Male Poets

The Telephone

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 140th birthday.

03-31 Chukovsky
Korney Chukovsky
Russian
1882 – 1969

 

The telephone rang.
“Hello! Who’s there?”
“The Polar Bear.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m calling for the Elephant.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants a little Peanut brittle.”
“Peanut brittle!..
And for whom?”

“It’s for his little Elephant sons.”
“How much does he want?”
“Oh, five or six tons.
Right now that’s all
That they can manage — they’re quite small.”

The telephone rang. The Crocodile
Said, with a tear,
“My dearest dear,
We don’t need umbrellas or mackintoshes;
My wife and baby need new galoshes;
Send us some, please!”
“Wait — wasn’t it you
Who just last week ordered two
Pairs of beautiful brand-new galoshes?”

“Oh, those that came last week — they
Got gobbled up right away;
And we just can’t wait —
For supper tonight
We’d like to sprinkle on our goulashes
One or two dozen delicious galoshes!”
The telephone rang. The Turtle Doves
Said: “Send us, please, some long white gloves!”

It rang again; the Chimpanzees
Giggled: “Phone books, please!”

The telephone rang. The Grizzly Bear
Said: “Grr — Grr!”
“Stop, Bear, don’t growl, don’t bawl!
Just tell me what you want!”
But on he went — “Grr! Grrrrrrr…”
Why; what for?
I couldn’t make out;
I just banged down the receiver.

The telephone rang. The Flamingos
Said: “Rush us over a bottle of those
Little pink pills!..
We’ve swallowed every frog in the lake,
And are croaking with a stomachache!”

The Pig telephoned. Ivan Pigtail
Said: “Send over Nina Nightingale!
Together, I bet,
We’ll sing a duet
That opera lovers will never forget!
I’ll begin — ”
“No, you won’t. The Divine Nightingale
Accompany a Pig! Ivan Petrovich,
No!
You’d better call on Katya Crow!”

The telephone rang. The Polar Bear
Said: “Come to the aid of the Walrus, Sir!
He’s about
to choke
on a fat
oyster!”

And so it goes. The whole day long
The same silly song:
Ting-a-ling!
Ting-a-ling!
Ting-a-ling!
A Seal telephones, and then a Gazelle,
And just now two very queer
Reindeer,
Who said: “Oh, dear, oh, dear,
Did you hear? Is it true
That the Bump-Bump Cars at the Carnival
Have all burned up?”

“Are you out of your minds, you silly Deer?
The Merry-Go-Round
At the Carnival still goes round,
And the Bump-Bump Cars are running, too;
You ought to go right
Out to the Carnival this very night
And buzz around in the Bump-Bump Cars
And ride the Ferris Wheel up to the stars!”

But they wouldn’t listen, the silly Deer;
They just went on: “Oh, dear, oh, dear,
Did you hear? Is it true
That the Bump-Bump Cars
At the Carnival
Have all burned up?”

How wrong-headed Reindeer really are!

At five in the morning the telephone rang:
The Kangaroo
Said: “Hello, Rub-a-dub-dub,
How are you?”
Which really made me raving mad.
“I don’t know any Rub-a-dub-dub,
Soapflakes! Pancakes! Bubbledy-bub
Why don’t you
Try calling Pinhead Zero Two!..”
I haven’t slept for three whole nights.
I’d really like to go to bed
And get some sleep.
But every time I lay down my head
The telephone rings.

Who’s there — Hello!
It’s the Rhino.”
“What’s wrong. Rhino?”
“Terrible trouble.
Come on the double!”
“What’s the matter? Why the fuss?”
“Quick. Save him ..
“Who?”
“The hippopotamus.
He’s sinking out there in that awful swamp…”
“In the swamp?”
“Yes, he’s stuck.”
“And if you don’t come right away,
He’ll drown in that terrible damp
And dismal swamp.
He’ll die, he’ll croak — oh, oh, oh.
Poor Hippo-
po-
po………..“

“Okay …
I’m coming
Right away!”
Whew: What a job! You need a truck
To help a Hippo when he’s stuck!

 

Translation by William Jay Smith

To Samos

We present this work in honor of Greek Independence Day.

03-25 Kalvos
Andreas Kalvos
Greek
1792 – 1869

 

Let those who feel
the heavy brazen hand of fear
bear slavery:
freedom needs virtue,
needs daring.

This (for myth may veil
the spirit of truth) lent wings
to Icarus – and though he fell,
the wingèd one and drowned
beneath the waves,

he fell from on high
and died free. Should you
die like a sheep, dishonoured,
at the hands of a tyrant,
your grave will be an abomination.

 

Translation by James Munro

Christy Brown Came to Town

03-15 Harris
Richard Harris
Irish
1930 – 2002

Christy Brown came to town riding on a wheelchair

Christy Brown came to town riding on a wheelchair
Back strapped to wheel and chair
Freewheeling down all his days
Into the byways in our heads
Visions bursting from his pen
Ink in blood, left foot in rapture
Riding through Fleet Street pulp
Past paper stand and paste
Ploughing stairs to heaven
Riding on and on and on
His chariot wheels
Conquering heroes in space
In the time allotted for his spin.
Reared in masses his childhood
Playpen on concrete slabs
Turned into flowing fountains
In his fountain pen toes
Ceasing to suffer in the kennel of his bark
Spent dark years with his ears
Tied to his mother’s tongue.
Where are you mother?
I am here, I am here Christy
Growing flowers in your yard
Sending fruit to the marketplace in your soul
Patiently bending my breasts
To feed the hunger in your mind.
Dear bended lady
Drawing she drew in midnight whispers
The elements of verse
Vocalising grammar, building his armory for battle
Filling his long, sleepless, limping nights
With the music of her challenge
And she took a dead season from her womb
And built a birth as bright as Christmas.
In his schoolroom slum
That buried some and crippled most
The toast from her womb grew legs in her words
And walked long distance to the corners of the eart
Striding beyond Getsemane past the Avenue of the Sorrows
Out of Golgatha into resurrection.

Christy Brown came to town riding on a donkey

Christy Brown came to town riding on a donkey
Streets in palms carpeting his Sunday visit
He rode barebacked the donkey of the Apocalypse
Over bridges where crippled water stood still
In the lame shores of our crime.
He rode heaven high over tears and pity
Through the attending city
Where skeletons hid high in the cupboards of our complacency
He rode on and on and on and on her rode
On the laughter in his size
Everlasting in song
Storming our ears in wonder
Making his face shine upon us
And throwing from the seaweeds of his wisdom
Iodine
To heal the wounds of a waiting world.

Courage

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.

03-12 Kerouac
Jack Kerouac
American
1922 – 1969

Wonder if my poem title will be acceptable.
(The Absence of Courage)

I.

Courage is an interesting virtue.
The only difference between courage
and unrealistic hopefulness is success.
Courage to me means standing up against injustice,
or atleast finding the strength to do something
your character or the outside world would rather you didn’t do.
It’s that noble buck with big horns we admire and have the deepest
of respect for,
it’s that noble buck with big horns we like to shoot down and hang on our
walls.

Like the tobacco in a cigarette, the only way to draw it out
from the depths of your character is to embrace it and set it on fire.
But don’t take more than you can handle,
or you might find yourself coughing up the illogical notion,
the practicality of your subconscious triumphing.
Bite off just enough,
enough to sustain hope, but not enough to defeat the
cowardice in your soul to the point where you altogether snuff restraint
and self doubt.

II.

I have seen courage in a number of places,
in the sun for it’s miraculous overpowering of darkness every morning,
in a woman who decides to have a child despite life threatening consequences.
I’ve seen it mainly in action movies,
where it exists without the natural predators of insecurity and sensibility
found in the real world.
I’ve seen it in the insurrection of children who decide to just say yes,
I’ve seen it in the cynical gaze of withered old addicts who are trying to
say no.

Courage, it’s a wonderful thing.
It’s both a blessing and a curse.
Embrace it and harness it,
but do it in moderation,
or it might get the better of your self-doubt and sensibility.

from How the Sea Will Be

We present this work in honor of the 125th anniversary of the poet’s death.

03-02 Prieto
Guillermo Prieto
Mexican
1818 – 1897

Your name, or sea, resounds within me;
awakens my tired fantasy:
move, enlarge my soul,
of fervent enthusiasm fills it.
Nothing limited compresses me,
when I imagine contemplating your breast;
alluvial, melancholic and serene,
or august brow; thy mooing sublime.
You will be oh sea! magnificent and great
when you are sleeping in peace and quiet;
when your breast is still and dilated
caress the delicious atmosphere?

The Old Flame

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 105th birthday.

03-01 Lowell
Robert Lowell
American
1917 – 1977

My old flame, my wife!
Remember our lists of birds?
One morning last summer, I drove
by our house in Maine. It was still
on top of its hill –

Now a red ear of Indian maize
was splashed on the door.
Old Glory with thirteen stripes
hung on a pole. The clapboard
was old-red schoolhouse red.

Inside, a new landlord,
a new wife, a new broom!
Atlantic seaboard antique shop
pewter and plunder
shone in each room.

A new frontier!
No running next door
now to phone the sheriff
for his taxi to Bath
and the State Liquor Store!

No one saw your ghostly
imaginary lover
stare through the window
and tighten
the scarf at his throat.

Health to the new people,
health to their flag, to their old
restored house on the hill!
Everything had been swept bare,
furnished, garnished and aired.

Everything’s changed for the best –
how quivering and fierce we were,
there snowbound together,
simmering like wasps
in our tent of books!

Poor ghost, old love, speak
with your old voice
of flaming insight
that kept us awake all night.
In one bed and apart,

we heard the plow
groaning up hill –
a red light, then a blue,
as it tossed off the snow
to the side of the road.

At the River Crossing

We present this work in honor of the 120th anniversary of the poet’s death.

02-27 Morant
Harry ‘Breaker’ Morant
Australian
1864 – 1902

Oh! the quiet river-crossing
Where we twain were wont to ride,
Where the wanton winds were to sing
Willow branches o’er the tide.

There the golden noon would find us
Dallying through the summer day,
All the waery world behind us –
All it’s tumult far away.

Oh! thoe rides across the crossing
Where the shallow stream runs wide,
When the sunset’s beams were glossing
Strips of sand on either side.

We would cross the sparkling river
On the brown horse and the bay;
Watch the willows sway and shiver
And their trembling shadows play.

When the opal tints waxed duller
And a gray crept o’er the skies
Yet there stayed the blue sky’s color
In your dreamy dark-blue eyes.

How the sun-god’s bright caresses,
When we rode at sunet there,
Plaited among your braided tresses,
Gleaming on your silky hair.

When the last sunlight’s glory
Faded off the sandy bars,
There we learnt the old, old story,
Riding homeward ‘neat the stars.

‘Tis a memory to be hoarded –
Oh, the follish tale and fond!
Till another stream be forded –
And we reach the Great Beyond.