Hope and Fear Consume Beautiful Florence

Veronica Gambara
Italian
1485 – 1550

 

Hope and fear consumes beautiful Florence
who hoped her famous heroes would provide
liberty and peace, and she calls out repeatedly,
at times gently, and then again wildly:

“O my wise and noble sons, why do you not
follow of those who with iron and boldness
opened for you a real roadway to peace?
You know you admired them so much.

Why are you so late coming to my aid?
I didn’t bear you freely and gladly
so you’d desert me, a grief-striken slave

With what strength you can get together,
with wise counsel and powerful hands,
liberate me, save yourselves and your peace.”

Translation by Ellen Moody

Speeding Chariot

Duchess Mu of Xu
Chinese
b. 630 B.C.

 

Go fast chariots! I am going back to where the ruler of Wei lives to console him.
The horse keeps wandering, and when will i reach Zhao?
The daifus (high officials) went wandering, but my heart is filled with worries.
There is no person that thinks I am good, yet I cannot go back.
That person doesn’t think very much of me, but my thoughts haven’t changed.
You do not think of me as good, but my thoughts for you would not cease.
I will climb up those hills and collect plants (to make medicine to cure my worries).
A woman has lot of thoughts, and they all go their own ways.
The people of Xu worry about me yet they are childish and mad!
I went out in the wilderness and noticed the wheat not reaped (because of the political situation).
I should try to report it, yet who should I tell it to?
To all the high officials, do not say I worry.
I have so many thoughts but it is not anything compared to where I am trying to go.

The Emigrant’s Bride

Susanna Moodie
Canadian
1803 – 1885

 

The waves that girt my native isle,
The parting sunbeams tinged with red;
And far to seaward, many a mile,
A line of dazzling glory shed.
But, ah, upon that glowing track,
No glance my aching eyeballs threw;
As I my little bark steer’d back
To bid my love a last adieu.

Upon the shores of that lone bay,
With folded arms the maiden stood;
And watch’d the white sails wing their way
Across the gently heaving flood.
The summer breeze her raven hair
Swept lightly from her snowy brow;
And there she stood, as pale and fair
As the white foam that kiss’d my prow.

My throbbing heart with grief swell’d high,
A heavy tale was mine to tell;
For once I shunn’d the beauteous eye,
Whose glance on mine so fondly fell.
My hopeless message soon was sped,
My father’s voice my suit denied;
And I had promised not to wed,
Against his wish, my island bride.

She did not weep, though her pale face
The trace of recent sorrow wore;
But, with a melancholy grace,
She waved my shallop from the shore.
She did not weep; but oh! that smile
Was sadder than the briny tear
That trembled on my cheek the while
I bade adieu to one so dear.

She did not speak—no accents fell
From lips that breathed the balm of May;
In broken words I strove to tell
All that my broken heart would say.
She did not speak—but to my eyes
She raised the deep light of her own.
As breaks the sun through cloudy skies,
My spirit caught a brighter tone.

“Dear girl!” I cried, “we ne’er can part,
My angry father’s wrath I’ll brave;
He shall not tear thee from my heart.
Fly, fly with me across the wave!”
My hand convulsively she press’d,
Her tears were mingling fast with mine;
And, sinking trembling on my breast,
She murmur’d out, “For ever thine!”

Sorrowful Mysteries

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 60th birthday.

Rosabetty Muñoz
Chilean
b. 1964

 

If I hide the blankets under the bed
If I cover the mattress with the bedspread
If I wrap the baby in a towel
If I put it in the backpack
If I put on my uniform
If I leave for school, as usual
If I walk slowly
If no one looks at me
If

In vain I called her in vain
I waited for milk streaming from her breast
a dark impulse seized my will
and I made my way unfurling hollows,
orifices, pores
all open to receive.
From one tunnel to another.
I foresaw the pleasure of licking
but the hands around my neck . . .

The interior landscape has changed.
Like worn-out flags
the membranes
wave over the recently opened trail.
Pleasure is now braided forever
with the desperate gasp of death.

Translation by Elena Barcia

from Madhura Vijayam

In honor of Ganesh Chaturthi, we present this work by one of India’s most vivid poets.

Gangadevi
Indian
14th Century

 

O King! The city, which is called Madhurapuri for its honeyed loveliness, has now become the city of cruel beasts; it now lives up to its earlier name of Vyaghrapuri, the city of tigers because humans don’t dwell there anymore.

Those temples of Gods, which used to reverberate with the sacred melody of the mridangam, now echo the dreadful howls of jackals.

In the Brahmin Quarters Agraharams of our city, huge columns of smoke emanating from the scared Yagnas used to rise up and reach the skies amid the sacred Vedic chants but alas! today those selfsame Quarters send up wretched stenches of meat roasted by the Turushkas; the Vedic chants are today replaced by the beastly cacophonies of drunken hoodlums.

During the days of Pandyas, our women used to bathe in river Taamraparni, whose waters turned white from the sandal-paste applied to their breasts. My lord! Now she’s coloured only in red from the currents of blood flowing into her from all the cows slaughtered by its wicked occupiers all over the country.

O King! I cannot bear to look at the countenance of those Dravida ladies who were bounteously endowed with beauty. Ravished horribly by the scourging Turushkas, these delicate women now sport lifeless lips and exhale hot breaths, and their abundant tresses that have come undone are painful to the eyes. I don’t have the words to describe the suffering and dishonour painted on their faces, which know neither redemption nor protection.

Sometimes Silence Is the Loudest Kind of Noise

Bassey Ikpi
Nigerian
b. 1976

 

Sometimes silence is the loudest kind of noise
Like sometimes it was best when
Girls were girls and boys were boys.
Like back when freeze tag was a mating dance.
Like back when “Do Over” meant you got another chance.
Like back when anxiety was worrying if Wonder Woman would make it out alive.
Like back when freedom was sliding backwards on a slide.
Like back when success was jumping off a swing and
Landing on your feet, then
Doing it all over again.
Like new shoes made you run faster.
Like getting Ms. Gross again for math was a disaster.
Like failure was a word we hadn’t even learned to spell yet.
Like promises were sealed and kept with pinky bets.
Like a challenge was a double dare.
Like ugly was a cock-eyed stare.

And you liked it…
Like when you flipped your eyelids inside out
To impress that boy across the room,
‘Cause that’s all it took.
And there was no such thing as too soon,
As long as you checked the right box in that note from across the room,
The one that he…passed her.
Back when, “I don’t know, maybe” was a legitimate answer.
Back when, “I need space” meant he needed more elbow room to draw,
So he got on the floor and he coloured outside the lines.
Like the lines of colour were on the floor,

So we just existed in sandboxes and playgrounds.
And we hop-scotched and dodgeballed
And everything I needed to know, I learned in a shopping mall.
Like don’t wander off on your own,
Like know who you are,
Like know where you came from,
Like never let go of your mother’s hand no matter what you do,
Like if you get lost, just stand there until someone finds you,
And someone will always look for you
Because someone will always miss you
And someone will always find you
And when you cry, someone will always remind you
In that quiet, quiet lullaby voice,
That sometimes silence is the loudest kind of noise.

Autumnal Hook

Ann Vickery
Australian
b. 1968

 

What if Persephone remained a hard woman?
An ethics of care turned towards oneself.
Love’s harvest, the halves of intimacy in these latitudes.
A climate of change revealed as cycle of constant
return, how to reconcile, farm my inadequacy
for yours or simply distract. Let’s just say
for argument’s sake, let’s just say
pugilism is always political, platforms cropping hay,
the field of absolutes you might travel to.
I distil the brackish dark, listen low over the lees,
liar strings laid flush to decider core. Store
of regrets, bare-knuckled figs, a desire to fall foul.
Your rallying jig as jubilant plucked yew.
Cross-dressing Orpheus to your Eurydice,
I discover I want as a mode. To provoke
the strike back, for you to tell me that the light
is yours, and it is I who have disengaged song,
who must feel my way through the ever-burdened earth.
To be called a muffler, bobbing compliment.