We present this work in honor of the 10th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Gil Scott-Heron American 1949 – 2011
Was there a touch of spring? Did she have a pink dress on? And when she smiled, her shyest smile Could you almost touch the warmth? And was it your first love, a very precious time?
Was there the faintest breeze? And did she have a ponytail? And could she make you feel ten feet tall, Walking down the grassy trail? Was it your first love, a very precious time, time?
Now they got me trying to define, in later life What her love means to me And it keeps me struggling to remember, my first touch of spring.
Was there a touch of spring, in the air? And did she have a pink dress on? And when she smiled, her shyest smile Could you almost touch the warmth? Was it your first love, A very precious, very precious, very precious time, time.
We present this work in honor of the 85th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Henri de Regnier French 1864 – 1936
I do not wish anyone to be near my sadness— Not even your dear step and your loved face, Nor your indolent hand which caresses with a finger The lazy ribbon and the closed book.
Leave me. Let my door today remain closed; Do not open my window to the fresh wind of morning; My heart today is miserable and sullen And everything seems to me somber and everything seems vain.
My sadness comes from something further than myself; It is strange to me and is not of me; And every man, whether he sings or he laughs or he loves, In his time hears that which speaks low to him,
And something then stirs and awakens, Is perturbed, spreads and laments in him, Because of this dull voice which says in his ear That the flower of life in its fruit is ashes.
We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Ogden Nash American 1902 – 1971
Belinda lived in a little white house, With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse, And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon, And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink, And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink, And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth, And spikes on top of him and scales underneath, Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose, And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs, Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful, Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival, They all sat laughing in the little red wagon At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house, And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse, Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age, When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound, And Mustard growled, and they all looked around. Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right, And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright, His beard was black, one leg was wood; It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help! But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp, Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household, And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine, Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon, With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda’s dragon, And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon, He fired two bullets but they didn’t hit, And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him, No one mourned for his pirate victim Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
But presently up spoke little dog Mustard, I’d been twice as brave if I hadn’t been flustered. And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink, We’d have been three times as brave, we think, And Custard said, I quite agree That everybody is braver than me.
Belinda still lives in her little white house, With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse, And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon, And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs, Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
In honor of Shavout, we present this work by a poet with a unique Jewish perspective.
Dannie Abse Welsh 1923 – 2014
A kind of tune, heart in pilgrimage, yes, But reversed thunder as Herbert said? Herbert was right or we were April fools Last night when we beheld a sign. Behold! our Indian neighbor surely praying since every house across the road was dark except his own—his bedroom lit by volts, no doubt, of the thunderstruck eternal. Why else would those high surprising windows be raging steadily with sheet lightning?
Herbert, such prayer-power! You’d not credit these other, raving, more ancient gods summoned here by fervent invitation. How they swarmed in rudely, none so rampant as Agni—tawny hair, all gold teeth, long golden beard—whooping it up crazy in that attic crackling room, his crimson snorting horses and his dwarf golden car. These wild, drunken fire deities! Neighbour, we thought, oh cease praying do, for God’s sake.
And just in case called the bell-mad earthly fire brigade whose hoses curved and hushed so that the gods quit, disguised cleverly, of course, as tiny butterflies of fire or billowing out in cloaks of smoke and sacred steam. Now no more thunderstorms, only black debris of last night’s party. And so we godless ones give thanks to God For godless neighbors this April morning and for ladders more than rainbows, Herbert.
Ah sing a song a love fa meh contry small contry, big lite hope fa de po’, big headache fa de rich. Mo’ po’ dan rich in de worl mo’ peeple love fa meh contry
Fa meh contry name Nicaragua Fa meh peeple ah love dem all Black, Miskito, sumu, Rama, Mesitizo, So yuh see fa me, love poem complete ‘Cause ah love you too. Dat no mek me erase de moon An de star fran de firmament.
Only somehow wen ah remenba how yuh bussing yo ass to defend dis sunrise, an keep back de night fran fallin, ah know dat tomara we will have time fa walk unda de moon an stars. Dignify an free, sovereign Children a Sandino.
Friends will quickly leave you Slight you and deceive you, Or will not believe you, If you have a wrong. Those who hurt will hate you, Enemies will slate you, And with crams disrate you, If you have a wrong. But if you are righted Those who coolly slighted Will be so delighted, Said so all along. But you then can show them That you would forego them, As too well you know them Since you’ve had a wrong. But your friends, God bless them I Take their hands and press them, You’ll cot have to guess them If you’ve had a wrong.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 120th birthday.
Rose Auslander German 1901 – 1988
We came home without roses they remained abroad our garden lies entombed within the burial ground so many things have changed into many things we have become thorns in the eyes of strangers
We present this work in honor of the 60th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Anne Wilkinson Canadian 1910 – 1961
Willow weep, let the lake lap up your green trickled tears. Water, love, lip the hot roots, cradle the leaf; Turn a new moon on your tongue, water, lick the deaf rocks, With silk of your pebble-pitched song, water, wimple the beach; Water, wash over the feet of the summer-bowed trees, Wash age from the face of the stone.
I am a hearer of water; My ears hold the sound and the feel of the sound of it mortally. My skin is in love with lake water. My skin is in love and it sings in the arms of its lover, My skin is the leaf of the willow, My nerves are the roots of the weeping willow tree.
My blood is a clot in the stone, The blood of my heart is fused to a pit in the rock; The lips of my lover can wear away stone, My lover can free the blocked heart; The leaf and the root and the red sap will run with lake water, The arms of my lover will carry me home to the sea.
In honor of V-E Day, we present this work by a poet of the French Resistance.
Louis Aragon French 1897 – 1982
In the grey sky were porcelain angels In the grey sky were stifled cries I remember those days at Mainz The Black Rhine and the weeping Loreleis
You would find sometimes at the end of an alley A Frenchman dead with a knife-blade in the back You would find sometimes that the peace was cruel For all the young white wine of the terraces
I drank their transparent Kirschwasser I drank the vows they whispered with clasped hand How lovely were the palaces and churches I was twenty then, I did not understand
What did I know about days of defeat When you r country is a love forbidden When you need the voice of false prophets To bring lost hope to life again ?
I remember songs that touched the heart I remember signs chalked in red Found in the morning scribbled on walls We never once deciphered what they said
Who can say where memory begins Who can say where the present ends Where the past becomes a sentimental ballad And sorrow a paper yellowed with age?
Like a child surprised among his dreams The blank looks of the vanquished made you Then, at the tramp of guard relieving guard The Rhenish silence shuddered to its heart.
Poets Corner 