We present this work in honor of Coptic Christmas Day.
Nawal El Saadawi Egyptian 1931 – 2021
A ruler once said that he saw God. His rival retorted saying, ‘I saw God before you did.’ Another rival over power said, ‘But I saw Him before either of you.’ So they all fought together, Each saying that he had seen God before the other impostor. I said they were all impostors who have not seen God any of them. They asked, ‘Hasn’t anybody really seen God?’ I said, ‘I saw God in my childhood, my mother saw Him in her youth and my grandmother saw Him in her advanced years.’ They said, ‘Your words are heresy. God does not appear to women.’
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 295th birthday.
Anne Penny Welsh 1729 – 1784
Ye Bards who erst, in Mona’s shadowy isle, With harmony celestial wrapt the foul; Whose sounds symphonious taught e’en Care to smile, And ev’ry ruder passion could controul:
Bless’d be your friendly aid, for that alone Could Parry’s artless hand with skill inspire; His fancy swell to raise the rapt’rous tone, His flying fingers guide to skin the lyre.
To you, ye Bards, seraphic sounds were giv’n, That soothing rais’d and charm’d the soul to peace; Delightful foretaste of a future heav’n, Where harmony divine shall never cease.
Still o’er your much-lov’d Cambria, still preside, Seat once of flowing verse, of magic song; Your mighty shades the feeblest hand can guide, And bid their silent harps again be strung.
Your potent aid can fan their dying fire, Can call back Genius to each desart grove; Your sons will rouse when you their Bards inspire, Elate, their mighty origin to prove.
Sweet handsome friend, I can tell you truly that I’ve never been without desire since it pleased you that I have you as my courtly lover; nor did a time ever arrive, sweet handsome friend, when I didn’t want to see you often; nor did I ever feel regret, nor did it ever come to pass, if you went off angry, that I felt joy until you had come back
The pampered steed, of swiftness proud, Pranced o’er the plains, and neighed aloud. A Mule he met, of sober pace, And straight defied her to a race. Long she declined to try the course; How could she match in speed the horse? At length, while pawing side by side, A precipice the Mule espied, And in her turn the Horse defied. Near to its foot there stood a tree, Which both agreed the goal should be. Hasty rushed on the bounding steed, And slowly sees the Mule proceed: He sees, he scorns; but as they bend From the rough mountain to descend, He finds his boasted swiftness vain, For footing here he can’t maintain. The steady Mule the toil abides, And skillful down the hill she slides, Reaching the goal, well pleased to find The vaunting Horse creep slow behind; Who, tumbling from the mountain’s brow, Came battered to the vale below; Too late convinced, by what had passed, That ” slow and sure goes far at last”.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
Sugathakumari Indian 1934 – 2020
I know, somewhere unknown to me You dwell, oh soul mate.
I sing for you You wait for my song, Pained, when it is still.
You object, ” You do not write now-a-days” You find my words familiar, These are the lines I should have written You tell me softly. Your get teary eyed, at what wets mine. Children’s faces, a tied up bird, A limping little puppy, The old face staring, sightless Love which smiles simply at each other; The disappearing twilight, saffron clad, young The two garlands of rose petals, blackened by webs Hanging inside a bedroom, on a nail of memory. A song that eases, a pain in the heart, without reason; A tender hand stretching, fearsome, skinny- These that create tears in my eyes, make yours glisten too. You lift your eyes wide, when my wings flutter. You hum an old line, written by my pen. Though you do not know my face, you know my spirit. Thus, far away from me, you Soulmate, you live. When I think of you, my throat clears again. My life is not in vain, my friend, when I sing for you. My song is not in vain, my friend, when you hum along with it.
What do we know of the road where a traveler resists approaching the beggarly ruin of love’s perdition? And so the violin suddenly shakes off its indolence, its useless ambiguity, and takes leave among those lilies, those roses, lifted in flight by the wind.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 70th birthday.
Dennis O’Driscoll Irish 1954 – 2012
To assume everything has meaning. To return at evening feeling you have earned a rest and put your feet up before a glowing TV set and fire. To have your favorite shows. To be married to a local whom your parents absolutely adore. To be satisfied with what you have, the neighbors, the current hemline the dual immersion, the goverment doing its best. To keep to an average size and buy clothes off the rack. To bear the kind of face that can be made-up to prettines. To head contentedly for work knowing how bored you’d be at home. To book holidays to where bodies blend, tanned like sandgrains. To be given to little excesses, Christmas hangovers, spike high heels, chocolate éclair binges, lightened hair. To postpone children until the house’s extension can be afforded and the car paid off. To see the world through double glazing and find nothing wrong. To expect to go on living like this and to look straight forward. No regret. To get up each day neither in wonder nor in fear, meeting people on the bus you recognize and who accept you, without question, for what you are.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.
Ibrahim Nagi Egyptian 1898 – 1953
At last the cure, I bid farewell to pain, and welcome with a smile the days to come. Oblivion comes to me a kingly guest, with hands compassionate and blessed steps. My guest comes strongly on, folding the distances, the dark unknown. Proffering a cup that takes away old pain, and banishes all regrets. So drain it to the dregs and have no fear- For long you have suffered, your thirst your only drink. Oblivion now envelops me, and I thank God for its overwhelming flood, Surrendering to the waves which engulf me, happy to embrace a void without memories.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 105th birthday.
Al Purdy Canadian 1918 – 2000
The still grey face and withered body: without resistance winter enters in, as if she were a stone or fallen tree, her temperature the same as the landscape’s – How she would have complained about that, the indignity of finally being without heat, an insult from the particular god she believed in, and worse than the fall that killed her – Now a thought flies into the cemetery from Vancouver, another from Edmonton, – and fade in the January day like fireflies. I suppose relatives are a little slower getting the evening meal because of that – perhaps late for next day’s appointments, the tight schedule of seconds overturned, everything set a little back or ahead, the junctures of time moving and still: settling finally into a new pattern, by which lovers, hurrying towards each other on streetcorners, do not fail to meet – Myself, having the sense of something going on without my knowledge, changes taking place that I should be concerned with, sit motionless in the black car behind the hearse, waiting to re-enter a different world.
Nontsizi Mgqwetho South African c. 1880? – c. 1930?
Where are your daughters? What do you say? They crossed the land in search of marriage, shamelessly shacked up with live-in lovers, cavorted in dances with young men in New Clare.
With eyes of porridge their mothers bemoan their absent children, who left them standing, advising blank air and pleading in vain with sons and daughters who’ve all been to school.
Jails crammed to capacity, courts jam-packed with the learned products of school education; the judges in charge just hoot in derision at college certificates brandished by bums.
All our crooks are in school, all our thieves are in school, all our witches in school: by Nontsizi, I swear you should all be expelled!
You wear red blankets in God’s very house, you’re Christians by day, hyenas by night; the pastor, the shepherd of God’s own flock, scurries past you without a nod.
What do we make of this curious conduct? Which voice do we choose from among this babble? Pride is one of your Christian companions, God wears a cloak of crocodile hide.
You Christians are suckers for every fad, you cast off skin garments and dressed up like whites, your ears are tinkling for white man’s booze, but whites won’t touch a drop of yours.
Every Sunday you romp on the veld, kicking a football, whacking a racquet, clothing your shame in the name of God: Satan’s struck dumb in amazement.
You’re bereft of love, bereft of all, yet you proclaim a God of love: that faith of yours stands just as tall as I do down on my knees.
If you ever try to come near us again, we Reds will roast you like meat. But I’m not saying the word of God is entirely barren of truth.
Poets Corner 