Here lies Joannes of Epidamnus, the far-shining ornament of ever brilliant consuls who spread abroad the sweet light of the Muses, and more than others amplified the work of hospitality, having a hand that fed all, and alone among men knew not any measure to limit its gifts.
He ornamented his lofty consular car with the laws of his country, making bright the works of pure justice.
Ye gods! he did not live long, but at the age of only forty-two departed this life, regretted by all poets, whom he loved more than his own parents.
We present this work in honor of the Ching Ming Festival.
Lin Huiyin Chinese 1904 – 1955
I say, you are the April of this world; Your laughter ignites the winds hither and thither; Tinkling and dancing to the brilliant lights of spring. You are the soft haze of April mornings, Dusk blows the mellowness of the breeze, The stars glittering subconsciously, fine rain drops sprinkle like wine amid the flowers. That gentleness, gracefulness, is you, It is you wearing a radiant crown of a hundred flowers, You are innocence, dignity, You are the full moon night after night. Ivory swathes after melted snow, is like you; New shoots of verdant green, is you; Tender joy, the sparkling ripples carry long awaited white lotuses of your dreams. You are the trees that bloom, The swallows that chitter between the roof beams, —— you are love, warmth, Hope, You are the April of this world!
Mother of Pains, Lady of Suffering, I contemplate your lacerate heart. For the suffering endured by your beloved son, In a life filled with harshness and ingratitude. There is in your eyes such tenderness, So much affection and divine love, That from your tortured semblance A lovely and pure light irradiates; A light that illuminates the most shadowy pathway A divine light, sublime and splendorous That enlightens, guides, and supports. Dear Lady, so beautiful are your tears That they resemble gleaming stars, Drops of light in the darkness of anguish.
Come here, my mother sweetly told me one day; (I still seem to hear the heavenly melody in the air of her voice).
Come, and tell me what such strange causes draw that tear from you, my son, which hangs from your trembling eyelashes, like a curdled drop of dew.
You have a pity and you hide it from me. Don’t you know that the simplest mother knows how to read her children’s souls like you do the book?
Do you want me to guess what you feel? Come here, urchin, with a couple of kisses on the forehead I will dissipate the clouds from your sky.
I burst out crying. Nothing, I told him; I do not know the cause of my tears, but from time to time my heart is oppressed, and I cry.
She bowed her forehead, thoughtful, her pupil became troubled, and, wiping her eyes and mine, she told me more calmly:
– Always call your mother when you suffer, she will come, dead or alive; If it is in the world, to share your sorrows, and if not, to console you from above…
And I do it this way when harsh luck, like today, disturbs the calm of my home: I invoke the name of my beloved mother, and, then, I feel that my soul expands!
We present this work in honor of April Fool’s Day.
W.T. Goodge Australian 1862 – 1909
“You talk of snakes,” said Jack the Rat, “But blow me, one hot summer, I seen a thing that knocked me flat – Fourteen foot long or more than that, It was a reg’lar hummer! Lay right along a sort of bog, Just like a log!
“The ugly thing was lyin’ there And not a sign o’ movin’, Give any man a nasty scare; Seen nothin’ like it anywhere Since I first started drovin’. And yet it didn’t scare my dog. Looked like a log!
“I had to cross that bog, yer see, And bluey I was humpin’; But wonderin’ what that thing could be A-lyin’ there in front o’ me I didn’t feel like jumpin’. Yet, though I shivered like a frog, It seemed a log!
“I takes a leap and lands right on The back of that there whopper!” He stopped. We waited. Then Big Mac Remarked: “Well, then, what happened, Jack?” “Not much,” said Jack, and drained his grog. “It was a log!”
Find me an orchestra of elephant tusk horns bulrongs and drums I must have instruments of hair and string for last night I had a vision of a two- winged symphony O let us sing our longing to the heavens and grieving, they will bear us to forever where our clothes are not so dull We will be made of purple flowers there it is always spring There there are no kings. How much longer must we ring this blue bubble of unbroken bitter- leaf soup drinking where pain is measured in depths of laughter but laughter often hides regret of salt? I will build a house that swims a fish to net the world- a place to warble duets when the big rains come.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 140th birthday.
Angelos Sikelianos Greek 1884 – 1951
With her hair closely cropped up to the nape Like Dorian Apollo’s, the girl lay on the narrow Pallet, keeping her limbs stiffly frozen Within a heavy cloud she could not escape…
Artemis emptied her quiver—every arrow Shot through her body. And though very soon She’d be no virgin, like cold honeycomb, Her virgin thighs still kept her pleasure sealed…
As if to the arena, the youth came Oiled with myrrh, and like a wrestler kneeled To pin her down; and although he broke past
Her arms that she had thrust against his chest, Only much later, with one cry, face to face, Did they join lips, and out of their sweat, embrace…
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