School’s Out

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 25th birthday.

The announcement
Swung blunt as an axe-blow:
All students were to leave
Campus as soon as possible.

We think we cried,
Our brains bleached blank.
We were already trying to forget
What we would live.
What we would give.

Beware the ides of March.
We recognized that something ran
Rampant as a rumor
Among our ranks.
Cases bleeding closer,
Like spillage in a napkin.

There is nothing more worrisome
Than a titan who believes itself
Separate from the world.

Graduation day.
We don’t need a gown.
We don’t need a stage.
We are walking beside our ancestors,
Their drums roar for us,
Their feet stomp at our life.
There is power in being robbed
& still choosing to dance.

Love

I am caught in Love’s web so deceitful
None of my endeavors turn fruitful.
I knew not when I rode the high-blooded stead
The harder I pulled its reins the less it would heed.
Love is an ocean with such a vast space
No wise man can swim it in any place.
A true lover should be faithful till the end
And face life’s reprobated trend.
When you see things hideous, fancy them neat,
Eat poison, but taste sugar sweet.

The Motion of Ropes in Tugs

The motion of ropes in tugs
European hour of a mists’ kaleidoscope
fingers like submarines in the midst of seaweed
it is not so far
from Babylonia to Jerusalem
City quay of Saint-Nazaire
the moor and set sail of ships
slow movement in motionless water
indefinite horizon in Loire
verandah between scaffolds and cranes
unexpected ecstasy of embarkations
Here I am only a foreigner
and I bring the mark of casualty
I am an outsider passer-by
and as I arrived I should leave
Here I am only a passenger
and no matter how devoted I am
I will remain an outsider
No matter how much I want you
I am farouche
and this city is only in my route
ditch wall bridge and sentinel
as I arrived I should return
Nobody will wave to me
from any window
when I leave
platonic quay of myself
metaphysical dimension of a dream
metaphor quay of the passport body
we are the ships in this night
invisible quay of resurrection.

Translation by Marina Nogueira Martensson

Formal Poem

In the old house
where my grandfather composed his formal poems
I live as a concubine in my kingdom,
my dress is wet,
and on my head I place a crown.

In the old house
where the jug is tilted
water seeps out
mixed with prayers.

In the old house
where my first cry echoed,
I spread the soil of lineage
for us to sleep on,
one soul stacked next to another.

In the old house
where my grandmother was throned a bride
I search for her shawl
and place it for my shoulders to kiss.

In the old house
I cross ancient nights
and carry food to dervishes.

In the old house
I hand away my embers as a dowry
to lovers bathing in rain.

In the old house
Love wears us like a cape
and the courtyard becomes
twice its size.

Translation by Khaled Mattawa

False Advertising

The first time I kissed
It was my girlfriends who kissed
They invented a flavor, a style, a smell
My lips weren’t there.

The first time I kissed
The prince was chosen by these dreaming girls
He was a jerk to me
A toad, a dragon that spat its fire on me

I don’t know what it was like
They didn’t see my closed eyes
I wasn’t there.

Translation by John Keene

Long-Distance Love

If we had our country

To mold in our hands

So that this soft clay could shape the face
And heart of freedom

Each toll on love

Each tick of distance

Could be some blessing

For I would have

The rare fortunes of a bird

After every mission abroad

All encounters with foreigners
Would reinforce the reason
Turning the strange into loveliness
The urgent to certainty

Of reunion more desirable

For like the birds

Nightfall would kindly lead

To favored nests

To recount encounters

Hatch new flights

Till together we can soar

To heights where such long-distance throbs
Which may pulse pain

Are ever foreign

Being alone will be forever alien.

A Mother’s Blessing

We present this work in honor of Losar.

Mahāpajāpatī Gotami
Indian
600 BC – 480 BC

Buddha! Hero! Praise be to you!
You foremost among all beings!
You who have released me from pain,
And so many other beings too.

All suffering has been understood.
The source of craving has withered.
Cessation has been touched by me
On the noble eight-fold path.

I’ve been mother and son before;
And father, brother — grandmother too.
Not understanding what was real,
I flowed-on without finding [peace].

But now I’ve seen the Blessed One!
This is my last compounded form.
The on-flowing of birth has expired.
There’s no more re-becoming now.

See the gathering of followers:
Putting forth effort, self controlled,
Always with strong resolution
—This is how to honor the Buddhas!

Surely for the good of so many
Did Maya give birth to Gotama,
Who bursts asunder the mass of pain
Of those stricken by sickness and death.

Translation by Andrew Olendzki

The Digger’s Daughter

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 175th birthday.

The waratah has stained her cheek,
Her lips are even brighter,
Like virgin quartz without a streak
Her teeth are, but far whiter.
Her eyes are large arid soft and dark,
And clear as running water;
And straight as any stringy bark
Is Lil, the digger’s daughter.

She’ll wash a prospect quick and well,
And deftly rise the ladle;
The weight of gold at sight she’ll tell,
And work with tub and cradle.
She was her father’s only mate,
And wound up wash and water,
She worked all day and studied late,
For all she knows he taught her.

She stood to wait the word below.
A test for woman, rather;
When I sprang to the windlass bow,
And helped her land her father,
She turned her pretty face on me
To thank me, and I thought her
The grandest girl of all her race
Sweet Lil, the digger’s daughter.

And when my luck began to change
I grew a trifle bolder,
And told my love, but it was strange
She knew before I told her.
She said that she would be my wife,
Then home I proudly brought her,
To be my loving mate for life,
But still the digger’s daughter.

Spring in Jallianwala Bagh

We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Subhadra Kumari Chauhan
Indian
1904 – 1948

Here are no nightingales, but crows crow loud
Dark, black moths make for hum of the beetles
The buds too in half-bloom, meet with thorns here
Those plants, those flowers, are dry or scorched

Fragrance-less pollen is rotting into oblivion
Ha! This lovely garden lies all drenched with blood
Come, dear spring, but come quietly
This is a mourning-place, so cause no commotion

Let the breeze blow, but only mild
So it blows away not, the sorrowful sighs
Nightingale may sing, but only a dirgeful tune
Buzzing beetles here be telling a tale so tough

Bring along flowers, but let hues be not too bright
The fragrance be mild, somewhat wet with dew
But do not carry them with a gifting intention
She just a few for the prayers in memory

Gentle boys have succumbed to bullets here
Bring and lay down here for them a few buds
Hearts full of hopes have also been pierced here
Dear families of ours, have departed from the nation

So make offerings of a few half blooms here
Recalling memories of them let the dew of tears flow
The elderly have died a suffering death of bullets
Let drop a few dry flowers over there

Do all of this, but do come quietly
This is a mourning-place, so cause no commotion

Untitled

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

I overcome because I am overwhelmed.
I whip my life into shape,
one tension, one bit of calm at a time,
if I must I give back the distance I run,
if I must I rise and cut something from myself.

I’ve arrived at this hour dragging my body from moment to moment. Surreptitiously I serve up wounded blood.
The story I bear, how will you receive it?
The water I’ve gathered makes itself heard.
Here is the mother who keeps her child
forever in her womb.
And decides she will live, even as she drowns.

Translation by Margaret Randall

Poets Corner

Celebrating a world of written and spoken verse

Female Poets