According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring
a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry
of the year was
awake tingling
near
the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself
sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings’ wax
unsignificantly
off the coast
there was
a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning
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.
I never knew its name
It could
have been love, a bit
of happiness, or simp-
ly nothing.
But it lighted up
the day in such a way
that its glow
endures.
It endures.
And it burns.
We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.
If the drink that satisfied
the son of Mary when he died
has not the right smack for you
leave it for a kindlier brew.
For my bitter verses are
sponges steeped in vinegar
useless to the happy-eyed
but handy to the crucified.
In honor of The Twelfth (Battle of the Boyne), we present this work by one of modern Ireland’s most widely-loved poets.
someone is dressing up for death today, a change of skirt or tie
eating a final feast of buttered sliced pan, tea
scarcely having noticed the erection that was his last
shaving his face to marble for the icy laying out
spraying with deodorant her coarse armpit grass
someone today is leaving home on business
saluting, terminally, the neighbours who will join in the cortege
someone is paring his nails for the last time, a precious moment
someone’s waist will not be marked with elastic in the future
someone is putting out milkbottles for a day that will not come
someone’s fresh breath is about to be taken clean away
someone is writing a cheque that will be rejected as ‘drawer deceased’
someone is circling posthumous dates on a calendar
someone is listening to an irrelevant weather forecast
someone is making rash promises to friends
someone’s coffin is being sanded, laminated, shined
who feels this morning quite as well as ever
someone if asked would find nothing remarkable in today’s date
perfume and goodbyes her final will and testament
someone today is seeing the world for the last time
as innocently as he had seen it first
We present this work in honor of the 45th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Of this, that if this was not love
No other love could be.
This rose was a witness
From when you gave yourself to me!
On that day, I don’t know when it was
(Well I do, but won’t say),
This rose was a witness.
Such lilting sweetness
Poured from your lips
This rose was a witness
Of your smiles of love!
For me it was nothing less
Than all I’d ever dreamt of,
This rose was a witness.
I drowned in your eyes
So deep like the night!
This rose was a witness;
My arms holding you tight,
Finding in your arm’s nest
Myself, then a warmer place…
This rose was a witness.
I kissed your fresh lips
Where happiness frolics!
This rose was a witness
Of your loving pain
As I joyfully made love
With you for the first time!
This rose was a witness.
This rose was a witness
Of this, that if this was not love
No other love could be.
This rose was a witness
From when you gave yourself to me!
On that day, I don’t know when it was
(Well I do, but won’t say),
This rose was a witness.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
The situation in Vietnam
is worse than the situation in Indonesia
which is worse than the situation in Guatemala
which is worse than the situation in Haiti
which is worse than the situation in South Africa
which is worse than the situation in Portugal
which is worse than the situation in Spain
which is worse than the situation in the Argentine
which is worse than the situation in Pakistan
which is worse than the situation in Persia
(which is not good in any case)
and which is worse than the situation in Bolivia
which is worse than the situation in Brazil
which is worse than the situation in Rhodesia
(which is not jolly either)
and which is worse than the situation in Costa Rica
which is worse than the situation in Honduras
which is worse than the situation in Santo Domingo
which is worse than the situation in Korea
which is worse than the situation in Ecuador
which is worse than the situation in Uruguay
which is worse than the situation in Peru
which is worse than the situation in the Congo
which is worse than the situation in Panama
which is worse than the situation in Angola
which is worse than the situation in Greece
which is worse than all these other situations
because it happens
to me.
We present this work in honor of Independence Day.
Jeremiah Dickson was a true-blue American,
For he was a little boy who understood America, for he felt that he must
Think about everything; because that’s all there is to think about,
Knowing immediately the intimacy of truth and comedy,
Knowing intuitively how a sense of humor was a necessity
For one and for all who live in America. Thus, natively, and
Naturally when on an April Sunday in an ice cream parlor Jeremiah
Was requested to choose between a chocolate sundae and a banana split
He answered unhesitatingly, having no need to think of it
Being a true-blue American, determined to continue as he began:
Rejecting the either-or of Kierkegaard, and many another European;
Refusing to accept alternatives, refusing to believe the choice of between;
Rejecting selection; denying dilemma; electing absolute affirmation: knowing
in his breast
The infinite and the gold
Of the endless frontier, the deathless West.
“Both: I will have them both!” declared this true-blue American
In Cambridge, Massachusetts, on an April Sunday, instructed
By the great department stores, by the Five-and-Ten,
Taught by Christmas, by the circus, by the vulgarity and grandeur of
Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon,
Tutored by the grandeur, vulgarity, and infinite appetite gratified and
Shining in the darkness, of the light
On Saturdays at the double bills of the moon pictures,
The consummation of the advertisements of the imagination of the light
Which is as it was—the infinite belief in infinite hope—of Columbus,
Barnum, Edison, and Jeremiah Dickson.
Once on a dewy morning
With the blue sky blowing apart,
Each bud broke on my eyelids,
Each bird flew through my heart.
I prayed for the faith of a starling
Under the tawny trees,
child or a holy woman,
What could be greater than these?
But now on a heavy morning
With the dull sky blowing apart,
When no flower blesses my eyelids,
And no wing brushes my heart,
I, made surer by sorrow,
Beg what seems more to me,
The faith of a willow in winter,
Or a blind hound nosing the knee.
Country girl, don’t stay away from the market,
you with the blond hair —cauliflower in mustard—
and those eyes, those eyes where wickedness makes its nest!…
Who wouldn’t run to watch you crossing the square!
Even the village priest, that frank and simple soul,
when you appear shakes off his lazy languor!…
You are an eclogue! ..and you sing, without singing, the seeds,
the furrows, the mills, the bubbling streams
where leaves float their yellow sadness…
What do you care if that crass, that potbellied banker,
and that spinster there —old and very ugly—
do not buy from you (slaves to their useless wealth!)
your pinks and lilies lovely flower of your village…
To the devil with them! To the garlic and
tomato with them! Let them eat rice and turtle-meat!
For you, country girl with your hat and skirt,
you, debonaire and sweet, riding by on your donkey,
give the wings and trills of a goldfinch to a crow!
The wings and trills!… And you take away the rose
of your face!… And you take away your malicious glance,
and your sweet smile which has said to me the thing
that to a glutton suggests the half-open pomegranate!…
Poets Corner 