above is your whip and your mare is outside. Take the narrow road Eastward where the bushes bend before you and the stream will narrow for you and men and women will bow if they have their proper manners – as I doubt they have at present…
My love, and my beloved! Not my people who have died – not my three dead children nor big Dónall Ó Conaill nor Conall drowned on the sea nor the girl of twenty-six who went across the ocean alliancing with kings – not all these do I summon but Art, reaped from his feet last night on the inch of Carriginima. The brown mare’s rider deserted here beside me, no living being near him but the little black mill-women – and to top my thousand troubles their eyes not even streaming.
My friend and my calf! O Art Ó Laoghaire son of Conchúr son of Céadach son of Laoiseach Ó Laoghaire: West from the Gaortha and East from the Caolchnoc where the berries grow, yellow nuts on the branches and masses of apples in their proper season – need anyone wonder if Uibh Laoghaire were alight and Béal Atha an Ghaorthaígh and Gúgán the holy or the fine-handed rider who used tire out the hunt as they panted from Greanach and the slim hounds gave up? Alluring-eyed rider, o what ailed you last night? For I thought myself when I bought your uniform the world couldn’t kill you!
IV
My love and my darling! My love, my bright dove! Though I couldn’t be with you nor bring you my people that’s no cause for reproach, for hard pressed were they all in shuttered rooms and narrow coffins in a sleep with no waking.
Were it not for the smallpox and the black death and the spotted fever those rough horse-riders would be rattling their reins and making a tumult on the way to your funeral, Art of the bright breast…
My friend and my calf! A vision in dream was vouchsafed me last night in Cork, a late hour, in bed by myself: our white mansion had fallen, the Gaortha had withered, our slim hounds were silent and no sweet birds, when you were found spent out in midst of the mountain with no priest or cleric but an ancient old woman to spread the edge of her cloak, and you stitched to the earth, Art Ó Laoghaire, and streams of your blood on the breast of your shirt.
My love and my darling! It is well they became you your stocking, five-ply, riding -boots to the knee, cornered Caroline hat and a lively whip on a spirited gelding, many modest mild maidens admiring behind you.
My steadfast love! When you walked through the servile strong-built towns, the merchants’ wives would salute to the ground knowing well in their hearts a fine bed-mate you were a great front-rider and father of children.
Jesus Christ well knows there’s no cap upon my skull nor shift next to my body nor shoe upon my foot-sole nor furniture in my house nor reins on the brown mare but I’ll spend it on the law; that I’ll go across the ocean to argue with the King, and if he won’t pay attention that I’ll come back again to the black-blooded savage that took my treasure.
V
My love and my beloved! Your corn-stacks are standing, your yellow cows milking. Your grief upon my heart all Munster couldn’t cure, nor the smiths of Oiledn na bhFionn.
Till Art Ó Laoghaire comes my grief will not disperse but cram my heart’s core, shut firmly in like a trunk locked up when the key is lost.
Women there weeping, stay there where you are, till Art Mac Conchúir summons drink with some extra for the poor – ere he enter that school not for study or for music but to bear clay and stones.
We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Gertrude Stein American 1874 – 1946
A purse was not green, it was not straw color, it was hardly seen and it had a use a long use and the chain, the chain was never missing, it was not misplaced, it showed that it was open, that is all that it showed.
I have seen many wonders in my life, countless, But who, noble Clibanus, however many his mouths, could proclaim Your might, when born a worthless mortal? But rather It is right for you to be called a new fiery ocean, Paean and parent, provider of sweet streams. From you the thousandfold swell is born, one here, one there, On this side boiling-hot, on that side in turn icy-cold and tepid. Into fountains four-fold four you pour out your beauty. Indian and Matrona, Repentius, holy Elijah, Antoninus the Good, Dewy Galatia, and Hygieia herself, warm baths both large and small, Pearl, ancient Clibanus, Indian and other Matrona, Strong, Nun, and the Patriarch’s. For those in pain your powerful might is always everlasting. But I will sing of a god, renowned for wisdom For the benefit of speaking mortals.
Let us be quiet now; let all the voice Be of calm waters, while the silence singe, Like a vast rumour of unheard-of things That know not grief, nor dream how men rejoice.
The low hills love the silence; in the haze They dream of what the sea is murmuring In dim reverberance—some hidden thing The sea learns from its heavenward endless gaze.
These things hold perfect knowledge: lo! The sea, The hills all satisfied for ever; lo! The full sun seeth, and the great winds know; And these things are, while we but strive to be.
In honor of Revolution Day, we present this work by one of today’s most evocative Egyptian poets.
Yahia Lababidi Egyptian b. 1973
There are hours when every thing creaks when chairs stretch their arms, tables their legs and closets crack their backs, incautiously
Fed up with the polite fantasy of having to stay in one place and stick to their stations
Humans too, at work, or in love know such aches and growing pains when inner furnishings defiantly shift
As decisively, and imperceptibly, as a continent some thing will stretch, croak or come undone so that everything else must be reconsidered
One restless dawn, unable to suppress the itch of wanderlust, with a heavy door left ajar semi-deliberately, and a new light teasing in Some piece of immobility will finally quit suddenly nimble on wooden limbs as fast as a horse, fleeing the stable.
We present this work in honor of the 430th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Veronica Franco Italian 1546 – 1591
If I could be certain of your love, from what your words and face display, which often conceal a changing mind; if external signs revealed what the mind conceals within, so that a person were not so often entrapped by deceit, I would cast aside this fear, for which, however I tried to protect myself, I would be mocked as simple and unwise; “to the same place one can take many roads,”
the proverb says; and it is never safe to change one’s direction according to appearances. Let no one stray from the beaten path who is trying to find safe shelter before the night comes to catch up with him. The path of hope is not straightforward, for more often than not, it leads astray with lying words and false pretense; the path of certainty is the right way, which always leads to peaceful rest
and is safe on both sides and from. behind; to this path I raise up my eyes’ thought and, disappointed by words and charm, I leave behind all their misleading lures. May you find this an acceptable excuse, may it acquit me of the charge that I believe neither your gestures nor your words. And if you truly love me, it grieves me very much that you do not reveal yourself by deeds, as a man who loves truly usually does:
I am sorry, on one hand, that you feel pain, and on the other, that you frustrate me in my desire to satisfy your true love. Since I will not believe that I am loved, nor should I believe it or reward you for the pledge you have made me up to now, win my approval, sir, with deeds: prove yourself through them, if I, too, am expected to prove my love with deeds; but if instead you long for fictions,
as long as you persist in spinning out tales, my welcome to you will be just as false; and, when, fatigued and annoyed by fictions, you show me your love in deeds, I will assure you of mine in the same way. I will show you my heart open in my breast, once you no longer hide yours from me, and my delight will be to please you; and if you think I am so dear to Phoebus for composing poems, in the works of love you’ll find me dearer still to Venus.
Certain qualities concealed within me, I will reveal to you, infinitely sweetly, which prose or verse has never shown another, on this condition: that you prove your love to me by other means than compliments, for I take care not to be fooled by them; please me more with deeds and praise me less, and where your courtesy overflows into praise, distribute it in some other way. Does what I say seem right to you,
or do you instead perhaps think I am wrong, lacking experience to choose the right path? Sir, being mocked is a most painful thing, especially in love; and let whoever does not believe this show his reason why. I am ready to walk in step with you, and I will love you beyond any doubt, just as your merit requires I should. If in your breast you have love’s burning fire I’ll feel it by your side, for it will have
The power to set my heart aflame, too; it’s not possible to escape its blows, and whoever feels truly loved is bound to love the lover in return; but attempting to make white pass for black is something that everybody dislikes, even those whose judgment is weak. So show me the fruits of your love for me, for only foolish folk are deceived by the lure of empty words.
Despite what I now answer you, I’d not want you to think me greedy for gain, for that vice is not concealed in my breast; but I would like you to believe that when I love, my courteous desires, if not chaste, are decidedly chary; and as soon as I have understood that a man is brave and that he loves me, I’ve returned his principal with interest. But whoever, on this account, should decide
to try to fool me is himself a fool; and anyone he asks could tell him so. And what I now request from you is not that you express your love for me with silver or with gold; for to make a deal with a gentleman in order to extract a treasure from him is most improper if one’s not entirely venal. Such an act doesn’t suit my profession, but I want to see, I say it clearly,
your love in deeds instead of words. You know well what I most cherish: behave in this as I’ve already told you, and you’ll be my special, matchless lover. My heart falls in love with virtues, and you, who possess so many of them that in you all the finest wisdom dwells, don’t deny me your effort in such a great cause let me see you longing in this way to acquire a lover’s claim upon me;
be diligent and eager in this task and in order to grant my wish, do not be idle in your free time. This will be no burden to you for to your prowess any undertaking, however difficult, comes with ease. And if such a small task weighs you down, think of how iron and stone fly aloft, when set in motion by a burning flame; whatever by nature tends to sink downward
through the fury of fire, more than any other force, turns to rise from the center to the rim; so love for me has no place within you since it lacks the power to make you do what even without love would be a small thing. And do you then hope to make me love as if you believed that with one single leap I should suddenly fall in love with you? I don’t glory in this or exalt myself; but, to tell you the truth, you want to fly
without wings and rise too high all at once; let your desire match your ability, for you can easily reach a height that others, with effort, cannot attain. I long to have a real reason to love you and I leave it up to you to decide, so that you have no right to complain. There’ll be no gap between merit and reward if you’ll give me what, though in my opinion it has great value, costs you not a thing;
your reward from me will be not only to fly but to soar so high that your hope will match your desires. And my beauty, such as it is, which you never tire of praising, I’ll then employ for your contentment; sweetly lying at your left side, I will make you taste the delights of love when they have been expertly learned; And doing this, I could give you such pleasure
that you could say you were fully content, and at once fall more deeply in love. So sweet and delicious do I become, when I am in bed with a man who, I sense, loves and enjoys me, that the pleasure I bring excels all delight, so the knot of love, however tight it seemed before, is tied tighter still. Phoebus, who serves the goddess of love, and obtains from her as a sweet reward
what blesses him far more than being a god, comes from her to reveal to my mind the positions that Venus assumes with him when she holds him in sweet embraces; so that I, well taught in such matters, know how to perform so well in bed that this art exceeds Apollo’s by far, and my singing and writing are both forgotten by the man who experiences me in this way, which Venus reveals to people who serve her.
If your soul is vanquished by love for me, arrange to have me in far sweeter fashion than anything my pen can declare. Your valor is the steadfast knot that can pull me to your lap, joined to you more tightly than a nail in hard wood; your skill can make you master of my life, for which you show so much love that skill that miraculously stands out in you. Let me see the works I’ve asked for from you,
for then you’ll enjoy my sweetness to the full; and I will also take pleasure in yours, in the way that mutual love allows, which provides delight free from all pain. I yearn and long to have a good reason to love you: decide what you think best, for every outcome depends on your will.
We present this work in honor of the 225th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Robert Burns Scots 1759 – 1796
Ye banks and braes o’ bonie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu’ o’ care! Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o’ departed joys, Departed never to return.
Aft hae I rov’d by Bonie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine: And ilka bird sang o’ its Luve, And fondly sae did I o’ mine; Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree! And may fause Luver staw my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.
Poets Corner 