Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider, golden-helmed, doughty in heart, shield-bearer,
Saviour of cities, harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the spear,
O defence of Olympus, father of warlike Victory, ally of Themis, stern governor of the rebellious, leader of righteous men, sceptred
King of manliness, who whirl your fiery sphere among the planets in their sevenfold courses through the aether wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you above the third firmament of heaven; hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless youth!
Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life, and strength of war, that I may be able to drive away bitter cowardice from my head and crush down the deceitful impulses of my soul.
Restrain also the keen fury of my heart which provokes me to tread the ways of blood-curdling strife. Rather, O blessed one, give you me boldness to abide within the harmless laws of peace, avoiding strife and hatred and the violent fiends of death.
Sweet monstrous beings like the automobile moan for you. Homogenous things, even things purified like carbon, moan for you. Everything from the first stone your schoolmate threw to the last stone that will be hurled against you—oh adulterer to be!— moans for you. Because of the slimmest and most sufficient reason for your existence like your fifteen-year-old leg, because you learned to speak and things are still amazed to hear themselves repeated in your mouth because your breast is a little universe in which we can adore God’s roundness.
If warlike chiefs with dawning day At Cattraeth met in dread array, The song records their splendid name; But who shall sing of Urien’s fame? His patriot virtues far excel Whate’er the boldest bard can tell: His dreadful arm and dauntless brow Spoil and dismay the haughty foe.
Pillar of Britain’s regal line! ‘Tis his in glorious war to shine; Despair and death attend his course, Brave leader of the Christian force!
See Prydyn’s men, a valiant train, Rush along Gwenystrad’s plain! Bright their spears for war addrest, Raging vengeance fires their breast; Shouts like ocean’s roar arise, Tear the air, and pierce the skies. Here they urge their tempest force! Nor camp nor forest turns their course: Their breath the shrieking peasants yield O’er all the desolated field.
But lo, the daring hosts engage! Dauntless hearts and flaming rage; And, ere the direful morn is o’er, Mangled limbs and reeking gore, And crimson torrents whelm the ground, Wild destruction stalking round; Fainting warriors gasp for breath, Or struggle in the toils of death.
Where the embattled fortress rose, (Gwenystrad’s bulwark from the foes,) Fierce conflicting heroes meet— Groans the earth beneath their feet.
I mark, amidst the rolling flood, Where hardy warriors stain’d with blood Drop their blunt arms, and join the dead, Grey billows curling o’er their head: Mangled with wounds, and vainly brave, At once they sink beneath the wave.
Lull’d to everlasting rest, With folded arms and gory breast— Cold in death, and ghastly pale, Chieftains press the reeky vale, Who late, amidst their kindred throng, Prepar’d the feast, and join’d the song; Or like the sudden tempest rose, And hurl’d destruction on the foes.
Warriors I saw who led the fray, Stern desolation strew’d their way; Aloft the glitt’ring blade they bore, Their garments hung with clotted gore. The furious thrust, the clanging shield, Confound the long-disputed field.
But when Rheged’s chief pursues, His way through iron ranks he hews; Hills pil’d on hills, the strangers bleed: Amaz’d I view his daring deed! Destruction frowning on his brow, Close he urg’d the panting foe, ‘Till hemm’d around, they met the shock, Before Galysten’s hoary rock. Death and torment strew’d his path; His dreadful blade obey’d his wrath: Beneath their shields the strangers lay, Shrinking from the fatal day.
Thus in victorious armour bright, Thou brave Euronwy, pant for fight: With such examples in thine eyes, Haste to grasp the hero’s prize.
And till old age has left me dumb— Till death has call’d me to the tomb— May cheerful joys ne’er crown my days, Unless I sing of Urien’s praise!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
Mark Strand Canadian 1934 – 2014
Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end, Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end, Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.
When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat, When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead. When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky
Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight, Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.
I come today to high Pichincha’s brow, forced by the cannon of the whites to flee— a wanderer like the sun, fiery like him, like the sun, free!
Hear, Father Sun! The throne lies shattered now low in the dust; profaned thine altars be. Alone to-day I magnify thy name— alone, but free!
Hear, Father Sun! The brand of slavery I will not wear, for all the world to see. Hither I come today to slay myself, and to die free!
Today when thou are setting in the west thous canst behold me from the distant sea chanting thy hymns on the volcano’s crest, singing, and free!
To-morrow, when thy radiant crown once more far in the east shall shine forth gloriously, thine earliest ray will only gild my grave— grave of the free!
On it the condor from the sky will stoop, that makes its home where lofty summits be; there will it lay its eggs and build its nest, unknown and free!
There are no more troubles, neither on earth nor at sea He who wishes to travel has no more excuses Although we have not been, we have news of him Those who have visited say only good things
Here lies Joannes of Epidamnus, the far-shining ornament of ever brilliant consuls who spread abroad the sweet light of the Muses, and more than others amplified the work of hospitality, having a hand that fed all, and alone among men knew not any measure to limit its gifts.
He ornamented his lofty consular car with the laws of his country, making bright the works of pure justice.
Ye gods! he did not live long, but at the age of only forty-two departed this life, regretted by all poets, whom he loved more than his own parents.
Come here, my mother sweetly told me one day; (I still seem to hear the heavenly melody in the air of her voice).
Come, and tell me what such strange causes draw that tear from you, my son, which hangs from your trembling eyelashes, like a curdled drop of dew.
You have a pity and you hide it from me. Don’t you know that the simplest mother knows how to read her children’s souls like you do the book?
Do you want me to guess what you feel? Come here, urchin, with a couple of kisses on the forehead I will dissipate the clouds from your sky.
I burst out crying. Nothing, I told him; I do not know the cause of my tears, but from time to time my heart is oppressed, and I cry.
She bowed her forehead, thoughtful, her pupil became troubled, and, wiping her eyes and mine, she told me more calmly:
– Always call your mother when you suffer, she will come, dead or alive; If it is in the world, to share your sorrows, and if not, to console you from above…
And I do it this way when harsh luck, like today, disturbs the calm of my home: I invoke the name of my beloved mother, and, then, I feel that my soul expands!
Poets Corner 