We present this work in honor of the poet’s 255th birthday.
I’ve made a vow, I’ll keep it true,
I’ll never married be;
For the only ane that I think on
Will never think o’ me.
Now gane to a far distant shore,
Their face nae mair I’ll see;
But often will I think o’ them,
That winna think o’ me.
Gae owre, gae owre noo, gude Sir John,
Oh, dinna follow me;
For the only ane I ere thocht on,
Lies buried in the sea.
In honor of Allegiance Day, we present this work by one of modern Morocco’s finest poets.
I rise from under the ruins
Climb my pride
And reach to the surface…
The zenith of pain
From memory I build up a fortress
…and from monotony.
I wrap myself in expectations from above
Before I resume…
My falling.
I love this body of mine that has lived life,
its hip flask outline, its softness of water,
the spurting of hair that crowns my cranium,
the crystal glass of a face, its delicate base
that ascends faultless from shoulders and collarbone.
I love my back, gullible to turned-off stars,
my revealed hills, fountains of the chest
that provide the first sustenance of the species.
Coming out of the ribs, mobile waist
overflowing and warm vessel of my stomach.
I love the moon curve of my hips,
moulded by alternate pregnancies,
the vast roundness of the wave of my gluteals,
and my legs and feet, foundations and support of the temple.
I love the handful of dark petals, the hidden fleece
that stores the dawning mystery of paradise,
the humid cavity where blood flows
and living water shoots out.
This hurting body of mine that gets sick,
that festers, that coughs, that perspires,
secretes moods, feces, saliva,
and that gets tired, exhausted, and withers.
Living body, link that assures
the infinite chain of successive bodies.
I love this body made of the purest mud:
seed, root, sap, flower, and fruit.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
Tomorrow, a God I don’t know
will offer me salvation if I don’t blindfold my soul
as your shadow passes by.
Tomorrow, a mist
will rise from the cornfields
and we’ll know another season is upon us
because our clothing will stick to our ribs,
and you’ll depart forever
like those visitors from the city
who don’t know the sense of belonging or the scent of rotting leaves
—or even less—
the desolation of the hillsides
after an infernal rain.
Tomorrow I’ll be silent,
turned toward my solitary pillow
like a schoolgirl punished in the farthest corner of the world,
while the nettles at the back of the garden
will open their milky buttons in the midst of this silence
when it’s all much too late.
We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.
what should the last words be
fare-well see you again
sometime somewhere?
what should the last deeds be
a last letter a phone call
a soft song?
what should the last wish be
forgive me
forget me not
I love you?
what should the last thought be
thank you?
thank you
We present this work in honor of the 70th anniversary of the poet’s death.
A cave, with stalactites and stalagmites,
all white, like the index finger of the morning.
A tapestry, blood-spattered, repetitive,
my slipper but one seed in the watermelon.
Every eye doubles itself in the little mirrors of my toe-nails;
my arms fall, lift themselves, and fall again through autumn.
The word becomes a butterfly of the night,
bats its wings, stops, opens itself to unforeseen pearls —
catches at an echo that rolls slowly
away, dividing and dividing again, and chases after its own flight
like the mane of a comet as it dissolves.
We present this work in honor of the 115th anniversary of the poet’s death.
The withered leaves of Autumn, in golden whirlpools light,
Were dancing in the sunshine of Summer’s dying day,
And yet their dancing seemed to me their agonizing flight
From darkness and oblivion, and mouldering decay.
The hag that sweeps the pavement, with ruthless broom unkind,
Swept up the joyful dancers, and, muttering at their play,
She caught the helpless beings, as many as she could find,
And, mingled with the dust and filth, she swept them all away.
The spring has passed
And the summer come again
For the silk-white robes
So they say, are spread to dry
On Mount Kaguyama
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 105th birthday.
Sun’s rain on the sea
Red sun yellow sun
White noon sun
Blue sun on the sea
Melded water and fire
At noon.
Deep swell I go down
Blue sea green sea
Red agate
Blue green
Depth I go down
From the bed of receded waters
Surging to the surface
Like a daylong bubble
Silver fish
Are on the back on the belly
Riddled with gold shafts
Coming up at leisure
With well-wrought traps
Calm sluices
Eel-nets
To seize the sun
In my soaked fingers.
Autumn leaves
Golden wings
Gray dragonfly on the wind,
How well I feel you fly,
How well I feel you, I feel you!…
For this autumn day
A song goes wandering,
A song, amber and gold,
That gilds my heart.
Poets Corner 