We present this work in honor of the 95th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Kostas Karyotakis Greek 1896 – 1928
Such peace holds sway here! One would say the graves themselves were smiling, while the dead converse in muted tones in upper case, deep in the darkness.
From there with plain and simple words they want to reach our peaceful hearts. But their lament, whatever they desire to say, fails in its purpose, for they’ve fled too far away.
All that’s here to mark Martzokis are two sticks of wood laid one across the other. For Vasiliadis, here’s a great stone book.
And a plaque half hidden in the grass – for that’s how Death presents her now – this is Lamari, a forgotten poet.
We present this work in honor of Colombian Independence Day.
Jorge Gaitán Durán Colombian 1924 – 1962
Death could not beat me. I battled and lived. The restless body against the soul, to the white flight of the day.
In the ruins of Troy I wrote: “Everything is death or love” and since then I had no rest. I said in Rome:
“There are no gods, just time” and since then I had no redemption. I silenced myself in Spain, since the voice of rage defied forgetfulness with my marrow, my humors, my blood; and since then the fire has not stopped.
May the foreign land serve as a resting place for the hero. May fresh grass sing like a bee of the dust by his eyelids. I do not surrender: I want to live in war every day, as if it were the last one.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 130th birthday.
Vladimir Mayakovsky Russian 1893 – 1930
The moon is emerging. It going to be here soon. Now, it hangs in the air, full and stark. That is probably God, with a divine silver spoon, groping in the fish-soup of stars.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 280th birthday.
Gavriil Derzhavin Russian 1743 – 1816
I was sleeping on a high hill, nightingale, I heard you calling, my soul itself could hear it, in the very depths of sleep: now sounding, now re-sounding, now sorrowing, now laughing, floating, from the distance, to my ear: while I lay there with Callisto, songs, sighs, cries, and trilling, thrilled me in the very depths of sleep.
If, after death, I lie there in a sleep that’s dull, unending, and, ah, these songs no longer travel to my ear: if I cannot hear the sound then of that happiness or laughter, of dancing, or of glory, or of joy — then it’s life on earth I’ll cling to, kiss my darling one, and kiss her, as I listen to the distant nightingale.
We present this work in honor of The Twelfth (Battle of the Boyne).
Thomas d’Arcy McGee Irish 1825 – 1868
Child of Loch Ramor, gently seaward stealing, In thy placid depths hast thou no feeling Of the stormy gusts of other days? Does thy heart, O gentle, nun-faced river, Passing Schomberg’s obelisk, not quiver, While the shadow on thy bosom weighs?
Thou hast heard the sounds of martial clangor, Seen fraternal forces clash in anger, In thy Sabbath valley, River Boyne! Here have ancient Ulster’s hardy forces Dressed their ranks and fed their travelled horses, Tara’s hosting as they rode to join.
Forgettest thou that silent summer morning When William’s bugles sounded sudden warning And James’s answered chivalrously clear? When rank to rank gave the death-signal duly, And volley answered volley quick and truly, And shouted mandates met the eager ear?
The thrush and linnet fled beyond the mountains, The fish in Inver Colpa sought their fountains, The unchased deer scampered through Tredagh’s gates, St. Mary’s bells in their high places trembled, And made a mournful music which resembled A hopeless prayer to the unpitying Fates.
Ah! well for Ireland had the battle ended When James forsook what William well defended, Crown, friends, and kingly cause; Well, if the peace thy bosom bid recover Had breathed its benediction broadly over Our race and rites and laws.
Not in thy depths, not in thy fount, Loch Ramor! Were brewed the bitter strife and cruel clamor Our wisest long have mourned; Foul faction falsely made thy gentle current To Christian ears a stream and name abhorrent, And all thy waters into poison turned.
But, as of old God’s prophet sweetened Mara, Even so, blue bound of Ulster and of Tara, Thy waters to our exodus gave life; Thrice holy hands thy lineal foes have wedded, And healing olives in thy breast embedded, And banished far the littleness of strife.
Before thee we have made a solemn foedus, And for chief witness called on Him who made us, Quenching before his eyes the brands of hate; Our pact is made, for brotherhood and union, For equal laws to class and to communion, — Our wounds to stanch, our land to liberate.
Our trust is not in musket or in sabre, Our faith is in the fruitfulness of labor, The soul-stirred, willing soil; In homes and granaries by justice guarded, In fields from blighting winds and agents warded, In franchised skill and manumitted toil.
Grant us, O God, the soil and sun and seasons! Avert despair, the worst of moral treasons, Make vaunting words be vile. Grant us, we pray, but wisdom, peace, and patience, And we will yet relift among the nations Our fair and fallen, but unforsaken Isle!
We present this work in honor of the 35th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Enrique Lihn Chilean 1929 – 1988
In your opinion one love erases another and so it is, dear, yet in love not everything belongs to the dart and quiver— false starts—or is part of the wound that bewilders all pleasure, all grief twin of death, metaphor for birth The victims of Eros survive the crime that, joyfully, they’re passive agents of its authors in a mysterious moment and they don’t forget at least I don’t: my memory of you remains, independent of love as in that painting by Magritte where the dawn sky still hasn’t dissolved night in the street nor its precious moon: a light curdled in the streetlight that darkly illuminates that road It’s true, the oxymoron is no more than a figure of speech and can be guilty of premeditation Not so myself, at least I hope not, if I tell you: one love doesn’t erase another Memory, also, in its way loves and, as someone said, “There is no forgetting.”
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 105th birthday.
Alí Chumacero Mexican 1918 – 2010
Think of your look and my oblivion leaving the thought dilated through your eyes, drowned of his own living with your meaning;
then look at your oblivion that appears in me Like a rose that gave space slight prolongation and then out the light itself that touches with its aroma,
is to give myself to you without further ado that the fight of the body against the wind, and with you dreaming of being so quiet
like a shipwrecked sea or vain attempt: because since I can’t think of you, I leave my thought forgotten in you.
We present this work in honor of the 490th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Ludovico Ariosto Italian 1474 – 1533
Upon two beauteous images below Each of these female statues fix their feet. The lower seem with open mouth to show That song and harmony to them are sweet; And, by their attitude, ’twould seem, as though Their every work and every study meet In praising them, they on their shoulders bear, As they would those whose likenesses they wear.
The images below them in their hand Long scrolls and of an ample size contain, Which of the worthiest figures of that band The several names with mickle praise explain As well their own at little distance stand, Inscribed upon that scroll, in letters plain, Rinaldo, by the help of blazing lights, Marked, one by one, the ladies and their knights.
The first inscription there which meets the eye Recites at length Lucretia Borgia’s fame, Whom Rome should place, for charms and chastity, Above that wife who whilom bore her name. Strozza and Tebaldeo—Anthony And Hercules—support the honoured dame: (So says the scroll): for tuneful strain, the pair A very Linus and an Orpheus are.
A statue no less jocund, no less bright, Succeeds, and on the writing is impressed; Lo! Hercules’ daughter, Isabella hight, In whom Ferrara deems her city blest, Much more because she first shall see the light Within its circuit, than for all the rest Which kind and favouring Fortune in the flow Of rolling years, shall on that town bestow.
The pair that such desirous ardour shew That aye her praises should be widely blown: John James alike are named: of those fair two, One is Calandra, one is Bardelon. In the third place, and fourth, where trickling through Small rills, the water quits that octagon, Two ladies are there, equal in their birth, Equal in country, honour, charms and worth.
Why am I so worried about my fortune? Why should I complain? My Creator is my Benefactor.
I am His weak creature and He is the Almighty. That which is hard for me For Him becomes so easy.
I am just a slave and Destiny has all matters settled. He can see me, while I can’t. Out of semen He shaped me inside a womb.
He says: “Be!” and so it is, from the Beginning and all new again. He reigns over all His creatures and rules His kingdom as He pleases.
Out of semen He shaped me in the darkness of a womb and offered me all kinds of riches and fed me all kinds of food.
I came out completely naked and He decently clothed me. He still protects me and is far above the wisest of all men.
I was born naked—I was born ignorant. He enveloped my soul in a decent cloth and made me drink from His holy spring and made Earth my bed and the Sky my roof.
Praise be to Him our Benefactor! We must praise him at all times for all the good He bestowed upon us and for both Sky and Earth.
Earth is His kingdom, and I’m one of His subjects. Men are His creatures, and I’m one of them. He is the One who bestows fortune so let’s not be too demanding, and accept whatever comes…
To you life means to entertain yourself: seeking only pleasure and careless about the rest. Take a rest, my heart, and be happy with just a little!
Discard what your Self wants most if you want to get rich, for your Poverty lies in your virtues! He who can’t oppose his desires shall suffer all his life!
Be strong and fight your Self! Don’t let yourself drift away—keep Desire out of your mind and root out every single seed of it, for your Self wishes you ill! Look at you: how weary you are!
Some people told me: “Be wise, old fool! Forget your worries and know what you say! Build your walls on solid foundations, for your foundations threaten to fall.”
I replied: “Are you being fair to Him? From Him I see only the good. How many lie buried under the ground? Who am I to be in the world what I want to? The world is worth nothing to me! Why do you call me a fool when you can see me carrying hard, heavy stones? What do you want from me? Just leave me alone!
They told me: “Be quiet and humble, old fool, when you enter the mosque!” To which I replied: “Who am I to refuse to be humble?! My hair has turned white and it’s time for me to depart as if I had never existed! I am from Earth, and to Earth I shall soon return.”
Earth is my Origin and that of all creatures. Earth is where I am like a plant deeply rooted. I prefer to see my flesh and bones Turn into weeds and earthworms.
Earth was the Beginning of all Creation: from Earth we all sprouted, and to it we shall return. It is said that those who lie there shall someday rise so I won’t mind resting anywhere you wish, for Earth embraces all men alike: the ragged and the richly clad, those wearing large cotton belts, chechias, turbans, or Yemeni brocades.
On Him who feeds the birds I rely, for He certainly is my Protector! He designs the course of my life And all things happen as He wishes!
They said my mind was constantly upset. I said: “He is the One who knows!” They said I have changed my mind. I said: “No! No! No! My mind won’t feed me.”
The said: “Why don’t you work?” I said: “Work is an honor to me! I will tighten my belt and toil all day long till I save u; enough and savor the tasty flesh of pigeons! But I will never, ever beg any of my brothers nor any other person in the world!”
They said: “Life is tasteless.” I said: “Because of heartless men!” They said: “Be a beggar.” I said: “Begging kills his man!” They said: “Get married.” I said: “Who suits me?” They said: “But you have no money.” I said: “Thank God!”
When lightning strikes and the wind blows, I recall those nights When I was so happy. But then those were only ghosts!
My heart lies in the East, while in the West I feel a complete stranger! Each time lightning strikes I recall a strange thing: everyone wonders how I can be there and here! To them I must look like a bird whose feathers have been cut.
If you meditate on this poem you will discover a hidden garden where meaning flowers in various colors nurtured by the noble Othman Ibn sidi Yahya.
Poets Corner 