We present this work in honor of the 35th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Enrique Lihn Chilean 1929 – 1988
In your opinion one love erases another and so it is, dear, yet in love not everything belongs to the dart and quiver— false starts—or is part of the wound that bewilders all pleasure, all grief twin of death, metaphor for birth The victims of Eros survive the crime that, joyfully, they’re passive agents of its authors in a mysterious moment and they don’t forget at least I don’t: my memory of you remains, independent of love as in that painting by Magritte where the dawn sky still hasn’t dissolved night in the street nor its precious moon: a light curdled in the streetlight that darkly illuminates that road It’s true, the oxymoron is no more than a figure of speech and can be guilty of premeditation Not so myself, at least I hope not, if I tell you: one love doesn’t erase another Memory, also, in its way loves and, as someone said, “There is no forgetting.”
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 105th birthday.
Alí Chumacero Mexican 1918 – 2010
Think of your look and my oblivion leaving the thought dilated through your eyes, drowned of his own living with your meaning;
then look at your oblivion that appears in me Like a rose that gave space slight prolongation and then out the light itself that touches with its aroma,
is to give myself to you without further ado that the fight of the body against the wind, and with you dreaming of being so quiet
like a shipwrecked sea or vain attempt: because since I can’t think of you, I leave my thought forgotten in you.
I loathe with all my heart the first of men who slew A human fellow-being when the earth was new. My spirit shrinks from him who for primeval raids Made sharp the world’s first arrow, honed the first of blades. For sure that soul rose up from Hades black as sin That first conceived the thought by murdering to win. He was by Furies nurtured who with savage lust First ground gunpowder, first a bullet cast. He waged his war against all human kind and won, Oh, he has maimed all Nature with his baneful gun.
He who was first to hone with evil toil the steel To hold against his brother’s throat with barbarous zeal. Thou scourge, War, for the world! which the Almighty shook When in his willful blindness Man the Good forsook; Masked lunacy, thy foot is rough and weighs like lead, And where it treads, a sea of blood is shed!
We present this work in honor of the 490th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Ludovico Ariosto Italian 1474 – 1533
Upon two beauteous images below Each of these female statues fix their feet. The lower seem with open mouth to show That song and harmony to them are sweet; And, by their attitude, ’twould seem, as though Their every work and every study meet In praising them, they on their shoulders bear, As they would those whose likenesses they wear.
The images below them in their hand Long scrolls and of an ample size contain, Which of the worthiest figures of that band The several names with mickle praise explain As well their own at little distance stand, Inscribed upon that scroll, in letters plain, Rinaldo, by the help of blazing lights, Marked, one by one, the ladies and their knights.
The first inscription there which meets the eye Recites at length Lucretia Borgia’s fame, Whom Rome should place, for charms and chastity, Above that wife who whilom bore her name. Strozza and Tebaldeo—Anthony And Hercules—support the honoured dame: (So says the scroll): for tuneful strain, the pair A very Linus and an Orpheus are.
A statue no less jocund, no less bright, Succeeds, and on the writing is impressed; Lo! Hercules’ daughter, Isabella hight, In whom Ferrara deems her city blest, Much more because she first shall see the light Within its circuit, than for all the rest Which kind and favouring Fortune in the flow Of rolling years, shall on that town bestow.
The pair that such desirous ardour shew That aye her praises should be widely blown: John James alike are named: of those fair two, One is Calandra, one is Bardelon. In the third place, and fourth, where trickling through Small rills, the water quits that octagon, Two ladies are there, equal in their birth, Equal in country, honour, charms and worth.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Mitsuye Yamada American b. 1923
Freedom at last in this town aimless I walked against the rush hour traffic My first day in a real city where
no one knew me.
No one except one hissing voice that said dirty jap warm spittle on my right cheek. I turned and faced the shop window and my spittle face spilled onto a hill of books. Words on display.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
Fay Zwicky Australian 1933 – 2017
Dead to the world I have failed you Forgive me, traveller.
Thirsty, I was no fountain Hungry, I was not bread Tired, I was no pillow
Forgive my unwritten poems: the many I have frozen with irony the many I have trampled with anger the many I have rejected in self-defence the many I have ignored in fear
unaware, blind or fearful I ignored them. They clamoured everywhere those unwritten poems. They sought me out day and night and I turned them away.
Forgive me the colours they might have worn Forgive me their eclipsed faces They dared not venture from the unwritten lines.
Under each inert hour of my silence died a poem, unheeded
Why am I so worried about my fortune? Why should I complain? My Creator is my Benefactor.
I am His weak creature and He is the Almighty. That which is hard for me For Him becomes so easy.
I am just a slave and Destiny has all matters settled. He can see me, while I can’t. Out of semen He shaped me inside a womb.
He says: “Be!” and so it is, from the Beginning and all new again. He reigns over all His creatures and rules His kingdom as He pleases.
Out of semen He shaped me in the darkness of a womb and offered me all kinds of riches and fed me all kinds of food.
I came out completely naked and He decently clothed me. He still protects me and is far above the wisest of all men.
I was born naked—I was born ignorant. He enveloped my soul in a decent cloth and made me drink from His holy spring and made Earth my bed and the Sky my roof.
Praise be to Him our Benefactor! We must praise him at all times for all the good He bestowed upon us and for both Sky and Earth.
Earth is His kingdom, and I’m one of His subjects. Men are His creatures, and I’m one of them. He is the One who bestows fortune so let’s not be too demanding, and accept whatever comes…
To you life means to entertain yourself: seeking only pleasure and careless about the rest. Take a rest, my heart, and be happy with just a little!
Discard what your Self wants most if you want to get rich, for your Poverty lies in your virtues! He who can’t oppose his desires shall suffer all his life!
Be strong and fight your Self! Don’t let yourself drift away—keep Desire out of your mind and root out every single seed of it, for your Self wishes you ill! Look at you: how weary you are!
Some people told me: “Be wise, old fool! Forget your worries and know what you say! Build your walls on solid foundations, for your foundations threaten to fall.”
I replied: “Are you being fair to Him? From Him I see only the good. How many lie buried under the ground? Who am I to be in the world what I want to? The world is worth nothing to me! Why do you call me a fool when you can see me carrying hard, heavy stones? What do you want from me? Just leave me alone!
They told me: “Be quiet and humble, old fool, when you enter the mosque!” To which I replied: “Who am I to refuse to be humble?! My hair has turned white and it’s time for me to depart as if I had never existed! I am from Earth, and to Earth I shall soon return.”
Earth is my Origin and that of all creatures. Earth is where I am like a plant deeply rooted. I prefer to see my flesh and bones Turn into weeds and earthworms.
Earth was the Beginning of all Creation: from Earth we all sprouted, and to it we shall return. It is said that those who lie there shall someday rise so I won’t mind resting anywhere you wish, for Earth embraces all men alike: the ragged and the richly clad, those wearing large cotton belts, chechias, turbans, or Yemeni brocades.
On Him who feeds the birds I rely, for He certainly is my Protector! He designs the course of my life And all things happen as He wishes!
They said my mind was constantly upset. I said: “He is the One who knows!” They said I have changed my mind. I said: “No! No! No! My mind won’t feed me.”
The said: “Why don’t you work?” I said: “Work is an honor to me! I will tighten my belt and toil all day long till I save u; enough and savor the tasty flesh of pigeons! But I will never, ever beg any of my brothers nor any other person in the world!”
They said: “Life is tasteless.” I said: “Because of heartless men!” They said: “Be a beggar.” I said: “Begging kills his man!” They said: “Get married.” I said: “Who suits me?” They said: “But you have no money.” I said: “Thank God!”
When lightning strikes and the wind blows, I recall those nights When I was so happy. But then those were only ghosts!
My heart lies in the East, while in the West I feel a complete stranger! Each time lightning strikes I recall a strange thing: everyone wonders how I can be there and here! To them I must look like a bird whose feathers have been cut.
If you meditate on this poem you will discover a hidden garden where meaning flowers in various colors nurtured by the noble Othman Ibn sidi Yahya.
A red glow. A furtive ray rocking the grove. Silky and shiny sateen is, unnerving the needles of the vast pine wood.
Sateen tainting carmine amid the grass and on the moss. Lit carmine burning in the hollow of the ivy. Carmine Carampangue of satiny blood smoothing the satin skin. The skin that strokes, snakes and seeks caressing the emerald with the tail of the dead, the sparkling of the green foliage lashed violently by the wind at the edge of the blue ell of the chasms, here at the beginning of the valley.
Sateen is made of blood and shiny and of treacherous velvet the fabric of the figures that now flame in the sun like knife light. Terrified under the splendor, in the blades cut by the beam, figuring holy cavities amid the murmuring nets of the forest. What silence. Of green firmament or inner bell. The woman pricks up her ears in amazement. Flame is the dress that covers her, fire the stunning skirt.
The humid rips in the lamé, pure spell of reflection, turning into blood the green virginity of the forest. The lamé splits in the green, creating blue flares in its mirror. In the simile, the bristling of a millenary, radiant tapestry:
Long drool of a silenus, Beelzebub, crawls, and the forked garrulous currents of an agitated mob of curling snakes Oh, the Leontine and Egyptian eyes of hieratic herons and owls.
Everything is velvet.
The sinuous mane of an ancient woman the black silk of a vibrant butterfly the sacred muscles of nocturnal panthers.
Iridescent volcanoes curl their spit in the distance in the distance like large, huge comet tails.
Here the tides flow, And here they ebb; Not with that dull, unsinewed tread of waters Held under bonds to move Around unpeopled shores— Moon-driven through a timeless circuit Of invasion and retreat; But with a lusty stroke of life Pounding at stubborn gates, That they might run Within the sluices of men’s hearts, Leap under throb of pulse and nerve, And teach the sea’s strong voice To learn the harmonies of new floods, The peal of cataract, And the soft wash of currents Against resilient banks, Or the broken rhythms from old chords Along dark passages That once were pathways of authentic fires.
Red is the sea-kelp on the beach, Red as the heart’s blood, Nor is there power in tide or sun To bleach its stain. It lies there piled thick Above the gulch-line. It is rooted in the joints of rocks, It is tangled around a spar, It covers a broken rudder, It is red as the heart’s blood, And salt as tears.
Here the winds blow, And here they die, Not with that wild, exotic rage That vainly sweeps untrodden shores, But with familiar breath Holding a partnership with life, Resonant with the hopes of spring, Pungent with the airs of harvest. They call with the silver fifes of the sea, They breathe with the lungs of men, They are one with the tides of the sea, They are one with the tides of the heart, They blow with the rising octaves of dawn, They die with the largo of dusk, Their hands are full to the overflow, In their right is the bread of life, In their left are the waters of death.
Scattered on boom And rudder and weed Are tangles of shells; Some with backs of crusted bronze, And faces of porcelain blue, Some crushed by the beach stones To chips of jade; And some are spiral-cleft Spreading their tracery on the sand In the rich veining of an agate’s heart; And others remain unscarred, To babble of the passing of the winds.
Here the crags Meet with winds and tides— Not with that blind interchange Of blow for blow That spills the thunder of insentient seas; But with the mind that reads assault In crouch and leap and the quick stealth, Stiffening the muscles of the waves. Here they flank the harbours, Keeping watch On thresholds, altars and the fires of home, Or, like mastiffs, Over-zealous, Guard too well.
Tide and wind and crag, Sea-weed and sea-shell And broken rudder— And the story is told Of human veins and pulses, Of eternal pathways of fire, Of dreams that survive the night, Of doors held ajar in storms.
Poets Corner 