We present this work in honor of the poet’s 325th birthday.
Pietro Metastasio Italian 1698 – 1782
Why, froward goddess, try and try again To block my every step with brambles and rocks? Wouldst cow me by your stare of high disdain Or make me drag you toward me by your locks? Such practices might well be the undoing Of easily panicked souls, but be advised: If the whole world fell suddenly into ruin I’d watch it, curious yet unexercised.
To confrontations of this kid I feel Quite equal now. I know you are still trying To wear me down, eventually. Not so: For I am like to steel which, in defying The constant injuries of hammer and wheel, Grows finer and more luminous with each blow.
We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Vicente Huidobro Chilean 1893 – 1948
Let poetry be like a key Opening a thousand doors A leaf falls; something flies by; Let all the eye sees be created And the soul of the listener tremble.
Invent new worlds and watch your word; The adjective, when it doesn’t give life, kills it.
We are in the age of nerves. The muscle hangs, Like a memory, in museums; But we are not the weaker for it: True vigor Resides in the head.
Oh Poets, why sing of roses! Let them flower in your poems;
We present this work in honor of the 105th anniversary of the poet’s death.
William Wilfrid Campbell Canadian 1858 – 1918
Out in a world of death far to the northward lying, Under the sun and the moon, under the dusk and the day; Under the glimmer of stars and the purple of sunsets dying, Wan and waste and white, stretch the great lakes away.
Never a bud of spring, never a laugh of summer, Never a dream of love, never a song of bird; But only the silence and white, the shores that grow chiller and dumber, Wherever the ice winds sob, and the griefs of winter are heard.
Crags that are black and wet out of the grey lake looming, Under the sunset’s flush and the pallid, faint glimmer of dawn; Shadowy, ghost-like shores, where midnight surfs are booming Thunders of wintry woe over the spaces wan.
Lands that loom like spectres, whited regions of winter, Wastes of desolate woods, deserts of water and shore; A world of winter and death, within these regions who enter, Lost to summer and life, go to return no more.
Moons that glimmer above, waters that lie white under, Miles and miles of lake far out under the night; Foaming crests of waves, surfs that shoreward thunder, Shadowy shapes that flee, haunting the spaces white.
Lonely hidden bays, moon-lit, ice-rimmed, winding, Fringed by forests and crags, haunted by shadowy shores; Hushed from the outward strife, where the mighty surf is grinding Death and hate on the rocks, as sandward and landward it roars.
We present this work in honor of the 85th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Don Marquis American 1878 – 1937
i got acquainted with a parrot named pete recently who is an interesting bird pete says he used to belong to the fellow that ran the mermaid tavern in london then i said you must have known shakespeare know him said pete poor mutt i knew him well he called me pete and i called him bill but why do you say poor mutt well said pete bill was a disappointed man and was always boring his friends about what he might have been and done if he only had a fair break two or three pints of sack and sherris and the tears would trickle down into his beard and his beard would get soppy and wilt his collar i remember one night when bill and ben johnson and frankie beaumont were sopping it up
here i am ben says bill nothing but a lousy playwright and with anything like luck in the breaks i might have been a fairly decent sonnet writer i might have been a poet if i had kept away from the theatre yes says ben i ve often thought of that bill but one consolation is you are making pretty good money out of the theatre
money money says bill what the hell is money what i want is to be a poet not a business man these damned cheap shows i turn out to keep the theatre running break my heart slap stick comedies and blood and thunder tragedies and melodramas say i wonder if that boy heard you order another bottle frankie the only compensation is that i get a chance now and then to stick in a little poetry when nobody is looking but hells bells that isn t what i want to do i want to write sonnets and songs and spenserian stanzas and i might have done it too if i hadn t got into this frightful show game business business business grind grind grind what a life for a man that might have been a poet
well says frankie beaumont why don t you cut it bill i can t says bill i need the money i ve got a family to support down in the country well says frankie anyhow you write pretty good plays bill any mutt can write plays for this london public says bill if he puts enough murder in them what they want is kings talking like kings never had sense enough to talk and stabbings and stranglings and fat men making love and clown basting each other with clubs and cheap puns and off color allusions to all the smut of the day oh i know what the low brows want and i give it to them
well says ben johnson don t blubber into the drink brace up like a man and quit the rotten business i can t i can t says bill i ve been at it too long i ve got to the place now where i can t write anything else but this cheap stuff i m ashamed to look an honest young sonneteer in the face i live a hell of a life i do the manager hands me some mouldy old manuscript and says bill here s a plot for you this is the third of the month by the tenth i want a good script out this that we can start rehearsals on not too big a cast and not too much of your damned poetry either you know your old familiar line of hokum they eat up that falstaff stuff of yours ring him in again and give them a good ghost or two and remember we gotta have something dick burbage can get his teeth into and be sure and stick in a speech somewhere the queen will take for a personal compliment and if you get in a line or two somewhere about the honest english yeoman it s always good stuff and it s a pretty good stunt bill to have the heavy villain a moor or a dago or a jew or something like that and say i want another comic welshman in this but i don t need to tell you bill you know this game just some of your ordinary hokum and maybe you could kill a little kid or two a prince or something they like a little pathos along with the dirt now you better see burbage tonight and see what he wants in that part oh says bill to think i am debasing my talents with junk like that oh god what i wanted was to be a poet and write sonnet serials like a gentleman should
well says i pete bill s plays are highly esteemed to this day is that so says pete poor mutt little he would care what poor bill wanted was to be a poet
We present this work in honor of the 45th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Sumitranandan Pant Indian 1900 – 1977
Exuberant with youth, beautiful as an early monsoon cloud, dark-skinned, on languorous feet the village girl comes walking, proud, stately, graceful, along the snaking path.
She trails her scarf behind and pushes back her hair; quick to be embarrassed, she glances down at the twin pitchers of her breasts. A woman, restless: her laughter ripples like a brook spilling over its banks— her lips—from teeth as bright as foam.
Along the road she stops, bending a little to smooth her skirt; turns her face when she hears her lover’s footsteps— a village lad draws near, her ardent suitor; while steadily he stares at her, surprised, rejoicing, she shuts her eyes.
Beside the well enchanted man and woman! When she draws up the heavy jug filled to the brim, her breasts, like overflowing pitchers, are tensed so that they strain against her tightening blouse. She spills the water in a shower of beauty, then throws her scarf across her breast, sets the jug upon her head and starts the zigzag path for home.
Hibiscus at her ears, she weaves a garland— shephalika, white lily, oleander, and trumpet-flower, braiding blooming stars all through her hair, and roams the woodland with her cattle, calling out with lark and cuckoo. In the deserted forest she adorns herself through every season with jasmine, cassia and fragrant herbs, forest-flame and mango blossom.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, and mild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head; “There is no peace on earth,” I said; “For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
Sometimes words come hard, they resist me till I pluck them from deep water like hooked fish; sometimes they are birds soaring out of a cloud that fall right into place, shot with arrows, and I harvest lines neglected for a hundred generations, rhymes underheard for a thousand years. I won’t touch a flower already in morning bloom but quicken the unopened evening buds. In a blink I see today and the past, put out my hand and touch all the seas.
Poets Corner 