We are the miracles that God made To taste the bitter fruit of Time. We are precious. And one day our suffering Will turn into the wonders of the earth.
There are things that burn me now Which turn golden when I am happy. Do you see the mystery of our pain? That we bear poverty And are able to sing and dream sweet things
And that we never curse the air when it is warm Or the fruit when it tastes so good Or the lights that bounce gently on the waters? We bless things even in our pain. We bless them in silence.
That is why our music is so sweet. It makes the air remember. There are secret miracles at work That only Time will bring forth. I too have heard the dead singing.
And they tell me that This life is good They tell me to live it gently With fire, and always with hope. There is wonder here
And there is surprise In everything the unseen moves. The ocean is full of songs. The sky is not an enemy. Destiny is our friend.
We present this work in honor of the 185th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Alexander Pushkin Russian 1799 – 1837
If beasts within a silent forest moan, If trumpets sound, if thunder rolls and cracks, Or young girls sing almost inaudibly— For each initial tone The atmosphere resounds quite suddenly With a response, your own.
You listen to the peal of distant thunder, The rumbling voice of violent waves and storm, And hear the village shepherd’s lonely cry— And then you send your answer, But hear no echo, there is no reply… This also, poet, is your nature.
We present this work in honor of the 160th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Francisco Martínez de la Rosa Spanish 1787 – 1862
Written in London in 1811
I saw upon the shady Thames Unnumber’d ships with riches fraught; I saw the power the nation claims Immense, the greatness it has wrought, And arts that such renown have brought.
But the afflicted mind exhaled A thousand sighs; again to view The flowery banks the wish prevail’d, Where glides the Douro calmly through, Or Henil’s streams their course pursue.
I saw the proud Court’s ladies forth Their wealth and grandeur gaily show; I saw the beauties of the North, Their bright complexions white as snow, Commingling with the rose’s glow.
Their eyes appear’d of heavenly blue, Their tresses of the purest gold; Their stately forms arose to view, Beneath the veil’s transparent fold, As white and lovely to behold.
But what avail the gay brocade, The city’s silks, and jewels’ pride; Or charms in rosy smiles array’d, With brilliant gaiety supplied, That all to beauty are allied?
When but is seen my country girl, Clad in her robe of simple white, Shamed are the needless silk and pearl; And by her pure and blooming light Confused hides beauty at the sight.
Where shall I find in icy clime Her black and beaming eyes of fire? That whether scornfully the time, To look, or kindly they desire, To rob me of my peace conspire?
Where the black hair that may like hers In hue with ebony compare? Where the light foot that never stirs, When bounding o’er the meadows fair, The lowly flowers that blossom there?
Maids of the Henil! dark ye be; But ne’er would I exchanged resign Your charms for all that here I see, Proud Albion shows, of brows that fine Ev’n as the polish’d ivory shine.
O, father Douro! gentle stream, Whose sands a golden store supply, Deign of my heart the wish supreme To hear, thy sacred margins by, That it may be my lot to die!
A thin jug to a cup his head did bend And a painful secret to her ear he did sigh; I do not know what he told, what he said, But I saw blood pouring down his eye.
what would I do without this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where every instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been without this wave where in the end body and shadow together are engulfed what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love without this sky that soars above its ballast dust
what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before peering out of my deadlight looking for another wandering like me eddying far from all the living in a convulsive space among the voices voiceless that throng my hiddenness
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 45th birthday.
Andrés Neuman Argentine b. 1977
My attention steps down from its center like an oil stain.
Contradictory hand: while it feigns snatching specific objects, its fingers count digressions. Is to touch to have faith?
I attend to that shoe that almost frees itself from a young woman’s heel, to the deaf-mute debates on the TV in the back, to the impatient tics of the light and, just every so often, to the time I have left.
Poets Corner 