We present this work in honor of the poet’s 210th birthday.
Mikhail Lermontov Russian 1814 – 1841
By a loophole, I sit in my prison, Could see the blue of the heaven from there, I feel sharp pain and a shame at the vision Of heedless birds, freely playing in air.
On my dry lips, I’ve not any prayers, Nor any songs, that have ever to fly on, But I remember the ancient battles, My heavy sword and my coat of iron.
My stony armor – the cross I’m to bear, My stony helmet compresses my brow, My shield’s worn from a sword and a spear, My horse takes roads – I don’t now how.
Time is my horse that stays always my own, A helmet’s mask-visor – the grate on a hole, The walls are my armor that’s made of the stone, My permanent shield is the door’s iron fold.
Time! I desire to speed your hooves’ rattle! My stony armor is heavy to rise on! Death, when we’ve come, will help me by the saddle; I will dismount and rise up my visor.
We present this work in honor of the 15th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Cintio Vitier Cuban 1921 – 2009
You enter that light which binds night and day, that swirling mist of pain, fortunate pain, which has no need to be seen. It shimmers on the ever-present, ever- inactual shore.
Simple worker, like those who build men’s houses— Breathe life into the whirlwind where the dead shall find you, dear friends absorbed in daylight.
Break into separate hearths the burning bread of solitude, leavened with tears and joy destined for your flesh and blood— the one who passes, he who wounds you without knowing, he who cures you with his indifference: your son.
Want nothing more, close your eyes in the secret of the dew; drown your flame-torn heart. And when you can forget you once were whole, then embrace the world in silence.
We present this work in honor of the 110th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Altaf Hussain Hali Indian 1837 – 1914
They rejuvenated Aristotle’s dead tomes Plato from oblivion was brought back to life Turned each spot to ‘Greece’, refined all the homes Taste of wisdom’s manna, they offered to all From universal eye they removed the dense veil From slumber woke up Time, set it ready to sail.
We present this work in honor of World Tourism Day.
Du Fu Chinese 712 – 770
I remember the temple, this route I’ve travelled before, I recall the bridge as I cross it again. It seems the hills and rivers have been waiting, The flowers and willows all are selfless now. The field is sleek, and vivid, thin mist shines, On soft sand, the sunlight’s colour shows it’s late. All the traveler’s sorrow fades away, What better place to rest than this?
We present this work in honor of the 20th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Arun Kolatkar Indian 1932 – 2004
Who has the tigers and who the sheep never seems to make any difference. The result is always the same: She wins, I lose. But sometimes when her tigers are on the rampage, and I’ve lost half my herd of sheep, help comes from unexpected quarters: Above. The Rusty Shield Bearer, neutral till then, para-drops a winning flower — yellow and irrelevant — on the checkerboard drawn on the pavement in charcoal, cutting off the retreat of one tiger, and giving a check to the other; and quickly follows it up with another flower — just as yellow and just as irrelevant — except that it comes down even more slowly; a flower without a search warrant that brushes past her earlobe, grazes her cheek, and disappears down the front of her low-cut blouse — where she usually keeps her stash of hash — to confuse her even further, with its mildly narcotic but very distracting fragrance.
We present this work in honor of the South African holiday, Heritage Day.
Mzwakhe Mbuli South African b. 1958
A new man is born, Full of strength and agility, To demonstrate conventional wisdom, In defence of the fatherland,
Through cannons of criticism, His dragon force and enthusiasm, Shall perform a daring combat against fascism.
Man shall initiate a campaign, Against genocidal crimes, Committed and perpetrated against beloved humanity, Today housing is another means of exploitation, And before the spirit of Hitler destroys man, Wake me up to join you in the march, To a people’s kingdom.
Man is swallowed by limited pleasures of time, Man is forsaken like a memory lost, Say it aloud, justice is absent and democracy is nil, Say it aloud, to counter the state lie, Again shout it aloud, The government is riding fast to a greatest fall, From one great defeat to another.
Tuberculotive bodies of young and old, Shall come to pass, Institutionalised violence is silent in holocaust by design, However like a surprise the day shall dawn, And the world shall mourn, And the burial of fascism, And a threat to world peace shall be no more, The doors of hell are golden, Possessed and displayed by Western powers, Self-interest is a vehicle to the graveyard, Hidden worms shall come to exposure, And collaborators like giant spiders, Shall belong to the dustbin of history, All this shall take root before dawn.
Shalom is the language of world peace, North, East, South and West, The Inkomati accord is not freedom but a deal, No state power shall legislate me not to love man, Do something to facilitate change in Africa, Do something to fling the doors of Pollsmor and Robben Island prison wide open, Do something favourable for the exiles to return back home, Oh! Africa let all this be done before dawn, Oh! Peace loving South Africans let it be done before dawn.
Poets Corner 