We present this work in honor of the 35th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Francis Ponge French 1899 – 1988
The body of a tall living hero alone Walks first In a wood made of more than a thousand columns, Then stretches out on a shield —Partly shining and partly of still warm shadow— Formed with pine needles.
He rests Under the musical guard of a quadrille of flies Held at a respectful distance By the circularly extended quiverings Of living flesh.
Some long trees With the plumes on their summits, Ward off in the sky All dangerous flakes.
Prisoners by their roots Strong But sinuous on their heels, They move off around the precious Olympian figure, Opening up the skies For him to see.
He, With clean body, Neither hot nor cold, Without urgent need, His vision richly fed On a thousand blue sparks, Makes move down in his throat deep under the veil of his eyes Ears and nostrils, The secret screen, The curtain Of Memory and Forgetting.
Everything trembles then And refuses no command. Each thing in particular Would be sacrificed willingly.
But he is as just as he is strong And his modesty enhances his power. He gives to everyone at each moment Full authorization According to their own desires Having excused everything, Enriched by his intelligence, He, already dead for them, Lies down as they go off.
We present this work in honor of the 445th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Francisco de Aldana Spanish 1537 – 1578
A thousand times I say, in Galatea’s arms, that she’s more lovely than the sun; then she, with a sweet look, disdainfully, tells me, “My Tyrsis, do not tell me that.”
I try to swear it, and she, suddenly, her face now blazing with a rosy hue restrains me with a kiss and hastily my words with her own lips seeks to combat.
I struggle with her mildly to break free, and she holds me more tightly and then says, “Don’t swear, my love, I know it’s not a lie.”
With this she so completely shackles me that Love, a witness to our gentle play, causes with deeds my hope to satisfy.
So feasted they through Troy, and in their midst Loud pealed the flutes and pipes: on every hand Were song and dance, laughter and cries confused Of banqueters beside the meats and wine. They, lifting in their hands the beakers brimmed, Recklessly drank, till heavy of brain they grew, Till rolled their fluctuant eyes. Now and again Some mouth would babble the drunkard’s broken words. The household gear, the very roof and walls Seemed as they rocked: all things they looked on seemed Whirled in wild dance. About their eyes a veil Of mist dropped, for the drunkard’s sight is dimmed, And the wit dulled, when rise the fumes to the brain: And thus a heavy-headed feaster cried: “For naught the Danaans mustered that great host Hither! Fools, they have wrought not their intent, But with hopes unaccomplished from our town Like silly boys or women have they fled.”
So cried a Trojan wit-befogged with wine, Fool, nor discerned destruction at the doors.
When sleep had locked his fetters everywhere Through Troy on folk fulfilled of wine and meat, Then Sinon lifted high a blazing torch To show the Argive men the splendour of fire. But fearfully the while his heart beat, lest The men of Troy might see it, and the plot Be suddenly revealed. But on their beds Sleeping their last sleep lay they, heavy with wine. The host saw, and from Tenedos set sail.
Then nigh the Horse drew Sinon: softly he called, Full softly, that no man of Troy might hear, But only Achaea’s chiefs, far from whose eyes Sleep hovered, so athirst were they for fight. They heard, and to Odysseus all inclined Their ears: he bade them urgently go forth Softly and fearlessly; and they obeyed That battle-summons, pressing in hot haste To leap to earth: but in his subtlety He stayed them from all thrusting eagerly forth. But first himself with swift unfaltering hands, Helped of Epeius, here and there unbarred The ribs of the Horse of beams: above the planks A little he raised his head, and gazed around On all sides, if he haply might descry One Trojan waking yet. As when a wolf, With hunger stung to the heart, comes from the hills, And ravenous for flesh draws nigh the flock Penned in the wide fold, slinking past the men And dogs that watch, all keen to ward the sheep, Then o’er the fold-wall leaps with soundless feet; So stole Odysseus down from the Horse: with him Followed the war-fain lords of Hellas’ League, Orderly stepping down the ladders, which Epeius framed for paths of mighty men, For entering and for passing forth the Horse, Who down them now on this side, that side, streamed As fearless wasps startled by stroke of axe In angry mood pour all together forth From the tree-bole, at sound of woodman’s blow; So battle-kindled forth the Horse they poured Into the midst of that strong city of Troy With hearts that leapt expectant. [With swift hands Snatched they the brands from dying hearths, and fired Temple and palace. Onward then to the gates Sped they,] and swiftly slew the slumbering guards, [Then held the gate-towers till their friends should come.] Fast rowed the host the while; on swept the ships Over the great flood: Thetis made their paths Straight, and behind them sent a driving wind Speeding them, and the hearts Achaean glowed. Swiftly to Hellespont’s shore they came, and there Beached they the keels again, and deftly dealt With whatso tackling appertains to ships. Then leapt they aland, and hasted on to Troy Silent as sheep that hurry to the fold From woodland pasture on an autumn eve; So without sound of voices marched they on Unto the Trojans’ fortress, eager all To help those mighty chiefs with foes begirt. Now these—as famished wolves fierce-glaring round Fall on a fold mid the long forest-hills, While sleeps the toil-worn watchman, and they rend The sheep on every hand within the wall In darkness, and all round [are heaped the slain; So these within the city smote and slew, As swarmed the awakened foe around them; yet, Fast as they slew, aye faster closed on them Those thousands, mad to thrust them from the gates.] Slipping in blood and stumbling o’er the dead [Their line reeled,] and destruction loomed o’er them, Though Danaan thousands near and nearer drew.
We present this work in honor of the 60th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Theodore Roethke American 1908 – 1963
1
In a shoe box stuffed in an old nylon stocking Sleeps the baby mouse I found in the meadow, Where he trembled and shook beneath a stick Till I caught him up by the tail and brought him in, Cradled in my hand, A little quaker, the whole body of him trembling, His absurd whiskers sticking out like a cartoon-mouse, His feet like small leaves, Little lizard-feet, Whitish and spread wide when he tried to struggle away, Wriggling like a minuscule puppy.
Now he’s eaten his three kinds of cheese and drunk from his bottle-cap watering-trough— So much he just lies in one corner, His tail curled under him, his belly big As his head; his bat-like ears Twitching, tilting toward the least sound.
Do I imagine he no longer trembles When I come close to him? He seems no longer to tremble.
2
But this morning the shoe-box house on the back porch is empty. Where has he gone, my meadow mouse, My thumb of a child that nuzzled in my palm? — To run under the hawk’s wing, Under the eye of the great owl watching from the elm-tree, To live by courtesy of the shrike, the snake, the tom-cat.
I think of the nestling fallen into the deep grass, The turtle gasping in the dusty rubble of the highway, The paralytic stunned in the tub, and the water rising,— All things innocent, hapless, forsaken.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
Don Marquis American 1878 – 1937
i met a toad the other day by the name of warty bliggens he was sitting under a toadstool feeling contented he explained that when the cosmos was created that toadstool was especially planned for his personal shelter from sun and rain thought out and prepared for him
do not tell me said warty bliggens that there is not a purpose in the universe the thought is blasphemy a little more conversation revealed that warty bliggens considers himself to be the center of the same universe the earth exists to grow toadstools for him to sit under the sun to give him light by day and the moon and wheeling constellations to make beautiful the night for the sake of warty bliggens
to what act of yours do you impute this interest on the part of the creator of the universe i asked him why is it that you are so greatly favored
ask rather said warty bliggens what the universe has done to deserve me if i were a human being i would not laugh too complacently at poor warty bliggens for similar absurdities have only too often lodged in the crinkles of the human cerebrum
Man runs towards the grave, And rivers hasten to the great deep The end of all living is their death, And the palace in time becomes a heap. Nothing is further than the day gone by, And nothing nearer than the day to come, And both are far, far away From the man hidden in the heart of the tomb.
We present this work in honor of the Tunisian holiday, Republic Day.
Mohamed Ali Yousfi Tunisian b. 1950
The revolution that burst out the rose of wind in the sand, And for which Anemone bled in the field
Is now led by grave wisdom Filling our lungs with incense’s rotten fume …
Birds are alarmed by the hissing of the leaves The mole broadens the strategy of the pit, And announces today the birth of his (nightly) ninety-ninth party While, from a thousand sheds, echoes Surat The Merciful.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.
Stephen Vincent Benet American 1898 – 1943
My mind’s a map. A mad sea-captain drew it Under a flowing moon until he knew it; Winds with brass trumpets, puffy-cheeked as jugs, And states bright-patterned like Arabian rugs. “Here there be tygers.” “Here we buried Jim.” Here is the strait where eyeless fishes swim About their buried idol, drowned so cold He weeps away his eyes in salt and gold. A country like the dark side of the moon, A cider-apple country, harsh and boon, A country savage as a chestnut-rind, A land of hungry sorcerers. Your mind?
—Your mind is water through an April night, A cherry-branch, plume-feathery with its white, A lavender as fragrant as your words, A room where Peace and Honor talk like birds, Sewing bright coins upon the tragic cloth Of heavy Fate, and Mockery, like a moth, Flutters and beats about those lovely things. You are the soul, enchanted with its wings, The single voice that raises up the dead To shake the pride of angels. I have said.
Poets Corner 