We present this work in honor of Tunisian Independence Day.
Shams Nadir Tunisian b. 1940
A mask left me stranded at the beginnings of the world and my delible ashes for a long while swirled in the depths of Punic Tophets. And my powerless breath wore itself out, for a long time at the pediments of Roman glory. O my lifeblood, my Numidian vigor. There has always been roaming, always the wind, And the exultation of sands as vain armies of crystal. And the damp shelter of hillside caves in the steppes of exile. And bare tufts, always there, in the hollow of a summer brought forth. Always, always, the tenacious, fragile dream of a riverbank where to land is to be reborn naked, reconciled, and living at the pace of swaying palm trees.
It’s time to prolong the rhythm where silence rests create vertigo maybe the horror sharpen the irony die laughing at myself caress the edges of silence with pure words. The sun hides its light every dawn In time my space increases or decreases and my love goes crazy Palm trees wave high behind their green background the ants in a row are arranged low long tasks in short life but my wait is neither high nor long. When tilling the land, certain fruits have a bittersweet flavor. Yes. Thus the pale hours of fear soften me until I spread my desires on the avenues where sadness lies. There everything is mine and I have nothing the orange tree blooms when the dust sweeps the afternoon.
Sometimes The sky doesn’t draw its drapes As the first long, desolate night descends We are third-class patients Or, the less vulnerable We are the victims of wisdom The moment the window opens And the air pushes its way through Without appropriate exhalation We know now What the years have done to us The bed that has been vacant for years Of all the dead bodies and martyrs Must finally be left barren So it may stand tall And watch its soul infinitely fall Over strange arms. All I smell Is the stench of an iron Abandoned on run down clothes Until they caught fire And a wet circle And white teeth Undoubtedly unsmiling And dreams that die When there are no longer balconies to leave from And I have been writing poems for a while I don’t exactly know If this is my pain, or theirs.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 50th birthday.
Lola Shoneyin Nigerian b. 1974
He creeps into my bedroom when the night is most alive. Unafraid, he feels for the walls that will bring him to my door. It has been four years since I spat him from a lip in my womb. Yet every night, he crawls back in.
The first light pries through the curtains. He kisses sleep from my eyes and pinches my lips to seize my first words; he wants them for himself. I breathe in the smell of milk that has never left his forehead. God, if I could birth this boy again, I would.
I watch him at breakfast. His face is crushed like an eggshell. For him, food is slow, fist-under-chin torture. Mother, let this plate pass over me, he pleads. At once, he attacks the sweet jar. He’s a boy soldier. His face is ever smeared with chocolate paint.
I watch him from my window. Bent over like a rainbow, he scours the garden for things his fingers are drawn to. He seeks me bearing gifts: hollow beetles, strange stones, flattened cans. I push them back into his metallic hands.
At night, he pulls me down on my knees and moistens my lips with kisses. Good Night, Mum, he says and walks away from me. My insides flap about like a wet loincloth. Come morning, come soon.
When the world unravels before you and even your dreams are crumbling stones when everything you dare to touch is set on fire and all around you is ash and smoke remember this
rock bottom is a perfect place for rebuilding Remember that you are your mother’s daughter your grandmothers answered prayers a whole bloodline of women who bend in response to raging winds there is nothing broken here nothing damaged or discarded each scar is a badge of honor every misstep is a victory dance waiting to happen
You are a woman becoming learning the complicated language of forgiveness the intricate lessons of the universe
Your heart is just a muscle it needs exercise and you were born for this sort of heavy lifting you were born one part saint one part warrior woman
Loving yourself without shame is the most important thing you will ever have to fight for
We present this work in honor of National Foundation Day.
Yumi Fuzuki Japanese b. 1991
Hollow night, Earth holds its breath hushed and watches me blossom. With roots so straight, The flowers will not cease to bloom. In a state of ignorance as to the why of arrival, they bid you welcome. Hearts singing out to the springtime.
Could the news have been true? That I’d become colorful. That on sturdy heels I’d set out to walk This fragrant terrain of blankness. Was it true to the core?
In this wind-vanished now, No one’s seen the face of spring unpainted. As we stand erect, through our eyes the pale flow of petals. Applauding hands, I wrench them open, To blow your name inside. Your birth, Your awakening—cause for celebration.
Let us love what enters our vision, With such wicked earnestness I will dye you the color of spring— Congratulations. Sunrise dances lovely into my throat.
The violets that cover me I anticipated their bleeding from time immemorial But kept back what my blindness saw So that I can breathe I was in need of more wounds To be worthy of this radiance I was in need of more rambling To realize That only dreaming can pluck me out Only the clouds can light me up.
I don’t remember when and how I became crazy for these violets I by chance saw myself joyful in their empty spaces Feeding on their delights In a wine-scented wedding of passion Where I didn’t need a white dress Since I was sheathed in the dewy morning which led me to a hanging night As if we had always been together But suddenly parted because of a sin we didn’t commit Then met again on the edge of a runaway life. Yah!! many a branch dances in my body! Many a madman’s language I master! Many a bird inhabits my throat! Whenever the tiny violet leaves whisper to me My strings resonate!
Poets Corner 