I camped last night in a desert grey ‘Neath the eyes of a million stars, For they all had come in their vestments gay, Like a laughing host in the wake of day, To the shrine of the midnight bars. And satyrs slid on the glinting spars Of light, through the halls of space, And Venus served from the vintage jars, And a blossom shone on the nose of Mars And a smile on the old Moon’s face. My castle’s roof was the spangled sky And its carpet of sea-green moss; And its walls were curtained with tapestry,… And the face of her I had kissed Good-bye Was enshrined in the Southern Cross. As I gazed, the stars kept clustering, And closer and closer crept, Until I and they, we were all a-swing, When an owl flew down on a drowsy wing And we blew out the light… and slept.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 200th birthday.
Michael Madhususdan Dutt Indian 1824 – 1873
Always, o river, you peep in my mind. Always I think you in this loneliness. Always I soothe my ears with the murmur Of your waters in illusion, the way Men hear songs of illusion in a dream. Many a river I have seen on earth; But which can quench my thirst the way you do? You’re the flow of milk in my homeland’s breasts. Will I meet you ever? As long as you Go to kinglike ocean to pay the tax Of water, I beg to you, sing my name Into the ears of people of Bengal, Sing his name, o dear, who in this far land Sings your name in all his songs for Bengal.
Which should condemn me to this, my state. Why must I suffer this distress and grief? Was that, my defense of religion and country, a crime for which I should be unjustly condemned and exiled?
Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love, and let us value all the rumors of more severe old men at only a penny! Suns are able to set and return: when once the short light has set for us one perpetual night must be slept by us. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then immediately a thousand then a hundred. then, when we will have made many thousand kisses, we will throw them into confusion, lest we know, or lest anyone bad be able to envy when he knows there to be so many kisses.
We present this work in honor of the 90th anniversary of the poet’s death
Aref Qazvini Persian 1882 – 1934
I.
It’s the season of wine, meadows, and Rose The court of spring is cleared of choughs and crows Generous clouds now water Rey more freely than Khotan The caged bird and I both long for our own land
How wayward are you, Heaven! How vicious are you, Heaven! You’re headed to vengeance, O Heaven! You have no faith You have no creed—no creed O Heaven!
II.
Tulips have bloomed from the blood of the youths of our land Lamenting those cypresses, Cypress can no longer stand A mourning nightingale creeps under Rose’s shadow And Rose, like me, has torn her robe in sorrow
How wayward are you, Heaven! How vicious are you, Heaven! You’re headed to vengeance, O Heaven! You have no faith You have no creed—no creed O Heaven!
III.
Asleep are the vakeels, corrupt are the viziers They have plundered the silver and gold of Iran Lest they leave our home a ruin God, judge the emirs, dry the paupers’ tears
How wayward are you, Heaven! How vicious are you, Heaven! You’re headed to vengeance, O Heaven! You have no faith You have no creed—no creed O Heaven!
IV.
Capsize the earth with tears If you have a fistful of Iran’s soil, pour it over your head Manifest your honour, beware of dark days Let your bosom be a shield before enemy spears
How wayward are you, Heaven! How vicious are you, Heaven! You’re headed to vengeance, O Heaven! You have no faith You have no creed—no creed O Heaven!
V.
At the foe’s hands I howl in pain Whoever fears death is by fear slain The lovers’ dance of death is not a game of chess If you have courage, prepare for campaign
How wayward are you, Heaven! How vicious are you, Heaven! You’re headed to vengeance, O Heaven! You have no faith You have no creed—no creed O Heaven!
VI.
‘Aref relies not on days since the dawn of days Like Khayyam, he holds no hand but the wine cup’s Gives his heart only to the beloved’s curls Trades not a hundred lifetimes of shame for one with a name
How wayward are you, Heaven! How vicious are you, Heaven! You’re headed to vengeance, O Heaven! You have no faith You have no creed—no creed O Heaven!
You’ve come early to see us this year, John Frost, Wi’ your crispin’ an’ poutherin’ gear, John Frost, For hedge, tower, an’ tree, As far as I see, Are as white as the bloom o’ the pear, John Frost.
You’re very preceese wi’ your wark, John Frost! Altho’ ye ha’e wrought in the dark, John Frost, For ilka fit-stap, Frae the door to the slap, Is braw as a new linen sark, John Frost.
There are some things about ye I like, John Frost, And ithers that aft gar me fyke, John Frost; For the weans, wi’ cauld taes, Crying “shoon, stockings, claes,” Keep us busy as bees in the byke, John Frost.
And gae ’wa’ wi’ your lang slides, I beg, John Frost! Bairn’s banes are as bruckle’s an egg, John Frost; For a cloit o’ a fa’ Gars them hirple awa’, Like a hen wi’ a happity leg, John Frost.
Ye ha’e fine goings on in the north, John Frost! Wi’ your houses o’ ice and so forth, John Frost! Tho’ their kirn’s on the fire, They may kirn till they tire, Yet their butter—pray what is it worth, John Frost?
Now, your breath would be greatly improven, John Frost, By a scone pipin’-het frae the oven, John Frost; And your blae frosty nose Nae beauty wad lose, Kent ye mair baith o’ boiling and stovin’, John Frost.
When shadow forms itself within you; when you snuff out all your stars; when you’re swimming in the mud, most fetid, most infected, most miserable, most macabre, mostly made of mostly death, most bestial, most arrested, you have not fallen yet, you have not rolled to the deepest depth, yet… if in the cavern of your chest, most overlooked, most remote, most secret, most arcane, darkest, emptiest, meanest, and demoted psalms of sadness there be sung, biting down on anguish and heartache, one part still pulses, moans an angel, chirps a nest of blushings, and you feel a knot of anxiety. Those who are born tenebrous; those who are and will be larvae: those who are hindrance, danger, contagion. Those who are Satan, the damned, and those who never stopped short, never always, never same, never never— will not regenerate, do not auscultate themselves in their nights, do not weep for themselves… they who present themselves commanding, satisfied—as rules, as molds, as a stud to bolt things down, as standard unit of weight, as load-bearing beam— And they do not feel the desire, for that which is healthy, for that which is pure not one wretched moment, not one wretched instant, in their arcane brain. To him who “Tsks” his shadows, to him who taciturn wanders; to him who bears upon both his backs—like an unavoidable weight, like the punishing weight of a hundred cities, for a hundred years; of a hundred generations of delinquents— his stubborn obfuscation; to him who suffers night and day— and through his sleep still suffers— like the grace of a spiked belt, like a bone stuck in the throat, like a nine-inch nail inside the brain, like a ringing in the ears, like a relentless callus, the notion of his own miseries, the great burden of his passion: to him I bow my head, I bend my knee; I kiss the bottom of his feet; I say: God save you… Dark Christ, stinking saint, Job within, infamous cup of pain!
We present this work in honor of the 415th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Edmund Spenser English 1552 – 1599
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
“Vain man,” said she, “that dost in vain assay, A mortal thing so to immortalize; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise.”
“Not so,” (quod I) “let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.”
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