he asks me what i do i tell him i work for a small company that makes packaging for— he stops me midsentence no not what you do to pay the bills what drives you crazy what keeps you up at night i tell him i write he asks me to show him something i take the tips of my fingers place them inside his forearm and graze them down his wrist goose bumps rise to the surface i see his mouth clench muscles tighten his eyes pore into mine as though i’m the reason for making them blink i break gaze just as he inches toward me i step back so that’s what you do you command attention my cheeks flush as i smile shyly confessing i can’t help it.
We present this work in honor of the 5th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Mary Oliver American 1935 – 2019
When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox
when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world
We present this work in honor of the Tunisian holiday, Revolution Day.
Najet Adouani Tunisian b. 1956
I only wish I had wings Wings like those of the angels so that I can fly over seas and rivers, Hills and deserts… I ask my soul to borrow me her flames, I need that only for a short while, I want to walk in that glow for me. I wish to have powerful wings, Stronger than the wings of birds, I need wings as vast as infinite space… wings as vast as history. Yes, I wish I had wings of clay and of fire, purple and gold, silver and tin, iron and diamonds, wings heavy and light. I wish to had wings which hold me over the universe; everywhere I can be a loaf of bread in the hand Of a starved infant… A handkerchief wipes of the tears of a bereaved of child. A smile breaks night’s fear, A hymn of a lost Bedouin Entertains a peace’s caravan.
We present this work in honor of Coptic Christmas Day.
Nawal El Saadawi Egyptian 1931 – 2021
A ruler once said that he saw God. His rival retorted saying, ‘I saw God before you did.’ Another rival over power said, ‘But I saw Him before either of you.’ So they all fought together, Each saying that he had seen God before the other impostor. I said they were all impostors who have not seen God any of them. They asked, ‘Hasn’t anybody really seen God?’ I said, ‘I saw God in my childhood, my mother saw Him in her youth and my grandmother saw Him in her advanced years.’ They said, ‘Your words are heresy. God does not appear to women.’
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 295th birthday.
Anne Penny Welsh 1729 – 1784
Ye Bards who erst, in Mona’s shadowy isle, With harmony celestial wrapt the foul; Whose sounds symphonious taught e’en Care to smile, And ev’ry ruder passion could controul:
Bless’d be your friendly aid, for that alone Could Parry’s artless hand with skill inspire; His fancy swell to raise the rapt’rous tone, His flying fingers guide to skin the lyre.
To you, ye Bards, seraphic sounds were giv’n, That soothing rais’d and charm’d the soul to peace; Delightful foretaste of a future heav’n, Where harmony divine shall never cease.
Still o’er your much-lov’d Cambria, still preside, Seat once of flowing verse, of magic song; Your mighty shades the feeblest hand can guide, And bid their silent harps again be strung.
Your potent aid can fan their dying fire, Can call back Genius to each desart grove; Your sons will rouse when you their Bards inspire, Elate, their mighty origin to prove.
Sweet handsome friend, I can tell you truly that I’ve never been without desire since it pleased you that I have you as my courtly lover; nor did a time ever arrive, sweet handsome friend, when I didn’t want to see you often; nor did I ever feel regret, nor did it ever come to pass, if you went off angry, that I felt joy until you had come back
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
Sugathakumari Indian 1934 – 2020
I know, somewhere unknown to me You dwell, oh soul mate.
I sing for you You wait for my song, Pained, when it is still.
You object, ” You do not write now-a-days” You find my words familiar, These are the lines I should have written You tell me softly. Your get teary eyed, at what wets mine. Children’s faces, a tied up bird, A limping little puppy, The old face staring, sightless Love which smiles simply at each other; The disappearing twilight, saffron clad, young The two garlands of rose petals, blackened by webs Hanging inside a bedroom, on a nail of memory. A song that eases, a pain in the heart, without reason; A tender hand stretching, fearsome, skinny- These that create tears in my eyes, make yours glisten too. You lift your eyes wide, when my wings flutter. You hum an old line, written by my pen. Though you do not know my face, you know my spirit. Thus, far away from me, you Soulmate, you live. When I think of you, my throat clears again. My life is not in vain, my friend, when I sing for you. My song is not in vain, my friend, when you hum along with it.
What do we know of the road where a traveler resists approaching the beggarly ruin of love’s perdition? And so the violin suddenly shakes off its indolence, its useless ambiguity, and takes leave among those lilies, those roses, lifted in flight by the wind.
Nontsizi Mgqwetho South African c. 1880? – c. 1930?
Where are your daughters? What do you say? They crossed the land in search of marriage, shamelessly shacked up with live-in lovers, cavorted in dances with young men in New Clare.
With eyes of porridge their mothers bemoan their absent children, who left them standing, advising blank air and pleading in vain with sons and daughters who’ve all been to school.
Jails crammed to capacity, courts jam-packed with the learned products of school education; the judges in charge just hoot in derision at college certificates brandished by bums.
All our crooks are in school, all our thieves are in school, all our witches in school: by Nontsizi, I swear you should all be expelled!
You wear red blankets in God’s very house, you’re Christians by day, hyenas by night; the pastor, the shepherd of God’s own flock, scurries past you without a nod.
What do we make of this curious conduct? Which voice do we choose from among this babble? Pride is one of your Christian companions, God wears a cloak of crocodile hide.
You Christians are suckers for every fad, you cast off skin garments and dressed up like whites, your ears are tinkling for white man’s booze, but whites won’t touch a drop of yours.
Every Sunday you romp on the veld, kicking a football, whacking a racquet, clothing your shame in the name of God: Satan’s struck dumb in amazement.
You’re bereft of love, bereft of all, yet you proclaim a God of love: that faith of yours stands just as tall as I do down on my knees.
If you ever try to come near us again, we Reds will roast you like meat. But I’m not saying the word of God is entirely barren of truth.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 75th birthday.
Anabel Torres Colombian b. 1948
These are the sweet girls who go to the matinee. These are the sweet girls prepared to be the echo, prepared to be the small round pebble in the center stirring the concentric circles while the waves move further and further away.
These are the girls with smooth skin and a soul even smoother and, without curves.
Poets Corner 