The night is black and the forest has no end; a million people thread it in a million ways. We have trysts to keep in the darkness, but where or with whom – of that we are unaware. But we have this faith – that a lifetime’s bliss will appear any minute, with a smile upon its lips. Scents, touches, sounds, snatches of songs brush us, pass us, give us delightful shocks. Then peradventure there’s a flash of lightning: whomever I see that instant I fall in love with. I call that person and cry: `This life is blest! for your sake such miles have I traversed!’ All those others who came close and moved off in the darkness – I don’t know if they exist or not.
We present this work in honor of the 70th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Marriott Edgar Scots 1880 – 1951
There’s a famous seaside place called Blackpool, That’s noted for fresh air and fun, And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom Went there with young Albert, their son.
A grand little lad was young Albert, All dressed in his best; quite a swell With a stick with an ‘orse’s ‘ead ‘andle, The finest that Woolworth’s could sell.
They didn’t think much of the Ocean: The waves, they were fiddlin’ and small, There was no wrecks and nobody drownded, Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.
So, seeking for further amusement, They paid and went into the Zoo, Where they’d Lions and Tigers and Camels, And old ale and sandwiches too.
There were one great big Lion called Wallace; His nose were all covered with scars – He lay in a somnolent posture, With the side of his face on the bars.
Now Albert had heard about Lions, How they was ferocious and wild – To see Wallace lying so peaceful, Well, it didn’t seem right to the child.
So straightway the brave little feller, Not showing a morsel of fear, Took his stick with its ‘orse’s ‘ead ‘andle And pushed it in Wallace’s ear.
You could see that the Lion didn’t like it, For giving a kind of a roll, He pulled Albert inside the cage with ‘im, And swallowed the little lad ‘ole.
Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence, And didn’t know what to do next, Said ‘Mother! Yon Lion’s ‘et Albert’, And Mother said ‘Well, I am vexed!’
Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom – Quite rightly, when all’s said and done – Complained to the Animal Keeper, That the Lion had eaten their son.
The keeper was quite nice about it; He said ‘What a nasty mishap. Are you sure that it’s your boy he’s eaten?’ Pa said “Am I sure? There’s his cap!’
The manager had to be sent for. He came and he said ‘What’s to do?’ Pa said ‘Yon Lion’s ‘et Albert, ‘And ‘im in his Sunday clothes, too.’
Then Mother said, ‘Right’s right, young feller; I think it’s a shame and a sin, For a lion to go and eat Albert, And after we’ve paid to come in.’
The manager wanted no trouble, He took out his purse right away, Saying ‘How much to settle the matter?’ And Pa said “What do you usually pay?’
But Mother had turned a bit awkward When she thought where her Albert had gone. She said ‘No! someone’s got to be summonsed’ – So that was decided upon.
Then off they went to the P’lice Station, In front of the Magistrate chap; They told ‘im what happened to Albert, And proved it by showing his cap.
The Magistrate gave his opinion That no one was really to blame And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms Would have further sons to their name.
At that Mother got proper blazing, ‘And thank you, sir, kindly,’ said she. ‘What waste all our lives raising children To feed ruddy Lions? Not me!’
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
Salah Abdel Sabour Egyptian 1931 – 1981
You spoke to me Of winged horse-shoes Sparking all round, Flashing, igniting The golden crescents Of city minarets; You spoke to me Of a bunch of swords hard, Stuck in a rock so stark, To be drawn only on a spell: Namely, the names, the charmed names of your bunch, How great, how formidable, How good, how nice, how sweet – unconquerable! ‘O minstrel’, you ordered, ‘Sing us a song ‘(But keep your eyes down ‘In our presence) ‘Sing us a lay ‘To tickle our pride ‘In the victory of the side, ‘And when the appointed hour comes ‘(An hour unveiled ‘By a cloud dispelled) ‘We’ll drink up the dregs ‘When the devil’s helmet begs ‘To be a goblet bright ‘For the wine of superior knight’.
Kisses don’t wither like the flowers of the malinche tree, hard shells of seeds don’t grow over my arms; I’m always flowering with this internal rain, like the green patios in May and I laugh because I love the wind and the clouds and the singing birds that pass overhead, even though I’m entangled with memories, covered with ivy like old walls, I go on believing in the secret whisperings, the strength of wild horses, the winged message of gulls.
To the Others
You once smiled a friendly smile,
Said we were kin to one another,
Thus with guile for a short while
Became to me a brother.
Then you swamped my way of gladness,
Took my children from my side,
Snapped shut the law book, oh my sadness
At Yirrakalas’ plea denied.
So, I remember Lake George hills,
The thin stick bones of people.
Sudden death, and greed that kills,
That gave you church and steeple.
I cry again for Warrarra men,
Gone from kith and kind,
And I wondered when I would find a pen
To probe your freckled mind.
I mourned again for the Murray tribe,
Gone too without a trace.
I thought of the soldier’s diatribe,
The smile on the governor’s face.
You murdered me with rope, with gun
The massacre of my enclave,
You buried me deep on McLarty’s run
Flung into a common grave.
You propped me up with Christ, red tape,
Tobacco, grog and fears,
Then disease and lordly rape
Through the brutish years.
Now you primly say you’re justified,
And sing of a nation’s glory,
But I think of a people crucified –
The real Australian story.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Gabriel Okara Nigerian 1921 – 2019
Once upon a time, son, they used to laugh with their hearts and laugh with their eyes: but now they only laugh with their teeth, while their ice-block-cold eyes search behind my shadow.
There was a time indeed they used to shake hands with their hearts: but that’s gone, son. Now they shake hands without hearts while their left hands search my empty pockets.
‘Feel at home!’ ‘Come again’: they say, and when I come again and feel at home, once, twice, there will be no thrice- for then I find doors shut on me.
So I have learned many things, son. I have learned to wear many faces like dresses – homeface, officeface, streetface, hostface, cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles like a fixed portrait smile.
And I have learned too to laugh with only my teeth and shake hands without my heart. I have also learned to say,’Goodbye’, when I mean ‘Good-riddance’: to say ‘Glad to meet you’, without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been nice talking to you’, after being bored.
But believe me, son. I want to be what I used to be when I was like you. I want to unlearn all these muting things. Most of all, I want to relearn how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare fangs!
So show me, son, how to laugh; show me how I used to laugh and smile once upon a time when I was like you.
Every afternoon The woman sits before an open window guilty of not being air, water –or at least a wing that flies- of being only a woman before an open window.
Every afternoon the sky hangs itself out to dry beyond the open window ashamed of not being man, flesh, body —or at least earth— of being only sky beyond an open window, Secret passion of guilt and shame: a golden woman of violet sky every afternoon through an open window.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.
Samuel Beckett Irish 1906 – 1989
1
why not merely the despaired of occasion of wordshed
is it not better abort than be barren
the hours after you are gone are so leaden they will always start dragging too soon the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want bringing up the bones the old loves sockets filled once with eyes like yours all always is it better too soon than never the black want splashing their faces saying again nine days never floated the loved nor nine months nor nine lives
2
saying again if you do not teach me I shall not learn saying again there is a last even of last times last times of begging last times of loving of knowing not knowing pretending a last even of last times of saying if you do not love me I shall not be loved if I do not love you I shall not love
the churn of stale words in the heart again love love love thud of the old plunger pestling the unalterable whey of words
terrified again of not loving of loving and not you of being loved and not by you of knowing not knowing pretending pretending
I and all the others that will love you if they love you