We present this work in honor of the poet’s 150th birthday.
She kissed me often, as if she feared
an imminent departure… Her affections
were restless, nervous.
I didn’t understand
such feverish haste. My coarse intention
never saw very far…
She foresaw!
She foresaw that our time would be short,
that the sail battered by the wind’s lash
was already waiting… and in her anxiety
she tried to leave me her soul with every embrace,
to put all eternity into her kisses.
We present this work in honor of the 30th anniversary of the poet’s death.
The stone lay there like a mountain
and we sat here a weary bunch
women, men, young, old
all linked together
at the ankles, by a chain.
You could crawl to whomever your heart desired
as far as you could drag your chain.
We did not know, nor did we ask
was it a voice in our nightmare and weariness
or else, a herald from an unknown corner,
it spoke:
“The stone lying there holds a secret
inscribed on it by wise men of old.”
Thus spoke the voice over and again
and, as a wave recoiling on itself
retreated in the dark
and we said nothing
and for some time we said nothing.
Afterwards, only in our looks
many doubts and queries spoke out
then nothing but the ambush of weariness, oblivion
and silence, even in our looks
and the stone lying there.
One night, moonlight pouring damnation on us
and our swollen feet itching
one of us, whose chain was the heaviest
damned his ears and groaned: “I must go”
and we said, fatigued: “Damn our ears
damn our eyes, we must go.”
and we crawled up to where the stone lay one of us, whose chain was looser
climbed up and read:
“He shall know my secret
who turns me over!”
With a singular joy we repeated this dusty secret
under our breath as if it were a prayer
and the night was a glorious stream filled with moonlight.
One… two… three… heave-ho!
One… two… three… once more!
sweating sad, cursing, at times even crying
again…one…two…three…thus many times
hard was our task, sweet our victory
tired but happy, we felt a familiar joy
soaring with delight and ecstasy.
One of us, whose chain was lighter
saluted all, then climbed the stone
wiped the dirt-caked inscription and mouthed the words
(we were impatient)
wetted his lips (and we did the same)
and remained silent
cast a glance at us and remained silent
read again, his eyes fixed, his tongue dead
his gaze drifting over a far away unknown
we yelled to him”
“Read!” he was speechless
“Read it to us!” he stared at us in silence
after a time
he climbed down, his chain clanking
we held him up, lifeless as he was
we sat him down
he cursed our hands and his
“What did you read? huh?”
He swallowed and said faintly:
“The same was written:
“He shall know my secret
who turns me over!”
We sat
and
stared at the moon and the bright night
and the night was a sickly stream.
Sigh, wind in the pine;
River, weep as you flow;
Terrible things were done
Long, long ago.
In daylight golden and mild
After the night of Glencoe
They found the hand of a child
Lying in the snow.
Lopped by the sword to the ground
Or torn by wolf or fox,
That was the snowdrop they found
Among the granite rocks.
Oh, life is fierce and wild
And the heart of the earth is stone
And the hand of a murdered child
Will not bear thinking on.
Sigh, wind in the pine,
Cover it with snow;
But terribel things were done
Long, long ago.
We present this work in honor of the 110th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Rise up! Rise up to life, to activity, to the beauty of truly living; but rise up radiant and powerful, beautiful with qualities, splendid with virtues, strong with energies.
You, the queen of the word, Goddess of universal adoration; you, the sovereign to whom homage is paid, do not confine yourself so to your temple of God, nor to your triumphant courtesan’s chamber.
That is unworthy of you, before Goddess or queen, be a mother, be a woman.
One who is truly a woman is more than a goddess or queen. Do not let the incense on the altar or the applause in the audience intoxicate you, there is something more noble and more grand than all of that.
Gods are thrown out of temples; kings are driven from their thrones, woman is always woman.
Gods live what their followers want. Kings live as long as they are not dethroned; woman always lives and this is the secret of her happiness, to live.
Only action is life; to feel that one lives is the most beautiful sensation.
Rise up, then, to the beauties of life; but rise up so, beautiful with qualities, splendid with virtues, strong with energies.
We present this work in honor of National Aviation Day.
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds –
and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of –
wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.
Hovering there I’ve chased the shouting wind along
and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
and, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
the high untrespassed sanctity of space,
put out my hand and touched the face of God.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 135th birthday.
When shall I make a song for you, my love?
When you are nigh me?
Not so, for then the hours unnamed go by me,
Flocking like dove on dove.
When shall that song for you be found, my mate?
When I wait lonely?
Not so, for then am I a mourner only,
Begging without the gate.
Never in words that happy song will rise,
Yet you will feel it,—
Through days your love makes glad I shall reveal it,
Through years your love makes wise.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
we are always asked
to understand the other person’s
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.
age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives
is.
I’m drunk on your wild caresses,
You’ve driven me crazy for you…
Just tell me I’ve only been dreaming
So I can believe that it’s true.
No, you want to torment me forever –
Why shouldn’t you play and have fun;
And smiling, you answer, carefree,
“We won’t do again what we’ve done.”
We present this work in honor of the International Day of the World’s Indigenous Peoples.
You can see him every weekend
In the plazas in the cities,
His music box beside him
With its fast beat blazing out.
You would swear his body’s boneless
From the many shapes he twists it
And his elegance and grace
Are just superb.
The shy smile of concentration
As he goes through his manoeuvres
Speaks loudly of the painful hours
He has put in to rehearse.
So he pulses to the rhythm
Of a heartbeat very primal
And his Reeboks glide spectacularly
Across the ground.
He is on his back and spinning
With his feet towards the clouds
He is up and down and all-way-round
Then upright – to the roar of the applause.
In repose, his face hints tragedy
That drives his frenzied motion
He has given up his habit
And his feet now keep him sane.
Can he be there dancing for dollars
For the rent, in this city of plenty
Where others throw the coins
To show their joy?
Slow the tape and hear the lyrics
Of the music that propels him
Talking of a world of problems
Far too much for any boy.
Yet he carries this burden proudly
Though his generation’s scorned,
His dark eyes shine satisfaction
With his lot.
His little hat I overflowing
Though his fragile back is blistered
They’ll be noshing very well this night
At his makeshift home in the ghetto.
His Mother’s smile will warm him,
And young siblings, they’ll adore him,
When he walks in, pockets laden
– Backbone raw.
So his furtive fingers twist the button
To raise the volume of his music
While he keeps an eye out for the gungies
Who deplore the clutter of his crowds.
As people toss the lad a dollar
His eyes steadfastly ignore them
And they saunter off with joyful music
In their ears and minds.
Poets Corner 