o dove go to essaouira’s sons who live in tlemcen greet them with peace from allah pray for their glory & light that they come back the way they’ve left from the lion gate you’ll take flight o dove you’ll ask for protection from sidi mogdul patron of the harbor his news has reached istanbul take care & be cautious fly way beyond those rocky heaps and hilly lands touch with your wings Moulay durayn saint of regraga glory of our holy land tomorrow at dawn you’ll purify yourself when you hear the first call for prayer
I am a Turk; My religion and my race are great; Sinem, my essence is full of fire. A human being is a servant of his country. A Turkish child does not stay at home, I will go.
I will not have Muhammad’s book removed; I won’t let Osmancık’s flag be removed; I do not let my enemy attack my country. If the house of God does not fall into ruin, I will leave.
These lands are the home of my ancestors; My home, my village are always in this place; Here is the homeland, here is the lap of God. Your fatherland is your homeland, my son will not spoil it, I will leave.
My God is my witness, I will keep my word; The love of my nation is within me; I have nothing but my homeland in my eyes. My beloved bed does not have enemies, I will leave.
I wipe my tears with a white shirt; I sharpen my knife with a black stone; I wish greatness for my country. There will be no one left in this world, I will leave.
We present this work in honor of Western Australia Day.
Caroline Caddy Australian b. 1944
Driving into the cut-out mountains
their steepness pushes them closer
as if the tops of much younger ranges crowded together.
We peer past each other’s heads and shoulders
as blue thresholds open to reveal
desiccated sides and ridges
weathered tors just high enough
to impede winter clouds.
We can hardly believe these sun-blasted screes
are those elusive slopes ahead
layered gates behind.
Stop. Get out of the car
wind through stunted trees
water where there is none
and up against as close as a tango
the mountain’s shattered stone the smell of stone
the sound of stone.
Their age is their beauty.
It attracts like iron.
In honor of Republic Day, we present this work by one of Italy’s greatest war poets.
Helle Busacca Italian 1915 – 1996
We went out around midnight into the deserted Milan streets, orso Italia, with Anna Maria Ortese and Massimo Leli and Guido Ballo and I don’t know who else, and I held the tender hand of a little girl whose black curls and big eyes I remember but not her name, and all of a sudden she said in a loud voice: “It’s dark. When it’s dark, we must be quiet.”
Well then, I thought, we must be quiet all the time.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 150th birthday.
Macedonio Fernández Argentine 1874 – 1952
Fathomless and full as two brief, graceful immensities, your eyes inhabit your countenance like lords; and when from their depths I see dallying and rising the flame of a radiant soul, it seems that the morning is rising from sleep, shining, over there between sea and sky, where that drowsy line rocks between two blue empires, the line where our hearts pause to caress it with their hopes, to kiss it with their glance; when our being meditates, drying its tears, and, silently, throws itself open to all the breezes of Life; when we glimpse the ashes of days gone by floating in the Past like the dust of all our pilgrimages left behind at the last turn of the road: Eyes that open like mornings and, closing, let evening fall.
This is your last life, so what you don’t agree? – Born to move belongings, hug friends at the gate, To buy some ibuprofen in duty free, To nod at giggling Koreans, notice their traits. This is your last body, a sound one-seat frame Waiting in lounge to board for the hut above Wait a little, baby, thirty-or-so lame Years and you’ll sit to laugh with Him who you love.
If you regret then only that you’ve seen You grasp eternal truth hard and belated. My new fringe does filter the world as a screen Therefore it becomes a little less-hated.
Sit down and taste everything new that glistens. If there’s anything you can’t see from the ground – Research from above. There’s a load not yet found In last youth, this tough coordinate system.
Dance in your poems, with heels flick in a fling. A party? No sleep for neighbors and friends hang Here. And you are so beautiful with your bangs – Geez, some idiot gets lucky this spring.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 135th birthday.
Isobel Wylie Hutchison Scots 1889 – 1982
Over the wheatfields the sky was shot with light And there was one large star. The Pentland Hills were full of purple night. I heard afar The rush of a motor car, And as I passed by the hedge the corn leaned out Wind-impelled, and touched my hand about, Then withdrew.
I knew The star as my own And the fields full-grown; I looked at the wheat and said ‘At Liège the gold is red, And to-night how still the dead must lie With their faces stark to the open sky Or dreadfully earthward turned.’ Over the corn the wind mourned. I looked at the star and cried, ‘Of Heaven the doors are very wide, And God has hung a little light For stragglers who fall in to-night.’
We present this work in honor of the 175th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Anne Brontë English 1820 – 1849
Yes, thou art gone! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me; But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee, May stand upon the cold, damp stone, And think that, frozen, lies below The lightest heart that I have known, The kindest I shall ever know. Yet, though I cannot see thee more, ‘Tis still a comfort to have seen; And though thy transient life is o’er, ‘Tis sweet to think that thou hast been; To think a soul so near divine, Within a form so angel fair, United to a heart like thine, Has gladdened once our humble sphere.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 205th birthday.
Julia Ward Howe American 1819 – 1910
I will build a house of rest, Square the corners every one: At each angle on his breast Shall a cherub take the sun; Rising, risen, sinking, down, Weaving day’s unequal crown.
In the chambers, light as air, Shall responsive footsteps fall: Brother, sister, art thou there? Hush! we need not jar nor call; Need not turn to seek the face Shut in rapture’s hiding-place.
Heavy load and mocking care Shall from back and bosom part; Thought shall reach the thrill of prayer, Patience plan the dome of art. None shall praise or merit claim, Not a joy be called by name.
With a free, unmeasured tread Shall we pace the cloisters through: Rest, enfranchised, like the Dead; Rest till Love be born anew. Weary Thought shall take his time, Free of task-work, loosed from rhyme.
No reproof shall grieve or chill; Every sin doth stand confest; None need murmur, ‘This was ill’: Therefore do they grant us rest; Contemplation making whole Every ruin of the soul.
Pictures shall as softly look As in distance shows delight; Slowly shall each saintly book Turn its pages in our sight; Not the study’s wealth confuse, Urging zeal to pale abuse.
Children through the windows peep, Not reproachful, though our own; Hushed the parent passion deep, And the household’s eager tone. One above, divine and true, Makes us children like to you.
Measured bread shall build us up At the hospitable board; In Contentment’s golden cup Is the guileless liquor poured. May the beggar pledge the king In that spirit gathering,
Oh! my house is far away; Yet it sometimes shuts me in. Imperfection mars each day While the perfect works begin. In the house of labor best Can I build the house of rest.
Poets Corner 