Since you wish it, Sir, I will tell you frankly
that you are the laughing-stock of everybody;
that they taunt us everywhere by a thousand
jokes on your account, and that nothing
delights people more than to make sport of
you, and to tell stories without end about
your stinginess. One says that you have
special almanacs printed, where you double
the ember days and vigils, so that you may
profit by the fasts to which you bind all your
house; another, that you always have a ready-
made quarrel for your servants at Christmas
time or when they leave you, so that you may
give them nothing. One tells a story how not
long since you prosecuted a neighbor’s cat
because it had eaten up the remainder of a leg
of mutton; another says that one night you
were caught stealing your horses’ oats, and
that your coachman–that is the man who was
before me–gave you, in the dark, a good
sound drubbing, of which you said nothing.
In short, what is the use of going on? We can
go nowhere but we are sure to hear you
pulled to pieces. You are the butt and jest and
byword of everybody; and never does anyone
mention you but under the names of miser,
stingy, mean fellow and userer.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 75th birthday.
Alice Walker American b. 1944
I have a friend
who is turning gray,
not just her hair,
and I do not know
why this is so.
Is it a lack of vitamin E
pantothenic acid, or B-12?
Or is it from being frantic
and alone?
‘How long does it take you to love someone?’
I ask her.
‘A hot second,’ she replies.
‘And how long do you love them?’
‘Oh, anywhere up to several months.’
‘And how long does it take you
to get over loving them?’
‘Three weeks,’ she said, ‘tops.’
Did I mention I am also
turning gray?
It is because I *adore* this woman
who thinks of love
in this way.
More than through skin, more than through sex
Unease is something that becomes clear through language
Something that makes me particular
There were no accentual modulations in that language
Surrounded by accentless speakers
I couldn’t carry on a conversation
I was illiterate too
I abhorred written language
Their accentless addresses frightened me
Didn’t feel directed toward me
If I answered, my language
Sounded ugly, sounded deformed
I could not erase that
When I catch the delicate nuances of accent
In the language he learned in a land far away
I wanted to wash it all away
Language spoken aloud is all mine
Knowledge
Emotions
Time, things we eat
Even if under the influence of others
Even if under the control of others
Even if the language he writes is understood only by others far away
The language that enters my ears, comes out my mouth
And disappears is all my own
Something I want to claim
Even if wet with my saliva
As I scrub him late at night
I imagine washing all that accentless language
From his skin of his freckled back
Dee suiiteshita retoru omen (the sweetest little woman)
He taught me this once
De suiiteshita meen (the sweetest man)
I imitated him
Parroted language
One breath, then another
He was a strange frog, a cricket
Pronouncing with ease
But first he taught me
Nashite mounen (nasty morning)
Next ae habu eten purente (I have eaten plenty)
Next ae an nata hangure (I am not hungry)
Next yu aara nata hangure (you are not hungry)
I touched his language that day for the first time
When I did
I was jealous of language
With it he is connected to the world outside
He writes, people read, that remains
But just then, he spoke to me in his language that remains
Just like my language
His is voiced then disappears
Even if relationships disappear there
Even if memory disappears there
This language, voiced and disappearing, is suiito
I wanted to study and understand his language
Even if only like those boys
It makes me sigh with regret
Still, the words I spoke made him crazy
He said he thought about them for ages
My language threatened
The freckles on his back
They moved, they squirmed
For his thick arms, how light
I must have been, like an imp or fairy
My language percolated through his voice then became free
Taking on the heat and scent of his body
It coiled around me then disappeared
Through language
He dug into me
Searched for me
So heavy from the imps and fairies settled there
Searching out
And finding
My skin
My lips
Kei Khosro sat in a garden bright
With all the beauties of balmy Spring:
And many a warrior armor-dight
With a stout kamand and an arm of might
Supported Persia’s King
With trembling mien and a pallid cheek,
A breathless hind to the presence ran;
And on bended knee, in posture meek,
With faltering tongue that scarce could speak
His story thus begun:
“Alackaday! for the news I bear
Will like to follies of Fancy sound:
Thy steeds were stabled and stalled with care,
When a Wild Ass sprang from its forest lair
With a swift resistless bound,”
“A monster fell, of a dusky hue,
And eyes that flashed with hellish glow;
Many it maimed and some it slew,
The back to the forest again it flew,
As an arrow leaves the bow.”
Kei Khosro’s rage was a sight to see:
“Now curses light on the foul fiend’s head!
Full rich and rare will his guerdon be
Whose stalwart arm will bring to me
Monster, alive or dead!”
But the mail-clad warriors kept their ground,
And their bronzed cheeks were blanched with fear;
With scorn Shah on the cowards frowned,-
“One champion bold may yet be found
While Rostam wields a spear!”
No tarrying made son of Zal,
Small reck had he of the fiercest fray;
But promptly came at the monarch’s call,
And swore that monster fiend would fall
Ere closed the coming day.
Swift Raksh’s sides he spurred,
And speedily gained the darksome wood;
Nor was trial for long deferred,-
But soon a hideous roar was heard,
Had chilled a baser blood.
Then darting out like a flashing flame,
Traverse his path the Wild Ass fled;
And the hero then with unerring aim
Hurled his stout kamand, but as erst it came,
Unscathed monster fled.
Then darting out like a flashing flame,
Traverse his path the Wild Ass fled;
And the hero then with unerring aim
Hurled his stout kamand, but as erst it came,
Unscathed monster fled.
“Now God in heaven!” bold Rostam cried,-
“Thy chosen champion deign to save!
Not all in vain will my steel be tried,
Though he who my powers has thus defied
By none but Akvan Div.”
Then steadily chasing his fiendish foe,
He thrust with hanger, he smote with brand:
But ever avoiding the deadly blow
It vanished away like the scenes that show
On Balkh’s delusive sand.
For full three wearisome nights and days
Stoutly he battled with warlike skill;
But Demon such magical shifts essays
That leaving his courser at large to graze,
He rests him on a hill.
But scare can slumber his eyelids close,
Ere Akvan Div from afar espies;
And never disturbing his foe’s repose
The earth from under the mound hr throws,
And off with the summits flies.
“Now, daring mortal!” Demon cried,-
“Whither wouldst have me catty thee?
Will I cast thee forth on mountain side,
Where lions roar and reptiles glide,
Or hurl thee into the sea?”
“O bear me off to the mountain side,
Where lions roar and serpents creep!
For I fear not the creatures that spring or glide;
But where is the arm that can stem the tide,
Or still the raging deep?”
Loud laughed the fiend as his load he threw
Far plunging into the roaring flood:
And louder laughed Rostam as out he flew,
For he fain had chosen the sea, but knew
The fiend’s malignant mood.
Soon all the monsters that float or swim,
With ravening jaws down on him bore:
But he hewed and hacked them limb from limb,
And the wave pellucid grew thick and dim
With streaks of crimson gore.
With thankful bosom he gains the strand,
And seeketh his courser near and far,
Till he hears him neigh, and he sees him stand
Among the herds of a Tatar band,
The steeds of Isfandiar.
But Rostam’s name was a sound of dread,
And the Tatar heard it has caused to quake;
The herd was there, but the hinds had fled,-
So all the horses he captive led
For good Kei Khosro’s sake.
Then loud again through the forest rings
The fiendish laugh and the taunting cry:
But his kamand quickly the hero flings,
And around Demon it coils and clings,
As a cobweb wraps a fly.
Kei Khosro sat in his garden fair,
Mourning his Champion lost and dead,
When a shout of victory rent the air,
And Rostam placed before his chair
A Demon Giant’s head.
When it rains it seems the room itself turns blue, trembles
and falls like rain, as if endless time coming from nowhere
fills the room, as if endless wind blowing in
carries the room to the riverbank;
turning into a boat, I float
I get soaked; swaying, shivering, I keep
moving; in the distance one can see the line where
the river meets the sea, as if
all around waves hiss, as if there’s nobody around
anywhere as if a profound sobbing chokes the throat
as if terrifying harsh sobs strangle
the room – By what strange magic
the ten directions sparkle in a moment,
as if everything will revert
to its real shape, as if all is a dance,
all is rhythm, all is tinted light –
Awakening and seeing the rain, sometimes it’s
like this, then I pray Oh sky
break up the room and give me more rain!
How? Growling down into the gravel
of a rough dream that dragged the
lids off coffins, he stopped
at the grave of Osimandeus. Or
was it Alexander? Yes, Alexander.
But the single howling question…
shaking the quiet lichen from its
settling place. He stood before the end
once more, saw the last hope die and him,
not given to poetry or nonsense, wanting
to sing a lament a troubadour may have sung
to a lady far from butchery and defeat.
One very rough day on the Pride of the Fray
In the scuppers a poor little cabin-boy lay,
When the Bosun drew nigh with wrath in his eye
And gave him a kick to remember him by,
As he cried with a sneer: “What good are you here?
Go home to your mammy, my bold buccaneer.”
Now the Captain beheld, and his pity upwelled:
With a plug in the peeper the Bosun he felled.
With humility grand he extended his hand
And helped the poor lad, who was weeping, to stand,
As he cried: “Have no fear; I’m the manager here.
Take heart, and you’ll yet be a bold buccaneer.”
But how he did flare when the lad then and there
Doffed his cap and shook down a gold banner of hair.
Though his movements were shy, he’d a laugh in his eye,
And he sank on the Captain’s broad breast with a sigh,
As he cried: “Is it queer that I’ve followed you here?
I’m your sweetheart from Bristol, my bold buccaneer.”
On an isle in the west, by the breezes caressed,
The bold buccaneer has a warm little nest,
And he sits there in state amid pieces of eight
And tackles his rum with a manner elate,
As he cries: “O my dear little cabin-boy, here
Is a toast to the babe of the bold buccaneer!”
Poets Corner 