Dawning is that happy morning
When, beyond the bonds of pain,
The redeemed shall rise rejoicing
And with Christ together reign.
Faith shall vanish into vision
Verified, and hope shall be
Satisfied in the fruition
Of unfailing charity.
Forward! Homeward! way-worn pilgrim!
That predicted morn is near,
When The once afflicted Saviour
Crowned with glory shall appear.
Round Him, as a golden girdle
Shining, is His Faithfulness
Offering the vilest sinner
Pardon, Peace and Holiness.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Mother Jackson
sees the moon coming at her
and slams the door of her shack
so hard
the tin louvres shudder with eagerness
to let the moon in.
If she should cry for help
the dog would skin its teeth at her,
the cat would hoist its tail
and pin the whole moonlit sky
to the gutter.
The neighbours would maybe
douse her in chicken blood
and hang her skin out to dry
on the packy tree.
Mother Jackson
swallows her bile and sprinkles oil
from the kitchen bitch
on her ragged mattress.
Then she lights a firestick
and waits for the moon to take her.
Blessed is the soft and gloomy winter sun,
boyfriend of the mountain, which is united in the tender
rumor of the fresh river.
Ancient songbook owner of the plain,
who loves the green fronds, as Gioconda’s lips
love sweetness .
Mischievous winter sun,
rival of the wheat fields for your blonde beauty,
say: Do you make yourself a rainbow to kiss yourself
when singing about the rain?
We present this work in honor of the 175th anniversary of the poet’s death.
What winter floods, what showers of spring
Have drenched the grass by night and day;
And yet, beneath, that spectre ring,
Unmoved and undiscovered lay
A mute remembrancer of crime,
Long lost, concealed, forgot for years,
It comes at last to cancel time,
And waken unavailing tears.
We present this work in honor of the 350th anniversary of the poet’s death.
In gardens sweet each flower mark did I,
How they did spring, bud, blow, wither and die.
With that, contemplating of man’s short stay,
Saw man like to those flowers pass away.
Yet built he houses, thick and strong and high,
As if he’d live to all Eternity.
Hoards up a mass of wealth, yet cannot fill
His empty mind, but covet will he still.
To gain or keep, such falsehood will he use!
Wrong, right or truth—no base ways will refuse.
I would not blame him could he death out keep,
Or ease his pains or be secure of sleep:
Or buy Heaven’s mansions—like the gods become,
And with his gold rule stars and moon and sun:
Command the winds to blow, seas to obey,
Level their waves and make their breezes stay.
But he no power hath unless to die,
And care in life is only misery.
This care is but a word, an empty sound,
Wherein there is no soul nor substance found;
Yet as his heir he makes it to inherit,
And all he has he leaves unto this spirit.
To get this Child of Fame and this bare word,
He fears no dangers, neither fire nor sword:
All horrid pains and death he will endure,
Or any thing can he but fame procure.
O man, O man, what high ambition grows
Within his brain, and yet how low he goes!
To be contented only with a sound,
Wherein is neither peace nor life nor body found.
We present this work in honor of the 130th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Oh, do not come in sadness
To where beloved’s lying,
Where all of life’s storm’s dying,
For all the force it had.
Your futile weeping’s madness –
No blooms or your reproaches;
Why roses’, tears’ approaches
To my ethereal shade?
An entire tree of plum blossoms
between the snow and the moon
Pure petals, moonwhite moon
and snow glow cold
Inside, outside
clear and pure
We serve wine, sing poems
and let inspiration rise without end
We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.
After the war perhaps I’ll sit again
Out on the terrace where I sat with you,
And see the changeless sky and hills beat blue
And live an afternoon of summer through.
I shall remember then, and sad at heart
For the lost day of happiness we knew,
Wish only that some other man were you
And spoke my name as once you used to do.
We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Let’s go! To Paris not to live, but to die
Paris killed me
Paris made me a real woman
Damn it, let me die in Paris!
Nothing to find, meet, or gain. No reason to return.
Forever I will go
Past and present, I am zero
I will be in the future
My four children!
Blame me not, but society, morals, laws, and customs
Your mother as a pioneer was a martyr of destiny
Someday you may come as ambassadors to Paris
Find my grave, leave one flower for me
Why this concern
with a total stranger
who opens and shuts doors at the supermarket
why bother hoping he has a great day
that some customer amongst those who throng in and out
will see in him a special talent that catapults him to stardom
that on his way home he’ll find
a winning lottery ticket in the gutter
that through the door
I’ve watched him open thirty times
his favourite actress will enter smiling
and (o miracle!) grant him a great big hug
why don’t I concentrate on something worthwhile
as I wait in the car for Luis
in front of the busiest shopping mall in Managua
where a worker attempts to earn a living
hauling the heavy chain of trivia
only to be exposed to my intense observation
an accessory to my imagining of another’s life
in which this poem might be of use
to an Everyman
who has won my fleeting affection.
Poets Corner 