The pipie is dozie, the pipie is fey,
He winna come roon’ for his vino the day.
The sky ow’r Messina is unco an’ grey,
An ’a’ the bricht chaulmers are eerie.
Then fare weel ye banks o’ Sicily,
Fare ye weel ye valley and shaw.
There’s nae Jock will mourn the kyles o’ ye,
Puir bliddy swaddies are wearie.
Fare weel, ye banks o’ Sicily,
Fare ye weel, ye valley and shaw.
There’s nae hame can smoor the wiles o’ ye,
Puir bliddy swaddies are wearie.
Then doon the stair and line the waterside,
Wait your turn, the ferry’s awa’.
Then doon the stair and line the waterside,
A’ the bricht chaulmers are eerie.
The drummie is polisht, the drummie is braw
He cannae be seen for his webbin’ ava.
He’s beezed himsel’ up for a photy an a’
Tae leave wi’ his Lola, his dearie.
Sae fare weel, ye dives o’ Sicily
(Fare ye weel, ye shieling an’ ha’),
We’ll a’ mind shebeens and bothies
Whaur kind signorinas were cheerie.
Fare weel, ye banks o’ Sicily
(Fare ye weel, ye shielings an’ ha’);
We’ll a’ mind shebeens and bothies
Whaur Jock made a date wi’ his dearie.
Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum
(Leave your kit this side o’ the wa’).
Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum
A’ the bricht chaulmers are eerie.
Did you say it’s made of waves?
Yes, that’s it. I wonder what the waves are made of.
Oh, waves are made of waves.
Waves are what they are,
Shimmeringness,
Oscillation,
Rhythmical movement which is the inherent essence of all things.
Ultimately, there’s only movement,
Nothing else.
The movement that light is
Comes out of the sun
And it’s so gorgeous a thing
That nothing else is ever anything unless lit by it.
In honor of Green March Day, we present this work by one of today’s most famous Moroccan poets.
Abdallah Zrika Moroccan b. 1953
I speak, first, from my fingernails, taken from the ocean’s sand, then from the algae of my hair in indigent atmospheres, then from my eyes, from the aluminum
of the sky
And I invite you all now
And my hand is firewood
I was born in an age of revolution
poor, poor, poor
up to the ankles of my feet
I was born barefoot
and sick
and hungry
and angry
until the ocean’s foam was in my mouth
and in my mouth was iron and rock
and words in mourning
and hungry children
and small dogs killed by the cold and rain
and fear
and people with torn clothes, bare feet
and in my hand, teeth of crystal
and anger
and the crying of children
and the ill
and blame
and here I am, angry
activated
I blame the murdered
and I open my heart
I blame those who deserve blame
For the wound in us is deep
the betrayal deep
the murdered among us are hurting.
I looked at you from another hill, dear Istanbul!
I know you like back of my hand, and love you dearly.
Come, come and sit on my heart’s throne as long as I live
Just to love a district of yours is worth a whole life.
There are many flourishing cities in the world.
But you’re the only one who creates enchanting beauty.
I say, he who has lived happily, in the longest dream,
Is he who spent his life in you, died in you, and was buried in you.
We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Korney Chukovsky Russian 1882 – 1969
Part One
Bears went to the hike
A-riding on a bike.
Then came Tom-the-Cat,
Back-to-front he sat.
Spry mosquitoes drifted by
In a big balloon on high.
Lobsters looked like shrimps
On a dog that limps.
Wolves were mounted on a horse.
Lions drove in cars, of course.
Hares in pairs
Crammed in a tram.
Toad rode on a broom…
What a merry bunch!
Gingernuts they munch.
Suddenly a Titan
Crawls beneath the gate —
Whiskers meant to frighten,
Very stiff and straight.
Cock-the-Roach
Cock-the-Roach,
Cock-the-Roach the Great!!
Sharp and loud his shout rings out,
While his whiskers wave about:
“Don’t you worry, I shan’t hurry,
But I’ll gulp and gobble you!
That is true!
Oh, too true!
There’s no hope for you!”
Creatures rock and sway,
Fainting right away.
Such a dreadful flight!
Wolves eat wolves on sight.
Poor old Uncle Crock
Gulps a frog in shock,
And Mum Jumbo, all a-shake,
Sits on a hedgehog by mistake.
Only Lobsters feel all right —
In a pinch they love a fight.
It is true that back they wriggle,
Yet defiant whiskers wiggle.
Let the tyrant fear!
Let the giant hear!!
“Hey, you, listen!
We’re proud, too! We have whiskers just like you.
We can shout out louder, too.
So, Big Whiskers, off with you!”
Having made that clear
All move to the rear.
Then the Hippo loudly hails
Crocodiles and mighty Whales:
“The knight who with his might will fight
And put this horrid thing to flight
Shall find such favour in our eyes .
That two fat frogs shall be his prize —
And we’ll grant him a pine-cone
Of number one size…!”
“We don’t fear that monster.
No! Giants we can overthrow.
With our teeth,
With our tusks,
With our hooves we’ll bring him low
What a bold and happy throng!
To the fight they dash along.
But when they see those whiskers wave,
Oh, dear me!
Not a single beast is brave.
Oh, dear me!
Over hill, over dale, through the woods
they tear…
Cock-the-Roach’s whiskers gave them such
a scare!
To the scene the Hippo came
And his face went red with shame:
“Hey, you Bulls and Rhinos there
Don’t you dare hide in your lair!
Were you born
With no horn?
Toss him in the air!”
Bulls and Rhinos say: “Don’t blare!
Please speak softly. Do take care!
We would surely
Gore him sorely,
But horns are dear, like hide and hair,
And who will pay for wear and tear?”
How they shake and quake underneath the hedge
By the swampy lake, every nerve on edge!
Crocodiles in nettles hide their heads and skulk.
In a ditch Mum Jumbo settles down to sulk.
Creatures’ teeth rattle, so great are their fears —
Look at their shivering, quivering ears!
Every Monkey hops and skips,
Grabs his bags and packs his grips.
Falling into frantic fits
Each
One
Quits!
Sharks hate worry,
Scurry, hurry,
But their tails make quite a flurry,
Till the swish makes cuttle fish
Scuttle off
Like other fish.
Part Two
Cock-the-Roach was named the Victor Great and Grand,
King of Field and Forest, Lord of All the Land.
Ginger-Whiskers ruled-life was at its worst,
Birds and beasts were fooled. (May his name be cursed!)
He struts and rubs his yellow tummy
As he orders every Mummie:
“Bring your little ones to me.
I shall take them with my tea,
Or eat them up at supper!”
Oh, those wretched Beasts!
How they howl and growl!
They declare in every lair
That the glutton and his feasts
Are unfair and foul.
“Why! it breaks a mother’s heart
With her little one to part,
Chubby Jumbo, Baby Hare,
Or a cuddly Teddy Bear.
The rogue, the scoundrel! Oh, how cruel
To use our babes to make his gruel!!”
How they weep no words can tell.
Mummies bid their babes farewell.
Then one morning through the dew
Hopped and skipped a Kangaroo.
When he saw great Cock-the-Roach
Loud he shouted with reproach:
“Goodness! Do you think he’s strong?
Ha! Ha! Ha!
Think again, for you are wrong!
Ha! Ha! Ha!
Cock-the-Roach! Cock-the-Roach…
…He’s nothing but a brown cockroach!
That’s the horrid midget’s name —
If you obey him you’re to blame!
Haven’t you got claw and paw,
Fangs to tear and bite?
How could you bow down before
Such a tiny mite?”
But the Hippos now felt bad,
So they whispered:
“Are you mad?
Go away! Don’t make a fuss.
You will make things worse for us!”
Suddenly a wee bird flew
From the woods dark green and blue,
Flitting fast tas any arrow,
Such a perky little Sparrow!
“Cheep-peep-peep!
A-cheep-a-peep!”
How he nips! Oh, what a cheek!
For the cockroach in his beak
Dies without a single squeak.
His long ginger whiskers are hidden from view.
That giant, the tyrant has now got his due!
Oh, how happy, daft and daffy,
Act those creatures now they’ve heard!
They feel great, congratulating
Both themselves and that small bird.
Donkeys shout out: “Glory!” to
the Sparrow’s beak,
Braying out the story of their narrow
squeak.
Billy Goats with goatees sweep and
clean the street.
Rams set kettle-drums a-rattle.
Hoot-owls toot
as if in battle.
Crows in towers
caw for hours.
In the belfry scatty bats
Dance a reel
and wave their hats.
Mummie Jumbo, looking smart,
Skips in a jig with all her heart,
Till the Earth and Sky start rumbling —
Down the very Moon comes tumbling
And it sends poor Jumbo stumbling.
What a fuss the Beasts are making!
From the lake the Moon they’re raking.
They must nail it up on high
In its place to light the sky!
If I flinch from the pain of the burning, believe not the doctrine that I have preached. — His words at the stake.
Bloody Mary’s venomous flames can curl;
They can shrivel sinew and char bone
Of foot, ankle, knee and thigh, and boil
Bowels, and drop his heart a cinder down;
And her soldiers can cry, as they hurl
Logs in the red rush: “This is her sermon.”
The sullen-jowled watching Welsh townspeople
Hear him crack in the fire’s mouth: they see what
Black oozing twist of stuff bubbles the smell
That tars and retches their lungs: no pulpit
Of his ever held their eyes so still,
Never, as now his agony, his wit.
An ignorant means to establish ownership
Of his flock! Thus their shepherd she seized
And knotted him into this blazing shape
In their eyes, as if such could have cauterized
The trust they turned towards him, and branded on
Its stump her claim, to outlaw question.
So it might have been: seeing their exemplar
And teacher burned for his lessons to black bits,
Their silence might have disowned him to her,
And hung up what he had taught with their Welsh hats:
Who sees his blasphemous father struck by fire
From heaven, might well be heard to speak no oaths.
But the fire that struck here, come from Hell even,
Kindled little heavens in his words
As he fed his body to the flame alive.
Words which, before they will be dumbly spared,
Will burn their body and be tongued with fire
Make paltry folly of flesh and this world’s air.
When they saw what annuities of hours
And comfortable blood he burned to get
His words a bare honouring in their ears,
The shrewd townsfolk pocketed them hot:
Stamp was not current but they rang and shone
As good gold as any queen’s crown.
Gave all he had, and yet the bargain struck
To a merest farthing his whole agony,
His body’s cold-kept miserdom on shrieks
He gave uncounted, while out of his eyes,
Out of his mouth, fire like a glory broke,
And smoke burned his sermon into the skies.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Doris Lessing English 1919 – 2013
When I look back I seem to remember singing.
Yet it was always silent in that long warm room.
Impenetrable, those walls, we thought,
Dark with ancient shields. The light
Shone on the head of a girl or young limbs
Spread carelessly. And the low voices
Rose in the silence and were lost as in water.
Yet, for all it was quiet and warm as a hand,
If one of us drew the curtains
A threaded rain blew carelessly outside.
Sometimes a wind crept, swaying the flames,
And set shadows crouching on the walls,
Or a wolf howled in the wide night outside,
And feeling our flesh chilled we drew together.
But for a while the dance went on –
That is how it seems to me now:
Slow forms moving calm through
Pools of light like gold net on the floor.
It might have gone on, dream-like, for ever.
But between one year and the next – a new wind blew?
The rain rotted the walls at last?
Wolves’ snouts came thrusting at the fallen beams?
It is so long ago.
But sometimes I remember the curtained room
And hear the far-off youthful voices singing.
We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Jack Kerouac American 1922 – 1969
I took a stroll through Roxbury,
enlightenment was obtained, in a meaningless poetic sense.
Homeless men’s faces shout such agony,
they evoke images of tortured souls in a science fiction movie.
Concrete all perfectly disorganized,
like a tile floor at a government building smashed repeatedly by a disgruntled employee.
Cars rush by like ants in their endless toil,
sky leaks darkness upon artificial attempts to beat nature.
Trash lines the street like flaws litter my character.
Trash trucks come and collect these flaws,
take them out of view, so it doesn’t look dirty.
But although this takes it out of public concern,
the trash has to be taken somewhere.
You can’t just will the trash out of existence,
it has to be allowed to fester and decompose.
That’s why the trucks thake the trash off some forgotten highway,
to let it do it’s time removed from first impressions.
So God bless those trash trucks,
because with out them, there would still be the same amount of trash,
but people would be constantly reminded of what a trashy place this is.
Poets Corner 