Male Poets

Hoya

We present this work in honor of the Japanese holiday, Labor Thanksgiving Day.

Ryuichi Tamura
Japanese
1923 – 1998

 

Hoya is now
in the middle of autumn. I am now
in the middle of misery
The misery has deep origins
It has a deep-rooted history.

Blazing summer has finally ended
Autumn breezes pass from one end to the other of the Musashino plain
My small house sits on a spot
in dark Musashino, silent Musashino

In my small house
I have a small room of my own
In the small room I turn on a light
I labor, zeroing in on my misery,
until the deep-rooted misery in my heart
thrusts its roots into the earth, and
grows into that gigantic Zelkova tree
in my forsaken backyard

Translation by Takako Lento

The Planter’s Daughter

Austin Clarke
Irish
1896 – 1974

 

When night stirred at sea
And the fire brought a crowd in,
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.

Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went —
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly.
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.

In the Darkness and Still of a Mysterious Night

We present this work in honor of the 130th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Afanasy Fet
Russian
1820 – 1892

 

In the darkness and still of a mysterious night
I see a fond and welcoming spark,
From the chorus of spheres, familiar eyes
Shine upon a grave forgotten in the steppe.

The grass has faded, the desert is grim,
A lonely tomb dreams an orphan’s dream,
And only in the sky, like an eternal idea,
The stars’ golden eyelashes sparkle.

And I dream you’ve risen from the dead,
Unchanged since you departed the earth,
And I dream a dream: we both are young,
And you’ve looked at me as you did back then.

Translation by A. Wachtel, I. Kutik and M. Denner

Wait and See

We present this work in honor of Moroccan Independence Day.

Tahar Ben Jelloun
Moroccan
b. 1944

 

A people undone.
Your bread shreds itself ceremonially on mounds of reminiscence under the rain
musical prattle.
Wait and see a little and-you’ll-see-golden-
eggs-in-your-cottage-and-you’ll-see-
the-milky-diamonds-of-figs-in-your-stream-
of-honey-in-your -well-virgins-in-your-
harem-you-will-speak-with-birds-with-
reptiles-with-raptors-wait-and-see-your-
hovel-become-a-villa-with-a-car-
and-daily-driver-and-TV-and-heated-
pool-and-telephone-and-telex-in-
permanent-touch-with-every-
dream-and-illusion.
Just wait and see.

Translation by Conor Bracken

The Celestial Market Street

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 130th birthday.

Guo Moruo
Chinese
1892 – 1978

 

The street lights are on in a distance
As if numerous stars show.
The bright stars loom in the above
As if numerous street lights glow.
I believe there must be a beautiful market street
In that aerial heaven with cloud clear.
The goods displayed on that street
Must be rarities which we don’t have here.
You see, that shallow Milky Way
Must be not very wide.
The cowherd and weaving lady separated by it
Must be able to visit each other on a ride.
I believe at this moment along that street
Sauntering there must be they.
If you doubt, please look at that shooting star,
Which may be the lantern they are taking on their way.

Translation by Yang Xu

Manuscript in a Bottle

Pablo Antonio Cuadra
Nicaraguan
1912 – 2002

 

I had seen coconut trees and tamarinds
and mangos
the white sails drying in the sun
the smoke of breakfast across the sky
at dawn
and fish jumping in the net
and a girl in red
who would go down to the shore and come up with a jug
and pass behind a grove
and appear and disappear
and for a long time
I could not sail without that image
of the girl in red
and the coconut trees and tamarinds and mangos
that seemed to live only
because she lived
and the white sails were white only
when she lay down
in her red dress and the smoke was blue
and the fish and the reflection of the fish
were happy
and for a long time I wanted to write a poem
about that girl in red
and couldn’t find the way to describe
the strange things that fascinated me
and when I told my friends they laughed
but when I sailed away and returned
I always passed the island of the girl in red
until one day I entered the bay of her island
and cast anchor and leaped to land
and now I write these lines and throw them into the waves in a bottle
because this is my story
because I am gazing at coconut trees and tamarinds
and mangos
the white sails drying in the sun
and the smoke of breakfast across the sky
and time passes
and we wait and wait
and we grunt
and she does not come with ears of corn
the girl in red.

Translation by Grace Schulman and Ann McCarthy de Zavala

Vanity of Vanities

We present this work in honor of the 160th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Julio Arboleda Pombo
Colombian
1817 – 1862

 

Unhappy who seeks in appearance
bliss and ephemeral praise,
and changes his mind with the change
of the versatile public conscience!

The present is your only providence;
yields to the blowing of the wind that throws him
to good without faith and evil without hope;
that in erring with the world is his science.

And happy the independent male
who, free from worldly bondage,
aspires, between pain and sorrow,

to the eternal truth, not to the present one,
knowing that the world and its truths
they are only vanity of vanities!

The Value of a Man

We present this work in honor of the 530th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Jami
Persian
1414 – 1492

 

The price of a man consists not in silver and gold;
The value of a man is his power and virtue.
Many a slave has by acquiring virtue
Attained much greater power than a gentleman
And many a gentleman has for want of virtue,
Become inferior to his own slave.