I’m weary of myself. I’m dejected. I stand and gaze and feel — and marvel! Is This then the great city that has planted Despair in me? What contrasts jolt in this Strange Hive: souls kind and hard; pure Good; great Sins! This Hope or Mockery, Lord? Or Joy or Pain? For here beneath my eyes lie wonder scenes That should ring Joy, but only fling me Pain! All forces good or evil bring them Light
Who worship at Art’s shrine or read her Book. My soul doth live! A flash out of the night! I’ve been with God! I’m back content! I look Where Nature’s work and Man’s mingle or fight — Up sprout man’s flowers! Electric lights! ‘Tis night!
How I wish I could pigeon-hole myself and neatly fix a label on! But self-knowledge comes too late And by the time I’ve known myself I am no longer what I was.
I knew a woman once who had a delinquent child. She never had a moment’s peace of mind waiting in constant fear, listening for the dreaded knock and the cold tones of policeman: “Madam, you’re wanted at the station” I don’t know if the knock ever came but she feared on right till we moved away from the street. She used to say “It’s the uncertainty that worries me – if only I knew for certain…”
If I only knew for certain What my delinquent self would do… But I never know until the deed is done And I live on fearing, wondering which part of me will be supreme – the old and tested one, the present or the future unknown. Sometimes all three have equal power and then how I long for a pigeon-hole.
After my death mourn me this way: ‘There was a man-and see: he is no more; before his time this man died and his life’s song in mid-bar stopped; and oh, it is sad! One more song he had and now the song is gone for good, gone for good!
And it is very sad!-a harp too he had a living being and murmurous and the poet in his words in it all of his heart’s secret revealed, and all the strings his hand gave breath but one secret his heart kept hid, round and round his fingers played, and one string stayed mute, mute to this day!
And it is sad, very sad! All of her days this string moved, mute she moved, mute she shook, for her song, her beloved redeemer she yearned, thirsted, grieved and longed as a heart pines for its intended: and though he hesitated each day she waited and in a secret moan begged for him to come, and he hesitated and never came, never came!
And great, great is the pain! There was a man-and see: he is no more, and his life’s song in mid-bar stopped, one more song he had to go, and now the song is gone for good, gone for good!
In honor of the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, we present this work by one of modern Mexico’s most thoughtfully spiritual poets.
Amado Nervo Mexican 1870 – 1919
You who think I don’t believe when we two feud do not imagine my desire, my thirst, my hunger for God;
nor have you heard my desolate cry that echoes through the inner place of shadow, calling on the infinite;
nor do you see my thought laboring in ideal genesis, frequently in distress with throes of light.
If my sterile spirit could own your power of birth, by now — I would have columned heaven to perfect your earth.
But tell me, what power stows within a flagless soul to carry anywhere at all its torturer — who knows? —
that keeps a fast from faith, and with valiant integrity goes on asking every depth and every darkness, why?
Notwithstanding, I am shielded by my thirst for inquiry — my pangs for God, cavernous and unheard; and there is more love in my unsated doubt than in your tepid certainty.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 105th birthday.
Elena Garro Mexican 1916 – 1968
There where we find the lost There where what was had goes There where the dead are dead and there are days when they revive and repeat the actions prior to their death There where cried tears are cried again without a cry and where intangible lips seek each other and are found already without a body There where we are suddenly children and we have a house and where cities are photographs and their monuments reside in the air and there are pieces of gardens attached to some eyes There where the trees are in the void where there are lovers and relatives mixed with familiar objects There where celebrations come after mourning births after deaths rainy days after sunny days There, lonely, without time, without childhood, comet without origin, a foreigner to the landscape strolling among strangers There you reside, where memory resides.
Translation by Adele Lonas, Olatz Pascariu, Silvia Soler Gallego, and Francisco Leal
Oh, I who so wanted to own some earth, Am consumed by the earth instead: Blood into river Bone into land The grave restores what finds its bed. Oh, I who did drink of Spring’s fragrant clay, Give back its wine for other men: Breath into air Heart into grass My heart bereft — I might rest then.
Be kind to the hooker, or else in the scrum Thy poor tender shins he will hack; Or take the first chance that is offered to him Of planting his foot in your back. Be kind to the hooker, he’s hidden from view, And can work his revenge in the dark, So if you insult him, as sure as you’re born, He’ll deprive you of some of your bark.
Be kind to the half-back, he’s nippy and sly, And will grab you when rounding the scrum, Or will collar you low, your heels up he’ll throw, And bang on the ground you will come. Be kind to the half-back, that watchful young man, If you hurt him he’ll likely feel wild; And if he should meet you again in the field, You’d probably know why he smiled.
Be kind to the winger, or you he may prod In the home of your afternoon tea; He’s fond of a scrap, and won’t mind a rap If your eye comes to grief on his knee. Be kind to the winger, he’s out for a go, And promptly pays all that he owes; So be careful to give him no more than his due, Or he’ll give you the change on your nose.
Be kind to three-quarters, they’re heady and strong, And can run like their master, Old Nick; So if you tread hard on their corns beg their pardon, Or limp off the field with a rick. Be kind to three-quarters again let me say, For their hatred of roughness is such That, if you should fend them, or neatly upend them, You’ll travel henceforth on a crutch.
Be kind to the full-back or, when in his grip, He’ll handle you roughly for sure. He’s a virtuous fellow, and hates fast young men, So take care that your language is pure. Be kind to the full-back, ’tis kindness well spent, Don’t approach this stern player with vim; If to score you must try, put your collar-bone by – A collarbone’s nothing to him.
Poets Corner 