I hear your call! I hear it far away; I hear it break the circle of these crouching hills.
I want to view your face again and feel your cold embrace; or at your brim to set myself and inhale your breath; or like the trees, to watch my mirrored self unfold and span my days with song from the lips of dawn. I hear your lapping call! I hear it coming through; invoking the ghost of a child listening, where river birds hail your silver-surfaced flow.
My river’s calling too! Its ceaseless flow impels my found’ring canoe down its inevitable course. And each dying year brings near the sea-bird call, the final call that stills the crested waves and breaks in two the curtain of silence of my upturned canoe. O incomprehensible God! Shall my pilot be my inborn stars to that final call to Thee. O my river’s complex course?
Not of ladies, love, pageantry of enamored knights do I sing; nor the display, gifts and tenderness of loving affections and cares; but the valor, the deeds, the prowess of those valiant Spaniards who upond the untamed neck of the Araucanian with their sword placed their cruel yoke.
We present this work in honor of the 430th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Robert Greene English 1558 – 1592
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content; The quiet mind is richer than a crown; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent; The poor estate scorns fortune’s angry frown: Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
The homely house that harbours quiet rest; The cottage that affords no pride nor care; The mean that ‘grees with country music best; The sweet consort of mirth and music’s fare; Obscured life sets down a type of bliss: A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
We present this work in honor of the 100th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Henry Lawson Australian 1867 – 1922
“Where are you going with your horse and bike, And the townsfolk still at rest? Where are you going, with your swag and pack, And the night still in the West? Your clothes are worn, and your cheques are gone, But your eyes are free from care?” “We’re bushmen down for a spree in town, And we’re bound for the Lord-knows-where, Old chap-we’re bound for the Lord-knows-where.” (There are great dark scrubs in the Lord-knows-where, Where they fight it out alone, There are wide wide plains in the Lord-knows-where, Where a man’s soul is his own. There is healthy work, there is healthy rest, There is peace from self-torture there, And the glorious freedom from paltriness! And they’re bound for the Lord-knows-where.) “Now, where are you going in your Sunday suit, And a bag for your second best? Now where are you going with your chest of tools, And the old togs in the chest? With your six clean shirts and a pound of ‘weed’, And enough for a third-class fare?” “Oh! I’ll be afloat by the very next boat, And I’m bound for the Lord-knows-where, Old chap-I’m bound for the Lord-knows-where.” (There are wide wide seas to the Lord-knows-where, Where a man might have a spell, The things turn up in the Lord-knows-where that We waited for too well. There’s a stranger land in the Lord-knows-where, And a show for the stranger there. There is war and quake more work to make, And he’s bound for the Lord-knows-where.) “Now where are you going with your Gladstone bag, With your shirt-case and valise? Now where are you going with your cap and shoes, And your looks of joyful peace? Now where are you going with your money belts, And your drafts on the first bank there?” “‘We have made a hit,’ or ‘we’ve made a bit,’ And we’re bound for the Lord-knows-where, Old chap-we’re bound for the Lord-knows-where.” (There are sinful ports in the Lord-knows-where, There are marvellous sights to see, There are high old games in the Lord-knows-where, That were known to you and me. There is love and music, and life and light from The Heads to “Lester” Square, There is more than space for their high young hearts There is safety or danger there, And they’ll come back wild, or they’ll come back tamed When they’ve been to the Lord-knows-where.) “Now where am I going with my whisky flask, And with little else beside? Now where am I going with my second shirt, To wear while the first is dried? I have marred my name, and I’ve lost my fame, But my hope’s in good repair. There are lies about, there are warrants out- And I’m bound for the Lord-knows-where, Old Chap-and I’m bound for the Lord-knows-where.” (There’s a rise and fall of the sloping decks, That is good for a soul in pain; There’s the drowsy rest on the sunlight sea Till your strength comes back again. Oh, the wild mad spirit is hypnotized, And nerves are tranquil there, And the past is hushed in forgetfulness, On the road to the Lord-knows-where.)
The song of little birds from spray to spray, The fragrant breeze that wafts among the flowers, The lights that in transparent liquors play, Awaking laughter in these eyes of ours,
Are here since nature and the heavens agree With him who willeth that the whole world fall Under love’s spell; hence sweetest melody And fragrance thrill earth, wind, and waters all.
Wherever foot doth tread and eye doth rove A passionate spirit kindleth, fraught with love, Which giveth warmth before the summer days; At his caressing smile and soft, sweet gaze
The flowers don brilliant hues, the grass grows green, The waves are quieted, the skies serene.
We present this work in honor of the 10th anniversary of the poet’s death.
M.Z. Ribalow American 1948 – 2012
It takes so little for the unraveling to commence—a careless gesture, a reassuring phrase never quite uttered, a heedless moment that seemed rhapsodically hopeful but which left resonant repercussions that altered everything. A legacy of scars: emotional ones fade but not away, physical ones blend but don’t tan.
The rap music you give as a birthday gift to your nephew because it’s what he likes, the visit you force yourself to make because your relatives need cheering up, your friend’s neurotic phone call that consumes the night— the recipients are grateful, but none of it ever washes away your secret detritus. Expiation seems a goal, but is a way of life.
It began happening so long ago, in details too nuanced to notice. A slight misstep sprains an ankle that never fully heals; a dropped stitch subtly renders imperfect the entire tapestry. Nothing to be done now but to recover; make The most of what remains, the best of what May be. Though you recall the white whale, Do not pursue him through the oceanic past.
We present this work in honor of National Aviation Day.
Robert Graves English 1895 – 1985
The butterfly, the cabbage white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight, Yet has – who knows so well as I? – A just sense of how not to fly: He lurches here and here by guess And God and hope and hopelessness. Even the aerobatic swift Has not his flying-crooked gift.
Poets Corner 