We present this work in honor of the poet’s 710th birthday.
Giovanni Boccaccio Italian 1313 – 1375
I am young and fain to sing In this happy tide of spring Of love and many a gentle thing, I wander through green meadows dight With blossoms gold and red and white; Rose by the thorn and lily fair, Both one and all I do compare With him who, worshipping my charms, For aye would fold me in his arms As one unto his service sworn. Then, when I find a flower that seems Like to the object of my dreams, I gather it and kiss it there, I flatter it in accents fair, My heart outpour, my soul stoop down, Then weave it in a fragrant crown Among my flaxen locks to wear. The rapture nature’s floweret gay Awakes in me doth last alway, As if I tarried face to face With him whose true love is my grace; Thoughts which its fragrancy inspires I cannot frame to my desires, My sighs their pilgrimage do trace. My sights are neither harsh nor sad As other women’s are, but glad And tender; in so fond a wise They seek my love that he replies By coming hither, and so gives Delight to her who in him lives Yet almost wept: “Come, for hope dies.”
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 165th birthday.
Manuel José Othón Mexican 1858 – 1906
Look at the landscape: vastness down below, vastness on vastness in the sky. Between, sapped at their footing by the wild ravine, the high sierras rise, a distant show.
Look, where the grim half-burnt savannah broods: gigantic block upon gigantic block, torn by the earthquake from the living rock. Never a track and never a path intrudes.
Adesolate and burning atmosphere, studded with eagles, high, ethereal, like nails on which unhurried hammers fall.
Tremendous darkness, and tremendous fear and silence, interrupted if at all by the triumphal gallop of the deer.
It was not exactly an auction sale, But the asking price flew above The heads of all there making a bid. An outsider then offered to pay. Thereupon, all who had failed On their own, came up with one sum, Dancing away to share the big catch.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 120th birthday.
Count Geoffrey Potocki de Montalk Kiwi 1903 –1997
Looking over toward London, the slim Straight lines of light from the lamps along the river Meticulously made, Most classically shadowed there, a prim Silver colonnade.
But up the stream a glowing faery isle And clustered lights all ravishingly quiver (Where in the daytime seas Wash wearily about the power-house, while The heart is ill at ease).
And a little boat with lights green, yellow and red, Is turned into a magical Chinese Duck, whose long wake is A right-triangle, far past the imagined Island’s isosceles.
Everything declines after reaching perfection, therefore let no man be beguiled by the sweetness of a pleasant life. As you have observed, these are the decrees that are inconstant: he whom a single moment has made happy, has been harmed by many other moments; And this is the abode that will show pity for no man, nor will any condition remain in its state for it. Fate irrevocably destroys every ample coat of mail when Mashrifi swords and spears glance off without effect; It unsheaths each sword only to destroy it even if it be an Ibn Dhi Yazan and the scabbard Ghumdan Where are the crowned kings of Yemen and where are their jewel-studded diadems and crowns? Where are [the buildings] Shaddad raised in Iram and where [the empire] the Sassanians ruled in Persia? Where is the gold Qarun once possessed; where are `Ad and Shaddad and Qahtan? An irrevocable decree overcame them all so that they passed away and the people came to be as though they had never existed. The kingdoms and kings that had been came to be like what a sleeper has told about [his] dream vision. Fate turned against Darius as well as his slayer, and as for Chosroes, no vaulted palace offered him protection. It is as if no cause had ever made the hard easy to bear, and as if Solomon had never ruled the world. The misfortunes brought on by Fate are of many different kinds, while Time has causes of joy and of sorrow. For the accidents [of fortune] there is a consolation that makes them easy to bear, yet there is no consolation for what has befallen Islam. An event which cannot be endured has overtaken the peninsula; one such that Uhud has collapsed because of it and Thahlan has crumbled! The evil eye has struck [the peninsula] in its Islam so that [the land] decreased until whole regions and districts were despoiled of [the faith] Therefore ask Valencia what is the state of Murcia; and where is Jativa, and where is Jaىn? Where is Cordoba, the home of the sciences, and many a scholar whose rank was once lofty in it? Where is Seville and the pleasures it contains, as well as its sweet river overflowing and brimming full? [They are] capitals which were the pillars of the land, yet when the pillars are gone, it may no longer endure! The tap of the white ablution fount weeps in despair, like a passionate lover weeping at the departure of the beloved, Over dwellings emptied of Islam that were first vacated and are now inhabited by unbelief; In which the mosques have become churches wherein only bells and crosses may be found. Even the mihrabs weep though they are solid; even the pulpits mourn though they are wooden! O you who remain heedless though you have a warning in Fate: if you are asleep, Fate is always awake! And you who walk forth cheerfully while your homeland diverts you [from cares], can a homeland beguile any man after [the loss of] Seville? This misfortune has caused those that preceded it to be forgotten, nor can it ever be forgotten for the length of all time! O you who ride lean, thoroughbred steeds which seem like eagles in the racecourse; And you who carry slender, Indian blades which seem like fires in the darkness caused by the dust cloud [of war], And you who are living in luxury beyond the sea enjoying life, you who have strength and power in your homelands, Have you no news of the people of Andalus, for riders have carried forth what men have said [about them]? How often have the weak, who were being killed and captured while no man stirred, asked our help? What means this severing of the bonds of Islam on your behalf, when you, 0 worshipers of God, are [our] brethren? Are there no heroic souls with lofty ambitions; are there no helpers and defenders of righteousness? O, who will redress the humiliation of a people who were once powerful, a people whose condition injustice and tyrants have changed? Yesterday they were kings in their own homes, but today they are slaves in the land of the infidel! Thus, were you to see them perplexed, with no one to guide them, wearing the cloth of shame in its different shades, And were you to behold their weeping when they are sold, the matter would strike fear into your heart, and sorrow would seize you. Alas, many a mother and child have been parted as souls and bodies are separated! And many a maiden fair as the sun when it rises, as though she were rubies and pearls, Is led off to abomination by a barbarian against her will, while her eye is in tears and her heart is stunned. The heart melts with sorrow at such [sights], if there is any Islam or belief in that heart!
O Glorious Mother of sweet Jesus, by Whose sacred death, us from Hell’s portals freeing, Wiped out the sin, O Lady of the sky, In which our primal father had his being, Ah, see Love with his arrows sharp and bold, What grievous fate he goadeth me unto! O piteous Mother, dear ally, withhold His unruly squadrons, let them not pursue!
O grant to me the love which is divine And draweth up our souls to Paradise, So I may loose these passionate bonds of mine. Herein the balm for this wild fury lies, This water doth to quench this fire avail As in a plank a nail drives forth a nail.
We present this work in honor of the 45th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Malek Haddad Algerian 1927 – 1978
I am the final point of a novel that begins Let us not forget everything above level zero I sustain my romance intact between my eyes Then, denying nothing, I set out once again I am the final point of a novel that begins No need to distinguish the horizon from the dance And within my burnous my house survives I am the final point of a novel that begins Of my two Saharas I compose my song I sustain my romance intact between my eyes I am in the truth the pupil and the lesson
Often I recall having been a shepherd… Then in my eyes there’s that long-suffering look Of a fellah who watches in his unbreakable hands The history of a country where the orange tree will be born Often I recall having been a shepherd I have sliced the galette I have parted the figs My daughter I have married well It has no equal To the gun To the task Than my eldest son My wife was the finest in the valley. Among us the word fatherland has a taste of anger My hand has caressed the heart of palm trees The handle of my ax opens an epic And I have seen my grandfather Mokrani Finger his beads watching eagles pass Among us the word fatherland possesses a taste of legend
Daddy ! Why have you deprived me Of fleshly music see: Your son Learning to speak in another tangue Words that I have known Since I was a shepherd lad
Ah my God The night so much night in my eyes Mummy calls herself Ya Ma while I say Mother I have mislaid my burnous my gun my pen And I bear a first name falser than my deeds Ah the night my God but what’s the good of whistling Fear You’re afraid Fear You’re afraid Fear You’re afraid Since a man stalks you like some frightful mirror Your school friends and the streets the jokes But since I tell you I’m a Frenchman just look at my clothes my accent my house I who turn a race into a profession Saying Tunisian when I mean “tradesman” I who think of a Jew as some wretched homegrown soldier? Come on then, my sister wears no veil And in the Lycee didn’t take all the prizes for french?
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
John Masefield English 1878 – 1967
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
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