Oh, women of this land! There is no life, nothing. This is nothing but failure and grief. Death for us is hundred times Better than such a life. This life is nothing But a symbol of slavery. Beware, women of this land! Be friends to one another! Dissolve your links with men! Why do you take on the name of Your husband, though you have A name of your own?
We present this work in honor of the 15th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Hone Tuwhare Kiwi 1922 – 2008
No one comes by way of the doughy track through straggly tea tree bush and gorse, past the hidden spring and bitter cress.
Under the chill moon’s light no one cares to look upon the drunken fence-posts and the gate white with moss.
No one except the wind saw the old place maker her final curtsy to the sky and earth:
and in no protesting sense did iron and barbed wire ease to the rust’s invasion nor twang more tautly to the wind’s slap and scream.
On the cream lorry or morning paper van no one comes, for no one will ever leave the golden city on the fussy train; and there will be no more waiting on the hill beside the quiet tree where the old place falters because no one comes anymore no one.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Ivor Cutler Scots 1923 – 2006
Got a letter from a thrush. Come and see me compose. So I went. She stuck her beak into the ink and sputtered on to the manuscript. Then sang it. Tra la la tweet tweet warble warble ptui ptui. When she finished I was asked for an opinion. With a grave look I opined: Well it’s very good. Regular thrush music good range plenty of variety nice timbre. Look Cutler said thrush do you think it’s worth making a demodisc or a tape and going round the agents? I think it’s chart material. Look thrush I replied it could only succeed as a gimmick. Yea, I suppose, she tweeted and flew into a stump.
We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Proclamation of Independence.
Touria Majdouline Moroccan b. 1960
I gather my confusion and my things My steps And the remaining illusions Of my body I run beyond time Beyond the vacant air And space
Yesterday I drew my open space here And dreamed a lot I sowed shade, and fruit, and crops around And with flames I wrote my poems… Yesterday I had plenty of time To embroider space with words. But today I am left with nothing But my dejection And the crumbs of yesterdays gone by
Thus I gather my things I wrap myself up in my own confusion And I run I run beyond time I propagate into the distance With neither shade Nor sun.
We present this work in honor of the 100th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Katherine Mansfield Kiwi 1888 – 1923
And again the flowers are come, And the light shakes, And no tiny voice is dumb, And a bud breaks On the humble bush and the proud restless tree. Come with me!
Look, this little flower is pink, And this one white. Here’s a pearl cup for your drink, Here’s for your delight A yellow one, sweet with honey. Here’s fairy money Silver bright Scattered over the grass As we pass.
Here’s moss. How the smell of it lingers On my cold fingers! You shall have no moss. Here’s a frail Hyacinth, deathly pale. Not for you, not for you! And the place where they grew You must promise me not to discover, My sorrowful lover! Shall we never be happy again? Never again play? In vain—in vain! Come away!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
Carl Sandburg American 1878 – 1967
Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again. And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger. And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities; Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness, Bareheaded, Shoveling, Wrecking, Planning, Building, breaking, rebuilding, Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth, Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs, Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle, Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people, Laughing! Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Vicente Huidobro Chilean 1893 – 1948
Let poetry be like a key Opening a thousand doors A leaf falls; something flies by; Let all the eye sees be created And the soul of the listener tremble.
Invent new worlds and watch your word; The adjective, when it doesn’t give life, kills it.
We are in the age of nerves. The muscle hangs, Like a memory, in museums; But we are not the weaker for it: True vigor Resides in the head.
Oh Poets, why sing of roses! Let them flower in your poems;
We present this work in honor of the 85th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Don Marquis American 1878 – 1937
i got acquainted with a parrot named pete recently who is an interesting bird pete says he used to belong to the fellow that ran the mermaid tavern in london then i said you must have known shakespeare know him said pete poor mutt i knew him well he called me pete and i called him bill but why do you say poor mutt well said pete bill was a disappointed man and was always boring his friends about what he might have been and done if he only had a fair break two or three pints of sack and sherris and the tears would trickle down into his beard and his beard would get soppy and wilt his collar i remember one night when bill and ben johnson and frankie beaumont were sopping it up
here i am ben says bill nothing but a lousy playwright and with anything like luck in the breaks i might have been a fairly decent sonnet writer i might have been a poet if i had kept away from the theatre yes says ben i ve often thought of that bill but one consolation is you are making pretty good money out of the theatre
money money says bill what the hell is money what i want is to be a poet not a business man these damned cheap shows i turn out to keep the theatre running break my heart slap stick comedies and blood and thunder tragedies and melodramas say i wonder if that boy heard you order another bottle frankie the only compensation is that i get a chance now and then to stick in a little poetry when nobody is looking but hells bells that isn t what i want to do i want to write sonnets and songs and spenserian stanzas and i might have done it too if i hadn t got into this frightful show game business business business grind grind grind what a life for a man that might have been a poet
well says frankie beaumont why don t you cut it bill i can t says bill i need the money i ve got a family to support down in the country well says frankie anyhow you write pretty good plays bill any mutt can write plays for this london public says bill if he puts enough murder in them what they want is kings talking like kings never had sense enough to talk and stabbings and stranglings and fat men making love and clown basting each other with clubs and cheap puns and off color allusions to all the smut of the day oh i know what the low brows want and i give it to them
well says ben johnson don t blubber into the drink brace up like a man and quit the rotten business i can t i can t says bill i ve been at it too long i ve got to the place now where i can t write anything else but this cheap stuff i m ashamed to look an honest young sonneteer in the face i live a hell of a life i do the manager hands me some mouldy old manuscript and says bill here s a plot for you this is the third of the month by the tenth i want a good script out this that we can start rehearsals on not too big a cast and not too much of your damned poetry either you know your old familiar line of hokum they eat up that falstaff stuff of yours ring him in again and give them a good ghost or two and remember we gotta have something dick burbage can get his teeth into and be sure and stick in a speech somewhere the queen will take for a personal compliment and if you get in a line or two somewhere about the honest english yeoman it s always good stuff and it s a pretty good stunt bill to have the heavy villain a moor or a dago or a jew or something like that and say i want another comic welshman in this but i don t need to tell you bill you know this game just some of your ordinary hokum and maybe you could kill a little kid or two a prince or something they like a little pathos along with the dirt now you better see burbage tonight and see what he wants in that part oh says bill to think i am debasing my talents with junk like that oh god what i wanted was to be a poet and write sonnet serials like a gentleman should
well says i pete bill s plays are highly esteemed to this day is that so says pete poor mutt little he would care what poor bill wanted was to be a poet
Poets Corner 