We present this work in honor of the 15th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Hone Tuwhare Kiwi 1922 – 2008
No one comes by way of the doughy track through straggly tea tree bush and gorse, past the hidden spring and bitter cress.
Under the chill moon’s light no one cares to look upon the drunken fence-posts and the gate white with moss.
No one except the wind saw the old place maker her final curtsy to the sky and earth:
and in no protesting sense did iron and barbed wire ease to the rust’s invasion nor twang more tautly to the wind’s slap and scream.
On the cream lorry or morning paper van no one comes, for no one will ever leave the golden city on the fussy train; and there will be no more waiting on the hill beside the quiet tree where the old place falters because no one comes anymore no one.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Ivor Cutler Scots 1923 – 2006
Got a letter from a thrush. Come and see me compose. So I went. She stuck her beak into the ink and sputtered on to the manuscript. Then sang it. Tra la la tweet tweet warble warble ptui ptui. When she finished I was asked for an opinion. With a grave look I opined: Well it’s very good. Regular thrush music good range plenty of variety nice timbre. Look Cutler said thrush do you think it’s worth making a demodisc or a tape and going round the agents? I think it’s chart material. Look thrush I replied it could only succeed as a gimmick. Yea, I suppose, she tweeted and flew into a stump.
We present this work in honor of the 675th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Sesson Yūbai Japanese 1290 – 1348
Who travels the Way heeds the Heart’s and the Way’s beginnings, But the Way’s everywhere, without boundaries — I’ll go till the rivers run dry, exhaust the peaks: In the calm of the clouds I’ll sit, and watch the moon light up the heavens.
Atop the sandy banks, with my wine deplete, I wish that the sunshine inclines. Washing my feet in the clear stream, I gaze at birds flying. This meaning by itself is beautiful — Who shall receive it? As a student of Confucius, I too dance upon the rain altar and return home.
I asked a gardener He said: the plant… the plant of light I asked a woodcutter He said: the tree… the tree of light I asked a farmer He said: the flower… the flower of light I asked a poet He said: the word… the word of light I asked a lover She said: the kiss… the kiss of light
I asked them all The scoundrels didn’t tell me about a leaf that falls every day on the head of one of us No one told me about the shiver and the plants of the other world where there exists the smooth stone of eternity What kind of idiots are these people? Their leaves fall every day on my head while I am rocking them to their last resting place.
Abd-al Rahman, Emir of Cordoba Arab Andalusian 731 – 788
A palm tree stands in the middle of Rusafa, born in the West, far from the land of palms. I said to it: How like me you are, far away and in exile, in long separation from family and friends. You have sprung from soil in which you are a stranger; and I, like you, am far from home.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
Carl Sandburg American 1878 – 1967
Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again. And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger. And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities; Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness, Bareheaded, Shoveling, Wrecking, Planning, Building, breaking, rebuilding, Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth, Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs, Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle, Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people, Laughing! Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
Eyes thus turned gazing, Head thus inclined Steps thus taken She comes to communicate with me. Oh! Companion, It cannot be or yes it will be, The moves are those of a Brazilian. Who could have told me, But it is true; That Lisbon produced A Pretty Brazilian Woman.
Poets Corner 