We present this work in honor of the Tunisian holiday, Martyrs’ Day.
Ines Abassi Tunisian b. 1982
Time: Circles intertwine to form one circle: Its fulcrum is your betrayal. The rays of lies stretch like a diameter of blunders. In mathematics there is something called ‘adjacency’— a no man’s land zone: We are not inside it, nor outside of it. We sometimes meet in it or at the edge of the circle/the memory. Thus, we belong to all possibilities. When meeting, the circle vehemently revolves to return into a mere dot in the void
We present this work in honor of the Ching Ming Festival.
Lin Huiyin Chinese 1904 – 1955
I say, you are the April of this world; Your laughter ignites the winds hither and thither; Tinkling and dancing to the brilliant lights of spring. You are the soft haze of April mornings, Dusk blows the mellowness of the breeze, The stars glittering subconsciously, fine rain drops sprinkle like wine amid the flowers. That gentleness, gracefulness, is you, It is you wearing a radiant crown of a hundred flowers, You are innocence, dignity, You are the full moon night after night. Ivory swathes after melted snow, is like you; New shoots of verdant green, is you; Tender joy, the sparkling ripples carry long awaited white lotuses of your dreams. You are the trees that bloom, The swallows that chitter between the roof beams, —— you are love, warmth, Hope, You are the April of this world!
Mother of Pains, Lady of Suffering, I contemplate your lacerate heart. For the suffering endured by your beloved son, In a life filled with harshness and ingratitude. There is in your eyes such tenderness, So much affection and divine love, That from your tortured semblance A lovely and pure light irradiates; A light that illuminates the most shadowy pathway A divine light, sublime and splendorous That enlightens, guides, and supports. Dear Lady, so beautiful are your tears That they resemble gleaming stars, Drops of light in the darkness of anguish.
Find me an orchestra of elephant tusk horns bulrongs and drums I must have instruments of hair and string for last night I had a vision of a two- winged symphony O let us sing our longing to the heavens and grieving, they will bear us to forever where our clothes are not so dull We will be made of purple flowers there it is always spring There there are no kings. How much longer must we ring this blue bubble of unbroken bitter- leaf soup drinking where pain is measured in depths of laughter but laughter often hides regret of salt? I will build a house that swims a fish to net the world- a place to warble duets when the big rains come.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 85th birthday.
Leila Kasra Persian 1939 – 1989
Do not leave me alone Open your eyes Look, your youth is gone. I want to be twenty years old I want to be thirty years old I want to be this year’s flower when spring comes Do not leave me alone Open your eyes Look, your youth is gone. How soon will the winter cold come? It comes and covers the snow with flowers Nothing has colored Hanam anymore My white hair is a sign. How many memories of love in this white hair The heart falls in love again This is a hope How many memories of love In this white hair My heart will fall in love again, that’s a hope. I wanted to be the owner of the gift whose garden has flowers and nightingales Like the days of youth again Be happy and be a firecracker. How many memories of love In this white hair My heart falls in love again… This is a hope How many memories of love In this white hair My heart will fall in love again, that’s a hope. Do not leave me alone Open your eyes and see, your youth is gone. I want to be twenty years old I want to be thirty years old I want to be this year’s flower when spring comes Do not leave me alone Open your eyes Look, your youth is gone.
In honor of Greek Independence Day, we present this work by one of modern Greece’s most independent poets.
Maria Laina Greek b. 1947
I ignore poetry – not all the time – when the blood throbs on walls when pottery falls to pieces and life uncoils like thread in a bobbin I spit at my sorrow and completely ignore poetry when colours plague my soul yellow blue and orange I withhold my hate and calmly ignore poetry when your eyes tie my stomach into knots
What’s more – not all the time – I ignore poetry when it becomes a quaint ambition
In the brittle twig forest with diamonds for eyes I’m as moonstruck as a paper dog howling at a paper moon. The night is kept ajar for all the rampant fairy tales that will trick me out of the land of the living. But it is neither goblins nor wicked spells that liberate the mazed woods. I wake in the black undergrowth locked by fright that the stage is set. My frozen limbs are struck by the achromatic sight. Whom do I call for? Who lies beside me in bed? If I think of the moods of the sea, affluent and amok I am no longer high and dry stranded by injury but as firm as a rock in the watery night. Three birthday candles drip bright wax upon my fingers. one for the ocean one for the mountain and one for me.
We present this work in honor of the South African holiday, Human Rights Day.
Jeni Couzyn South African b. 1942
You are too naked for touching. If I stroke your brown skin as you sleep you may break. I irritate your long dreams. I depress your awakening. I am no good for you in your alien habitation.
Waiting for you to wake I wait for a return from a long voyage, not knowing what scurvy violence you bring back to embarrass my clean house. Wherever I sow perfection it grows into weeds. O my beautiful
How time changes the clean seed, how the corruption of absence on my body, my damp hands. Awake I am in sleep also, treacherous and lonely. I don’t know where to go, where to find rest. Come back.
We present this work in honor of St. Patrick’s Day.
Ellen Mary Patrick Downing Irish 1828 – 1869
My own dear native river, how fondly dost thou flow, By many a fair and sunny scene where I can never go, Thy waves are free to wander, and quickly on they wind, Till thou hast left the crowded streets and city far behind; Beyond I may not follow; thy haunts are not for me; Yet I love to think on the pleasant track of my own sweet river Lee
The spring-tide now is breathing—when they waters glance along, Full many a bird salutes thee with bright and cheering song; Full many a sunbeam falleth upon thy bosom fair, And every nook thou sleekest hath welcome smiling there. Glide on, thou blessed river! nor pause to think of me, Who only in my longing heart can tread that track with thee!
Yet when thy waters wander, where, haughty in decay, Some grand old Irish castle looks frowning on thy way; Oh! speak aloud, bold river! how I have wept with pride To read of those past ages, ere all our glory died, And wish for one short moment I had been there to see Such relic of the by-gone day upon thy banks, fair Lee!
And if, in roving onward, thy gladsome waters bound Where cottage homes are smiling, and children’s voices sound; Oh! think how sweet and tranquil, beneath the loving sky, Rejoicing in some country home, my life had glided by, And grieve one little minute that I can never be A happy, happy cottager upon thy banks, fair Lee!
Now, fare thee well, glad river! peace smile upon thy way, And still may sunbeams brighten, where thy wild rimples play! Oft in that weary city these blue waves leave behind I’ll think upon the pleasant paths where thy smooth waters wind; Oh! but for one long summer day, to wander on with thee, And rove where’er thou rovest, my own sweet river Lee!
Why are we Scholars plagu’d to write, On Days devoted to Delight? In Honour of the King, I’d play Upon his Coronation Day: But as for Loyalty in Rhyme, Defer that to another Time.
Now to excuse this to my Master– (This Want of Rhyme’s a sad Disaster) Sir, we confess you take great Pains, And break your own, to mend our Brains. You strive to make us learn’d, and wise; But to what End? — We shall not rise: In vain should at Preferment aim, Whilst Strangers make their happier Claim. Why should we labour to excel, Doom’d in Obscurity to dwell? Then, since our Welfare gives you Pain, (And yet your Toil may prove in vain) I wish, for your, and for our Ease, That all were Coronation Days.
Poets Corner 