We present this work in honor of National Nurses’ Day.
Sydney Dobell English 1824 – 1874
How must the soldier’s tearful heart expand, Who from a long and obscure dream of pain,— His foemen’s frown imprinted in his brain,— Wakes to thy healing face and dewy hand! When this great noise has rolled from off the land, When all those fallen Englishmen of ours Have bloomed and faded in Crimean flowers, Thy perfect charity unsoiled shall stand. Some pitying student of a nobler age, Lingering o’er this year’s half-forgotten page, Shall see its beauty smiling ever there! Surprised to tears his beating heart he stills, Like one who finds among Athenian hills A temple like a lily white and fair.
In honor of El Cinco de Mayo, we present this work by a master Mexican poet and statesman.
Juan de Dios Peza Mexican 1852 – 1910
I have a sovereign at home, the only one whom my soul venerates; His gray hair is his crown, honor is his law and virtue is his guide.
In slow hours of misery and mourning, full of firm and manly constancy, keep the faith with which he spoke to me about heaven in the first hours of my childhood.
The bitter ban and sadness They opened an incurable wound in his soul; He is an old man, and he carries in his head the dust of the path of life.
See the fierce storms of the world, of luck the unfortunate hours, and passes, like Christ the Tiberias, standing on the curled waves.
Dry their tears, silence their pains, and only on duty his eyes fixed, collects thorns and spreads flowers on the path he laid out for his children.
He told me: “To him who is good, bitterness He never wets his cheeks with tears: in the world the flower of fortune At the slightest breath it falls off.
“Do good without fear of sacrifice, The man must fight serene and strong, and find who hates evil and vice a bed of roses in death.
“If you are poor, be content and be good; If you are rich, protect the unfortunate, and the same in your home as in someone else’s Save your honor to live honestly.
“Love freedom, free is man and its most severe judge is conscience; as much as your honor guards your name, for my name and my honor form your inheritance.”
This august code, in my soul could Since I heard it, it has been recorded; In all the storms he was my shield, He has saved me from all the storms.
My father has in his serene gaze faithful reflection of your honest conscience; so much loving and good advice I surprise you in the brilliance of your gaze!
The nobility of the soul is its nobility; the glory of duty forms his glory; He is poor, but he contains his poverty the biggest page in its history.
Being the worship of my soul your affection, As luck would have it, by honoring his name, was the love that inspired me as a child the most sacred inspiration of man.
May heaven grant that the song that inspires me His eyes always see him with love, and of all the verses of my lyre These are the ones worthy of his name.
When spring escapes freed from being huddled in winter’s sleep, the birds that had been stilled burst into song. The buds that had been hidden burst into flower. The mountains are so thickly forested that we cannot reach the flowers and the flowers are so tangled with vines that we cannot pick them. When the maple leaves turn scarlet on the autumn hills, it is easy to gather them and enjoy them. We sigh over the green leaves but leave them as they are. That is my only regret– so I prefer the autumn hills.
We present this work in honor of the Japanese holiday, Constitution Memorial Day.
Chimako Tada Japanese 1930 – 2003
Finally after half a century, a clearly observable law has been found: For mankind, all matters proceed Along geometric lines
(If you put one grain of rice on the first intersection of a game board, two grains of rice on the second, four grains of rice on the third, and continue along these lines, what vast quantities will you have by the time the board is covered? When the ancient king was told the answer, how surprised he was…)
By the time I realized what was happening, I was clinging to the earth So I would not be shaken off as it spun with ever greater speed My hair, dyed in two parts with night and day, had come loose (Yet still I toyed with dice in one hand)
As it turns, it is stripped page by page like a calendar pad growing thin A cabbage growing small, shorn of leaves before our eyes Once, this planet had plenty of moisture (But that was in the days when those things that now belong to dead languages – Things such as dawn, looks, and smiles – were still portents of things to come) That’s right, for mankind, all matters proceed along geometric lines
Four and a half more centuries into the future The shriveled brain that revolves Rattling in the cranium’s hollow will grow still Like the pale eye of a hurricane
All will see its resolution in those moments As the rolling dice tumble, turning up their black eyes Then finally coming to a halt
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.
Yiannis Ritsos Greek 1909 – 1990
He was very tired—who cared about glory any longer? Enough was enough. He had come to know enemies and friends—purported friends: behind all the admiration and love they hid their self-interest, their own suspicious dreams, those cunning innocents. Now, on the little island of Leuce, alone at last, peaceful, no pretensions, no duties or tight armor, most of all without the humble hypocrisy of heroism, hour after hour he can taste the saltiness of evening, the stars, the silence, and that feeling— mild and endless—of general futility, his only companions the wild goats. But here too, even after dying, he was pursued by new admirers—usurpers of his memory, these: they set up altars and statues in his name, worshipped, left. Sea-gulls alone stayed with him; now every morning they fly down to the shore, wet their wings, fly back quickly to wash the floor of his temple with gentle dance movements. In this way a poetic idea circulates in the air (maybe his only justification) and a condescending smile for everyone and everything crosses his lips as he waits yet again for new pilgrims (and he knows how much he likes that) with all their noise, their Thermos bottles, their eggs and phonographs, as he now waits for Helen—yes, that same Helen for whose fleshly and dreamy beauty so many Achaeans and Trojans (he among them) were destroyed.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 320th birthday.
Jean Adam Scots 1704 – 1765
And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he’s weel? Is this a time to talk o’ wark? Ye jades, fling by your wheel! Is this a time to think o’ wark, When Colin’s at the door? Gie me my cloak! I’ll to the quay, And see him come ashore.
For there’s nae luck aboot the hoose, There’s nae luck ava’; There’s little pleasure in the hoose, When our gudeman’s awa’.
Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side, Put on the muckle pot; Gie little Kate her cotton gown, And Jock his Sunday coat; And make their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It’s a’ to please my ain gudeman, He likes to see them braw.
For there’s nae luck aboot the hoose, There’s nae luck ava’; There’s little pleasure in the hoose, When our gudeman’s awa’.
There are twa hens upon the bauk, ‘Been fed this month and mair, Make haste and thraw their necks aboot, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw; It’s a’ to pleasure our gudeman, For he’s been lang awa’.
For there’s nae luck aboot the hoose, There’s nae luck ava’; There’s little pleasure in the hoose, When our gudeman’s awa’.
Come gie me down my bigonets, My bishop-satin gown; And rin and tell the Bailie’s wife That Colin’s come to town; My Sunday sheen they maun gae on, My hose o’ pearl blue, It’s a’ to please my ain gudeman, For he’s baith leal and true.
For there’s nae luck aboot the hoose, There’s nae luck ava’; There’s little pleasure in the hoose, When our gudeman’s awa’.
Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air, His very foot has music in’t, When he comes up the stair: And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I’m downright dizzie wi’ the thought, In troth I’m like to greet!
For there’s nae luck aboot the hoose, There’s nae luck ava’; There’s little pleasure in the hoose, When our gudeman’s awa’.
The cauld blasts o’ the winter wind, That thrilled through my heart. They’re a’ blawn by; I hae him safe, ‘Till death we’ll never part; But what puts parting in my mind? It may be far awa; The present moment is our ain. The niest we never saw!
For there’s nae luck aboot the hoose, There’s nae luck ava’; There’s little pleasure in the hoose, When our gudeman’s awa’.
Since Colin’s weel, I’m weel content, I hae nae mair to crave; Could I but live to make him blest, I’m blest aboon the lave; And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I’m downright dizzie wi’ the thought, In troth I’m like to greet!
For there’s nae luck aboot the hoose, There’s nae luck ava’; There’s little pleasure in the hoose, When our gudeman’s awa’.
Poets Corner 