We present this work in honor of the South African holiday, National Women’s Day.
Amelia Blossom Pegram South African 1955 – 2022
It is my celebration I will drum my drum I will sing my song I will dance my dance I do not need your anaemic hands brought together in pale applause I do not need your ‘You are such musical people’ toothy smile It is my celebration You wonder what I have to celebrate What does the drum tell me If you must speculate Watch out One day as you throw your head back As you gather your hearty laughter I will change my dance I will still sing The drum will scream Celebration.
We present this work in honor of the 5th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Toni Morrison American 1931 – 2019
1
I tore from a limb fruit that had lost its green. My hands were warmed by the heat of an apple Fire red and humming. I bit sweet power to the core. How can I say what it was like? The taste! The taste undid my eyes And led me far from the gardens planted for a child To wildernesses deeper than any master’s call.
2
Now these cool hands guide what they once caressed; Lips forget what they have kissed. My eyes now pool their light Better the summit to see.
3
I would do it all over again: Be the harbor and set the sail, Loose the breeze and harness the gale, Cherish the harvest of what I have been. Better the summit to scale. Better the summit to be.
We present this work in honor of the Jamaican holiday, Emancipation Day.
Una Marson Jamaican 1905 – 1965
Each race that breathes the air of God’s fair world Is so bound up within its little self, So jealous for material wealth and power That it forgets to look outside itself Save when there is some prospect of rich gain; Forgetful yet that each and every race Is brother unto his, and in the heart Of every human being excepting none, There lies the selfsame love, the selfsame fear, The selfsame craving for the best that is, False pride and petty prejudice prevail Where love and brotherhood should have full sway.
When shall this cease? ‘Tis God alone who knows; But we who see through this hypocrisy And feel the blood of black and white alike Course through our veins as our strong heritage Must range ourselves to build the younger race. What matter that we be as cagéd birds Who beat their breasts against the iron bars Till blood-drops fall, and in heartbreaking songs Our souls pass out to God? These very words, In anguish sung, will mightily prevail. We will not be among the happy heirs Of this grand heritage – but unto us Will come their gratitude and praise, And children yet unborn will reap in joy What we have sown in tears.
For there will come A time when all the races of the earth, Grown weary of the inner urge for gain, Grown sick of all the fatness of themselves And all their boasted prejudice and pride, Will see this vision that now comes to me. Aye, there will come a time when every man Will feel that other men are brethren unto him— When men will look into each other’s hearts And souls, and not upon their skin and brain, And difference in the customs of the race. Though I should live a hundred years, I should not see this time, but while I live, ‘Tis mine to share in this gigantic task Of oneness for the world’s humanity.
Everything is in order My loves folded inside my heart my heart as steady as the horizon I held the hands of friends, warmth of seasonal homes. This is how I burn with pride
Everything is in order The blue gold of your veins in my gaze on brooding mountaintops in this tough air as patient as a lizard I follow the straight path of nebulae into the forest that self-devours
You walk inside my eyes so that I can rest and exhaustion laid bare is harmed by your silence You make the land buried in my memory sing when I carve from my chest a thousand years of space As I go I sow your presence the anchor of your goodness in the depths of hatred In your heart is a right of asylum and I make use of you like I would cut my veins
Everything is in order No longer can the sun intoxicate me with snow from another side My luggage suits me exactly like skin. And while I keep vigil night open at the pure flank of Ramadan in the city heavy with steel my mother puts away my books that she cannot read and ages. Everything is in order
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 150’th birthday.
Alice Duer Miller American 1874 – 1942
1. Because man’s place is the armory.
2. Because no really manly man wants to settle any question otherwise than by fighting about it.
3. Because if men should adopt peaceable methods women will no longer look up to them.
4. Because men will lose their charm if they step out of their natural sphere and interest themselves in other matters than feats of arms, uniforms and drums.
5. Because men are too emotional to vote. Their conduct at baseball games and political conventions shows this, while their innate tendency to appeal to force renders them particularly unfit for the task of government.
I concern myself with you no more; I have taken up strong arms against you; I do not answer when you call; I ridicule and deride you instead.
O enemy, I now have passed The dubious way. My Jesus has freed me; You gain nothing by remaining. I have known his grace, so I will not fall; No longer tempt me with hook and bait I do not answer when you call; I ridicule and deride you instead.
You believe you have good reason To shower me with pleasures; But I no longer think of you So I will not offend my Lord. I want you to leave me be, I no longer want to hear your cries. I do not answer when you call; I ridicule and deride you instead.
Who makes his way to the side of Christ, Has little need of your words; Who takes care to stop his ears Is not harmed by your calls. I go to follow him who died on the cross; Do what you will, I desire you not. I do not answer when you call, I ridicule and deride you instead.
Now I want you to leave me be, With your threat of mortal wounds! I will think only on my sins And on God, whose bounty is infinite. I want now to lead my life So that God will love me. I do not answer when you call; I ridicule and deride me instead.
Now show me what you can do How many pleasures you know. If you were you and of your party, You would have from me nothing else. Consider my struggle at an end With your false and trivial ways! I do not answer when you call, I ridicule and deride you instead.
We present this work in honor of Colombian Independence Day.
Mery Yolanda Sánchez Colombian b. 1956
The other day at the Court House he barked as the flames blistered his snout. Sniffed the ones lined up and transferred to the blind house on the corner, where he’d often wag his tail in military marches. It’s Friday, old Lázaro the street dog goes into a restaurant and is arrested, a criminal record was the last thing he’d want it would prove even more he was a man. Now they all keep an eye on him, point him out, issue warnings, possible convictions he feels for his tail and his two paws left behind like fingerprints. He signs, cries, needs a hug. Cries, signs, looks for a handkerchief, signs, cries, asks for a kiss. The man at his side growls like he did before. Lázaro just cries and signs. The little dog with smoke in her eyes rummages on the other side of the bars. Outside they read off the lists, Lázaro isn’t there.
When the earth with the naturalness of women “mujer is more than senora or senorita”— receives openly at the first rains, I think of nothing then but you.
Poets Corner 