from I Saw a Gazelle Today…

Boumediene Ben Sahla
Algerian
19th century

I saw a gazelle today wandering alone on the way,
running scared in the desert— the Arabs called her a jinn!
If she could be bought I’d spare a hundred sultanis!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Even though I could spare a hundred that won’t be enough!
As I look into her eyes I feel I have to sing about her
for all beauty is hers— she’s torturing me, O listeners!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
All beauty’s gone to her— she with the languid eyes!
The perfect body— which sets my heart ablaze!
Her forehead—a shiny full moon makes me shiver with love!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Eyebrows & eyelashes like swords; jewels hanging down a shiny forehead.
I stared at her all the time feeling crazy about her!
I’ve lost my mind, I’m sure— should you try, you’ll forgive me!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
When I keep silent, my friends, I can hear demons inside me!
I hear a string plucked in my head but no one starts singing!
In spite of the oud & wine in the glass I find no one to entertain me!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Fall in love & you’ll see what I had to go through because of this gazelle
I once met on my way & since then she’s driven me crazy!
When I cry no one feels any pity! When I stifle my pain it hurts so much!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
What can I do? I need help! No description fits her beauty!
This gazelle is so gorgeous my words can’t describe her!
Her hair’s soft as silk & black as a Sudanese!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Black, yellow, & of all colors! Her eyes do cast a spell!
Her neck’s a fine bough from a ben tree or the stem of a lily!
Her mouth an agate or pure gold set with coral!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
When will this fire be quenched O you who understand my poem?
I didn’t know I’d roam the high seas when my pirate took me on that schooner!
I beg the merciful Lord forgive my sins!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Be kind to me, O friends! Look for the bough of the ben tree
the one who lives beyond my reach in the district of Laqran!
She left me with a tormented mind— O Lord, give me patience!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!

Translation by Abdelfetah Chenni

Millionaire and Barefoot Boy

We present this work in honor of Canada Day.

George Thomas Lanigan
Canadian
1845 – 1886

‘Tis evening, and the round red sun sinks slowly in the west,
The flowers fold their petals up, the birds fly to their nest,
The crickets chirrup in the grass, the bats flit to and fro,
And tinkle-tankle up the lane the lowing cattle go,
And the rich man from his carriage looks out on them as they come—
On them and on the barefoot boy that drives the cattle home.

“I wish,” the boy says to himself—“I wish that I were he,
And yet, upon maturer thought, I do not—no siree!
Not for all the gold his coffers hold would I be that duffer there,
With a liver pad and a gouty toe, and scarce a single hair;
To have a wife with a Roman nose, and fear lest a panic come—
Far better be the barefoot boy that drives the cattle home.”

And the rich man murmurs to himself: “Would I give all my pelf
To change my lot with yonder boy? Not if I now myself.
Over the grass that’s full of ants, and chill with dew to go—
With a stone bruise upon either heel, and a splinter in my toe!
Oh, I’d rather sail my yacht a year across the ocean’s foam
Than be one day the barefoot boy that drives the cattle home.”

Why Am I Strong?

We present this work in honor of the 100th anniversary of the poet’s death.

You will say that it is false. It is not right. I descend
To the depths of my soul every time I hesitate…
Every time a tear or a scream
Betrays my anguish – when I feel myself fainting…
And all astonishment, all love, I confess,
The threshold of this blessed country
I cross : – The parties of infinity await me!
The horror of life, dazzled, I forget!
It’s just that there are valleys, skies, heights inside,
That the gaze of the world does not tarnish, the tender
Moon, flowers, dear creatures,
And it sounds in every bush, in every cave,
The symphony of eternal passion!…
– And behold- make me strong again for the fight.

Shapes and Signs

We present this work in honor of the 175th anniversary of the poet’s death.

I see black dragons mount the sky,
I see earth yawn beneath my feet —
I feel within the asp, the worm
That will not sleep and cannot die,
Fair though may show the winding-sheet!
I hear all night as through a storm
Hoarse voices calling, calling
My name upon the wind—
All omens monstrous and appalling
Affright my guilty mind.

I exult alone in one wild hour —
That hour in which the red cup drowns
The memories it anon renews
In ghastlier guise, in fiercer power —
Then Fancy brings me golden crowns,
And visions of all brilliant hues
Lap my lost soul in gladness,
Until I awake again,
And the dark lava-fires of madness
Once more sweep through my brain.

Sonnet

We present this work in honor of the 145th anniversary of the poet’s death.

I am finally in the den of death
where sorrows and pains do not fly,
where the stars and flowers do not shine,
where there is no memory that awakens.

If one day nature has fun
breaking the horrors from this prison,
and its burning, wandering breaths
pour on my loose dust,

I, for eternity already devoured,
Will I enjoy if that dust is a rose?
Will I moan if a serpent nests in it?

Not even nightmares will give me a care,
Nor will a hateful voice frighten my sleep,
Not even a whole God will bring me back to life.

Barbara Frietchie

We present this work in honor of Flag Day.

John Greenleaf Whittier
American
1807 – 1892

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall;

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars
Forty flag with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!” – the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!” – out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word;

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

Why

We present this work in honor of the 95th anniversary of the poet’s death.

For a name unknown,
Whose fame unblown
Sleeps in the hills
For ever and aye;

For her who hears
The stir of the years
Go by on the wind
By night and day;

And heeds no thing
Of the needs of spring,
Of autumn’s wonder
Or winter’s chill;

For one who sees
The great sun freeze,
As he wanders a-cold
From hill to hill;

And all her heart
Is a woven part
Of the flurry and drift
Of whirling snow;

For the sake of two
Sad eyes and true,
And the old, old love
So long ago.

O Dove

o dove go to essaouira’s sons
who live in tlemcen
greet them with peace from allah
pray for their glory & light
that they come back the way they’ve left
from the lion gate you’ll take flight o dove
you’ll ask for protection from sidi mogdul patron of the harbor
his news has reached istanbul
take care & be cautious
fly way beyond those rocky heaps and hilly lands
touch with your wings Moulay durayn saint of regraga
glory of our holy land
tomorrow at dawn
you’ll purify yourself when you hear
the first call for prayer

Translation by Abdefetah Chenni

Heading to War

Mehmet Emin Yurdakul
Turkish
1869 – 1944

I am a Turk; My religion and my race are great;
Sinem, my essence is full of fire.
A human being is a servant of his country.
A Turkish child does not stay at home, I will go.

I will not have Muhammad’s book removed;
I won’t let Osmancık’s flag be removed;
I do not let my enemy attack my country.
If the house of God does not fall into ruin, I will leave.

These lands are the home of my ancestors;
My home, my village are always in this place;
Here is the homeland, here is the lap of God.
Your fatherland is your homeland, my son will not spoil it, I will leave.

My God is my witness, I will keep my word;
The love of my nation is within me;
I have nothing but my homeland in my eyes.
My beloved bed does not have enemies, I will leave.

I wipe my tears with a white shirt;
I sharpen my knife with a black stone;
I wish greatness for my country.
There will be no one left in this world, I will leave.

Prayer

Oh most loved country,
oh wonderful island
Zakynthos; you have given me
the breath of life and the golden gifts of Apollo.

You, too, receive the hymn;
the immortals hate the soul
and thunder against the heads
of the ungrateful.

Never have I forgotten you,
Never! It has been my luck which has cast me
Far from you. One fifth of my life has seen me
in foreign lands.

My fate not grant me
a tomb in a foreign land
Death is sweet only
in our own native land.

Translation by John E. Rexine

Poets Corner

Celebrating a world of written and spoken verse

19th Century Poems