We present this work in honor of the poet’s 120th birthday.
Count Geoffrey Potocki de Montalk Kiwi 1903 –1997
Looking over toward London, the slim Straight lines of light from the lamps along the river Meticulously made, Most classically shadowed there, a prim Silver colonnade.
But up the stream a glowing faery isle And clustered lights all ravishingly quiver (Where in the daytime seas Wash wearily about the power-house, while The heart is ill at ease).
And a little boat with lights green, yellow and red, Is turned into a magical Chinese Duck, whose long wake is A right-triangle, far past the imagined Island’s isosceles.
Everything declines after reaching perfection, therefore let no man be beguiled by the sweetness of a pleasant life. As you have observed, these are the decrees that are inconstant: he whom a single moment has made happy, has been harmed by many other moments; And this is the abode that will show pity for no man, nor will any condition remain in its state for it. Fate irrevocably destroys every ample coat of mail when Mashrifi swords and spears glance off without effect; It unsheaths each sword only to destroy it even if it be an Ibn Dhi Yazan and the scabbard Ghumdan Where are the crowned kings of Yemen and where are their jewel-studded diadems and crowns? Where are [the buildings] Shaddad raised in Iram and where [the empire] the Sassanians ruled in Persia? Where is the gold Qarun once possessed; where are `Ad and Shaddad and Qahtan? An irrevocable decree overcame them all so that they passed away and the people came to be as though they had never existed. The kingdoms and kings that had been came to be like what a sleeper has told about [his] dream vision. Fate turned against Darius as well as his slayer, and as for Chosroes, no vaulted palace offered him protection. It is as if no cause had ever made the hard easy to bear, and as if Solomon had never ruled the world. The misfortunes brought on by Fate are of many different kinds, while Time has causes of joy and of sorrow. For the accidents [of fortune] there is a consolation that makes them easy to bear, yet there is no consolation for what has befallen Islam. An event which cannot be endured has overtaken the peninsula; one such that Uhud has collapsed because of it and Thahlan has crumbled! The evil eye has struck [the peninsula] in its Islam so that [the land] decreased until whole regions and districts were despoiled of [the faith] Therefore ask Valencia what is the state of Murcia; and where is Jativa, and where is Jaىn? Where is Cordoba, the home of the sciences, and many a scholar whose rank was once lofty in it? Where is Seville and the pleasures it contains, as well as its sweet river overflowing and brimming full? [They are] capitals which were the pillars of the land, yet when the pillars are gone, it may no longer endure! The tap of the white ablution fount weeps in despair, like a passionate lover weeping at the departure of the beloved, Over dwellings emptied of Islam that were first vacated and are now inhabited by unbelief; In which the mosques have become churches wherein only bells and crosses may be found. Even the mihrabs weep though they are solid; even the pulpits mourn though they are wooden! O you who remain heedless though you have a warning in Fate: if you are asleep, Fate is always awake! And you who walk forth cheerfully while your homeland diverts you [from cares], can a homeland beguile any man after [the loss of] Seville? This misfortune has caused those that preceded it to be forgotten, nor can it ever be forgotten for the length of all time! O you who ride lean, thoroughbred steeds which seem like eagles in the racecourse; And you who carry slender, Indian blades which seem like fires in the darkness caused by the dust cloud [of war], And you who are living in luxury beyond the sea enjoying life, you who have strength and power in your homelands, Have you no news of the people of Andalus, for riders have carried forth what men have said [about them]? How often have the weak, who were being killed and captured while no man stirred, asked our help? What means this severing of the bonds of Islam on your behalf, when you, 0 worshipers of God, are [our] brethren? Are there no heroic souls with lofty ambitions; are there no helpers and defenders of righteousness? O, who will redress the humiliation of a people who were once powerful, a people whose condition injustice and tyrants have changed? Yesterday they were kings in their own homes, but today they are slaves in the land of the infidel! Thus, were you to see them perplexed, with no one to guide them, wearing the cloth of shame in its different shades, And were you to behold their weeping when they are sold, the matter would strike fear into your heart, and sorrow would seize you. Alas, many a mother and child have been parted as souls and bodies are separated! And many a maiden fair as the sun when it rises, as though she were rubies and pearls, Is led off to abomination by a barbarian against her will, while her eye is in tears and her heart is stunned. The heart melts with sorrow at such [sights], if there is any Islam or belief in that heart!
O Glorious Mother of sweet Jesus, by Whose sacred death, us from Hell’s portals freeing, Wiped out the sin, O Lady of the sky, In which our primal father had his being, Ah, see Love with his arrows sharp and bold, What grievous fate he goadeth me unto! O piteous Mother, dear ally, withhold His unruly squadrons, let them not pursue!
O grant to me the love which is divine And draweth up our souls to Paradise, So I may loose these passionate bonds of mine. Herein the balm for this wild fury lies, This water doth to quench this fire avail As in a plank a nail drives forth a nail.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 80th birthday.
Nikki Giovanni American b. 1943
Ever been kidnapped by a poet if i were a poet i’d kidnap you put you in my phrases and meter You to jones beach or maybe coney island or maybe just to my house lyric you in lilacs dash you in the rain blend into the beach to complement my see Play the lyre for you ode you with my love song anything to win you wrap you in the red Black green show you off to mama yeah if i were a poet i’d kid nap you
I press my head down It’s the result of insomnia oppressing me I press my head to you and to my miserable memoirs The night is pressing me too But I’m so tough
Now it’s the sound of your scream coming And there is blood And there is the smell of tear and tear gas A soldier is pressing my head down by his boots Someone is pulling the trigger Now there is a gun between my eyebrows I feel the blood pressure in my head The cowards have run I press a cold hand in my cold hand
Someone was calling my name all the night I feel the pressure of a lump in my throat My throat is wounded And I hear you screaming in the ear of someone who is all dead I feel the pressure of life And its wounds And its marks And I feel the pressure of the graves upon the solitude of dead bodies
I press my fists to the wall and I swallow my cry You are still screaming in the wild howls of the wind I press my head down A vessel is pressing a nerve And I press a bottom to flash my life back To go back to a scene where I’m opening a window towards light Where everybody rise out of the graves Where I hold a warm hand in my hand And we are laughing in our homes and in our rooms There I hear the sound of peace And my heart beats normally And that’s a better day with a green background
Fair children of nature! a fragrance is round them, Derived from the parent who first gave them birth, And who, in her ceaseless affection, hath crowned them, The simplest and sweetest adornments of earth.
In shadow and sunshine they blossom and flourish, On high, hanging cliff—in the forest’s deep gloom; The wildest of mountains their loveliness nourish, And dark, hollow caves are their cradle and tomb.
But e’en as we gaze on the flower, ‘tis faded— Its beauties are fleeting, and live but a day; Too quickly the leaves by death’s colours are shaded, Till lowly it droops its fair head to decay.
‘Tis an emblem of life, for an infancy’s hours We know not its thorny and dangerous road— Our tears fall as lightly as dew from the flowers, And leave the heart gay as if ne’er they had flowed.
But when the rough blasts of misfortune assail us, Or frosts of unkindness fall chill on the heart,— When friends we have loved, in adversity fail us,— ‘Tis then that the tear-drops of sorrow will start.
Too often, alas! the bright visions we cherish Of friendship and faith, fade away from our sight, And the fond dreams of hope in their infancy perish, At the withering touch of ingratitude’s blight.
We present this work in honor of the 45th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Malek Haddad Algerian 1927 – 1978
I am the final point of a novel that begins Let us not forget everything above level zero I sustain my romance intact between my eyes Then, denying nothing, I set out once again I am the final point of a novel that begins No need to distinguish the horizon from the dance And within my burnous my house survives I am the final point of a novel that begins Of my two Saharas I compose my song I sustain my romance intact between my eyes I am in the truth the pupil and the lesson
Often I recall having been a shepherd… Then in my eyes there’s that long-suffering look Of a fellah who watches in his unbreakable hands The history of a country where the orange tree will be born Often I recall having been a shepherd I have sliced the galette I have parted the figs My daughter I have married well It has no equal To the gun To the task Than my eldest son My wife was the finest in the valley. Among us the word fatherland has a taste of anger My hand has caressed the heart of palm trees The handle of my ax opens an epic And I have seen my grandfather Mokrani Finger his beads watching eagles pass Among us the word fatherland possesses a taste of legend
Daddy ! Why have you deprived me Of fleshly music see: Your son Learning to speak in another tangue Words that I have known Since I was a shepherd lad
Ah my God The night so much night in my eyes Mummy calls herself Ya Ma while I say Mother I have mislaid my burnous my gun my pen And I bear a first name falser than my deeds Ah the night my God but what’s the good of whistling Fear You’re afraid Fear You’re afraid Fear You’re afraid Since a man stalks you like some frightful mirror Your school friends and the streets the jokes But since I tell you I’m a Frenchman just look at my clothes my accent my house I who turn a race into a profession Saying Tunisian when I mean “tradesman” I who think of a Jew as some wretched homegrown soldier? Come on then, my sister wears no veil And in the Lycee didn’t take all the prizes for french?
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
John Masefield English 1878 – 1967
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
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