The keys that don’t open doors
are the keys that lock them,
and keys tangled in chains
have nothing but the drama of jingling.
But the key that dies in my pocket
reminds me it is time
that I became a reasonable woman
who lives in a house
without keys, without doors.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 225th birthday.
This solitary hill has always been dear to me
And this hedge, which prevents me from seeing most of
The endless horizon.
But when I sit and gaze, I imagine, in my thoughts
Endless spaces beyond the hedge,
An all encompassing silence and a deeply profound quiet,
To the point that my heart is almost overwhelmed.
And when I hear the wind rustling through the trees
I compare its voice to the infinite silence.
And eternity occurs to me, and all the ages past,
And the present time, and its sound.
Amidst this immensity my thought drowns:
And to flounder in this sea is sweet to me.
We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Thank you
for showing me this woman’s body
while the branches, you remember, shook the roof
and I went after the mystery.
And it was a great scare that
in the Casa della Pazzia
from where we came out terrified by so much nothingness;
to the open air, to the pure images;
nourishment for the mind of those who want a new world
and the feeling that shines
and the body relieved.
Because when you take my hand I take fire
but your smile is this light
and I wait in peace for the dark to bite me
with its mouth of fury
so that once and for all those on the shore
they can hear the scream.
An Ass, says Esop, died betwixt
Two ricks of hay;
On neither could his choice be fixt,
So down he lay.
A twelvemonth full young Damon stood
By Love suspended;
Now smiled on Chloe, now on Jude,
And both commended.
But one at length, the chosen lass,
He made his bride:
Was Damon now the greater Ass,
Or he that died?
We present this work in honor of the 85th anniversary of the poet’s death.
When I come down to sleep death’s endless night,
The threshold of the unknown dark to cross,
What to me then will be the keenest loss,
When this bright world blurs on my fading sight?
Will it be that no more I shall see the trees
Or smell the flowers or hear the singing birds
Or watch the flashing streams or patient herds?
No, I am sure it will be none of these.
But, ah! Manhattan’s sights and sounds, her smells,
Her crowds, her throbbing force, the thrill that comes
From being of her a part, her subtle spells,
Her shining towers, her avenues, her slums—
O God! the stark, unutterable pity,
To be dead, and never again behold my city!
We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.
The sky is heavy and has fissured
Rain has washed the tomb
Turbulent waters are pouring out
Creating new water paths
From the tomb, a striking call came
To warn the people
Oh Kenza my daughter
Do not weep
We have been sacrificed
For a new Algeria
Kenza, Oh my daughter
Do not weep
Even if the body wilts
The idea lives
Even if the times are hard
We will overcome weariness
Even if they shoot many stars,
The sky will never be stripped of all of its stars
Oh Kenza my daughter
Endure life’s burden
We have been sacrificed
For a new Algeria
Kenza, Oh my daughter
Do not weep
They have decided on our fate
Well before today
The hunters of intelligence
Who have turned the country into a death zone
They have killed Rashid Tigziri
And did not miss Smail
They have killed Liabes and Flici
Boucebsi and many others
Oh Kenza my daughter
Endure life’s burden
We have been sacrificed
For a new Algeria
Kenza, Oh my daughter
Do not weep
At least one of us will survive
He will be our memory tomorrow
The wounds will heal
Our country will be peaceful again
Our children will grow
Even amidst the violence and pain
Oh Kenza my daughter
Do not weep
We have been sacrificed
For a new Algeria
Kenza, Oh my daughter
Do not weep
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
They said to me no, don’t take any, no, don’t touch, that is burning
hot. No, don’t try to touch, to hold, that weighs too much, that
hurts.
They said to me: Read, write. And I tried, I took up a word, but it
struggled, it clucked like a frightened hen, wounded, in a cage of
black straw, spotted with old traces of blood.
I don’t sense the tortured depths of love
when I contemplate with studied gaze
the rare perfection of your head
and your body, that Hellenic sculpture.
As if, printed in your genteel figure
sealed with august and manly nobility,
in your bright clear gaze,
the light of thought never shines.
As I contemplate it without pain or desire,
worthy model of an immortal artist,
your magnificent beauty, so enchanting,
only manages to inspire in my soul
the calm admiration sparked
by the beauty of a brute or of silver.
We present this work in honor of Dragon Boat Day.
Our boat starts at night
from the beach of Yen Kuang.
Great ships sail only for profit
Only small boats come here because of your fame.
The passers-by are embarrassed by your virtue.
So in the night we steal by the place where you used to fish.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 210th birthday.
It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot, tell,
When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo,
Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Tololedo.
‘Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt’st thou by the spring?
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
Why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide,
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?’
‘I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article like that hath never come my way;
And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.
‘My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is –
A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
I would not stand his nonsense, so ne’er a word I spoke,
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.
‘My uncle, the Alcaydé, he waits for me at home,
And will not take his tumbler, until Zorayda come:
I cannot bring him water – the pitcher is in pieces –
And so I’m sure to catch it, ‘cos he wallops all his nieces’
‘Oh maiden, Moorish maiden! Wilt thou be ruled by me?
Then wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;
And I’ll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
To carry home the water to thy Uncle, the Alcaydé.’
He lighted down from off his steed line – he tied him to a tree –
He bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three;
‘To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!’
And he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.
Up rose the Moorish maiden – behind the Knight she steals,
And caught Alphonso Guzman in a twinkling by the heels:
She tipped him in and held him down beneath the bubbling water –
‘Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet’s daughter!’
A Christian maid is waiting in the town of Oviedo;
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Tololedo;
I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,
How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.
Poets Corner 