A pure breeze billows bed-curtains and blinds,
The moon of dawning lights the secluded room.
My husband is away on a distant journey,
The light of his face has gone from the orchid chamber.
I clutch the vacant shadows to my breast,
Only a light quilt covers the empty bed.
At the height of our joy, we grieved the nights were so short,
Now in my despair I resent the length of the dark.
I stroke my pillow, sigh in my loneliness,
Whelmed in sorrow, my heart is torn within me.
We present this work in honor of the 100th anniversary of the poet’s death.
You will say that it is false. It is not right. I descend
To the depths of my soul every time I hesitate…
Every time a tear or a scream
Betrays my anguish – when I feel myself fainting…
And all astonishment, all love, I confess,
The threshold of this blessed country
I cross : – The parties of infinity await me!
The horror of life, dazzled, I forget!
It’s just that there are valleys, skies, heights inside,
That the gaze of the world does not tarnish, the tender
Moon, flowers, dear creatures,
And it sounds in every bush, in every cave,
The symphony of eternal passion!…
– And behold- make me strong again for the fight.
When I walked
down the road,
I’d hear Aunt Sue’s voice,
“How you doing, dear heart?”
Or “There goes me sunshine girl!”
Uncle Joe would call from his cart.
Here in the big city,
thousands pass me by.
No sweet voices like rain
sprinkle me with care.
No one knows or calls my name.
My Queen, how much longer must I stay
Outside your door when you hold full sway
O’er my heart. Mis’ry is all I feel
I suffer anguish when you’re away
And every night I toss and turn
Your heartless wiles will kill me one day
We present this work in honor of the Canadian holiday, National Aboriginal Day.
my soul sank
deep into the blood
of this land
I extended a hand
looking for help
sinking fast back
into history
time traveling
through layers
to the core
an innocent beginning
swam in the sweat
of my ancestors
back stroked
my way
to safety
a time
of strength
without racism
and floated there
basking in liquid love
skin love
Indian love
so true
so real
shaking your belief
in anything
less
We present this work in honor of the 175th anniversary of the poet’s death.
I see black dragons mount the sky,
I see earth yawn beneath my feet —
I feel within the asp, the worm
That will not sleep and cannot die,
Fair though may show the winding-sheet!
I hear all night as through a storm
Hoarse voices calling, calling
My name upon the wind—
All omens monstrous and appalling
Affright my guilty mind.
I exult alone in one wild hour —
That hour in which the red cup drowns
The memories it anon renews
In ghastlier guise, in fiercer power —
Then Fancy brings me golden crowns,
And visions of all brilliant hues
Lap my lost soul in gladness,
Until I awake again,
And the dark lava-fires of madness
Once more sweep through my brain.
We present this work in honor of National Dry Martini Day.
Long dream of summer in short skirt of glass.
The glass as prism: multiplying all
colours that meet it, sunshine, a right eyeful,
rendering all beyond it meaningless
at least for now, for this moment, more or less.
The eye is blind to what the mouth will feel:
the space where light meets water in the pool,
the driest water you will ever kiss.
Now turn to the vermouth. Just enough
to vault the drink into another region:
wave towards Italy, home of Petrarch. Give
a minute or so for things to settle down.
Stir (not shake) until distinction’s gone.
Try not to mistake this for a new religion.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 110th birthday.
Blessèd be
The humble
Poets
Because
From them
Will rise
The kingdoms
Of the
Grass
We present this work in honor of Eid al-Adha.
The garden of green hillocks
dresses up for visitors
in the most beautiful colors
as if a young woman’s dowry
were spread out
glittering with gold necklaces
or as if someone had poured out
censers of mush powder
mixed with the purest aromatic oils.
Birds trill on the branches
like singing girls
bending over their lutes
and water falls continuously
like neckchains
of silver and pearls.
These are splendors of such perfection
they call to mind
the beauty of absolute certainty
the radiance of faith.
We present this work in honor of Father’s Day.
Meet my father, who refuses food –
pecks at it like a bird or not at all –
the beard disguising his thin cheeks.
This, for a man whose appetite was legend,
hoovering up the scraps his daughters couldn’t eat.
The dustbin man, we joked.
And here he is, trailing his fork
through food we’ve laboured to make soft,
delicious, sweet. Too salty, or too tough,
it tastes of nothing, makes him choke,
he keeps insisting, stubbornly.
In truth, the logic’s clear. His very life
is bitter and the spice it lacks is hope.
He wants to stop. Why do we keep on
spooning dust and ashes down his throat?
Poets Corner 