We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Allegiance Day.
A cloud
Floating over my house
Loaded with jasmine
Gives me one
And goes away
In the rest of the sky
And a bird
Perches on the wall
fetching a letter from my lady to me
Gives me joy
And flies away
To the rest of the mountains
And a visitor knocking at my door
Shakes me out of my dream
Gives me feathers
And a voice of whiteness
And gets lost
In the rest of the day.
We present this work in honor of Tisha B’Av.
Face us in mercy
Because of unblemished Abraham’s merit.
Be merciful to us from the heavenly heights,
O God my redeemer,
Who at morning time hears my voice.
Reward your treasured people with mercy,
For they are Your people and Your inheritance.
Hurry, gather your community
To the mountains of my homeland.
Especial One, exalted and unseen,
Rescue Your son like the silent lamb,
Rebuild your sanctuary structures,
And give support to my cause.
Have compassion and be kind to us
And bring us up to Zion,
And raise up your Temple for us,
My rock and my rescuer.
Attend, my God, to my plea,
Lord who favors my song,
God who is my shield and my apportioned
Lot and guardian of my fate.
Joseph’s daughter pleads,
She asks of you all that is good,
Quickly may she take possession of her land
From the Ishmaelites
My father, in Your great mercy
Hasten along Your people’s savior
And act for the sake of Your own name,
Every sin of mine forgive.
My Creator, have mercy on my unique soul,
My Rock, strengthen my community.
Bring me up to the land I treasure
and I will offer my burnt incense.
Among many I praise Him.
May he raise His banner among our tents.
Make Your kindness toward us be abundant.
And may this, my voice, be received with favor.
We present this work in honor of World Elephant Day.
the intelligence of elephants
irrelevant, but eloquent
their clumsy sort of elegance
is one of many elements.
and when that wisdom elevates
it’s difficult to celebrate
for once we see our cells relate
the thoughts start to accelerate.
well wisdom seems aristocratic
dusted down from someone’s attic
pulled apart and cleared of static
(fluctuations are erratic.)
for how we trace the web life spins
parts swept away like bowling pins
still, consciousness, our human prints
will never match the elephants.
We present this work in honor of the 325th anniversary of the poet’s death.
So the old year remains behind forever.
As the sun’s course divides, so it cuts off the times!
How old age drags us so quickly into the grave!
That means poorly lived the few moments,
In which much annoyance mixed with bad luck
And nothing but instability revealed itself!
That probably means badly used when the walking stick
Never gets out of our hands when we use cunning and snares
Stumbling in the night, where there is little light
And light, which is not always safe to follow.
For if the Most High does not want to show his own light,
That, when we lose our way, touches our minds and eyes,
Is all light a light that leads to damnation.
Oh, the time is too short! Oh, the journey is too difficult!
Tears of sorrow and of suffering flowed from Queen Kausalya’s eye,
As she saw departing Sita for her blessings drawing nigh,
And she clasped the gentle Sits, and she kissed her moistened head,
And her tears like summer tempest choked the loving words she said:
‘Part we, dear devoted daughter, to thy husband ever true,
With a woman’s whole affection render love to husband’s due!
False are women loved and cherished, gentle in their speech and word,
When misfortune’s shadows gather, who are faithless to their lord,
Who through years of sunny splendour smile and pass the livelong day,
When misfortune’s darkness thickens, from their husband turn away,
Who with changeful fortune changing oft ignore the plighted word,
And forget a woman’s duty, woman’s faith to wedded lord,
Who to holy love inconstant from their wedded consort part,
Manly deed nor manly virtue wins the changeful woman’s heart!
But the true and righteous woman, loving, spouse and changeless wife,
Faithful to her lord and consort holds him dearer than her life,
Ever true and righteous Sita, follow still my godlike son,
Like a God to thee is Rama in the woods or on the throne!’
‘I shall do my duty, mother,’ said the wife with wifely pride,
‘Like a God to me is Rama, Sita shall not leave his side,
From the Moon will part his lustre ere I part from wedded lord,
Ere from faithful wife’s devotion falter in my deed or word,
For the stringless lute is silent, idle is the wheel-less car,
And no wife the loveless consort, inauspicious is her star!
Small the measure of affection which the sire and brother prove,
Measureless to wedded woman is her lord and husband’s love,
True to Law and true to Scriptures, true to woman’s plighted word,
Can I ever be, my mother, faithless, loveless to my lord?’
Tears of joy and mingled sorrow filled the Queen Kausalya’s eye,
As she marked the faithful Sita true in heart, in virtue high,
And she wept the tears of sadness when with sweet obeisance due,
Spake with hands in meekness folded Rama ever good and true:
‘Sorrow not, my loving mother, trust in virtue’s changeless beam,
Swift will fly the years of exile like a brief and transient dream,
Girt by faithful friends and forces, blest by righteous Gods above,
Thou shalt see thy son returning to thy bosom and thy love!
Unto all the royal ladies Rama his obeisance paid,
For his failings unremembered, blessings and forgiveness prayed,
And his words were soft and gentle, and they wept to see him go,
Like the piercing cry of curlew rose the piercing voice of woe,
And in halls where drum and tabor rose in joy and regal pride,
Voice of grief and lamentation sounded far and sounded wide!
Then the true and faithful Lakshman parted from each weeping dame,
And to sorrowing Queen Sumitra with his due obeisance came,
And he bowed to Queen Sumitra and his mother kissed his head,
Stilled her anguish-laden bosom and in trembling accents said:
Dear devoted duteous Lakshman, ever to thy elder true,
When thy elder wends to forest, forest-life to thee is due,
Thou hast served him true and faithful in his glory and his fame,
This is Law for true and righteous,–serve him in his woe and shame,
This is Law for race of Raghu known on earth for holy might,
Bounteous in their sacred duty, brave and warlike in the fight!
Therefore tend him as thy father, as thy mother tend his wife,
And to thee, like fair Ayodhya be thy humble forest life,
Go, my son, the voice of Duty bids my gallant Lakshman go,
Serve thy elder with devotion and with valour meet thy foe
We present this work in honor of the South African holiday, National Women’s Day.
It is my celebration
I will drum my drum
I will sing my song
I will dance my dance
I do not need your anaemic hands
brought together in pale applause
I do not need your
‘You are such musical people’
toothy smile
It is my celebration
You wonder what I have to celebrate
What does the drum tell me
If you must speculate
Watch out
One day as you throw your head back
As you gather your hearty laughter
I will change my dance
I will still sing
The drum will scream
Celebration.
We present this work in honor of the 425th anniversary of the poet’s death.
When on the wane, you are always impatient to wax,
but how do you so easily wane after waxing?
You are full only once in a month’s thirty nights:
man’s mind in a lifetime is exactly the same.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 155th birthday.
Two women watched on a windy pier
(Three turns and a line to pass!)
And one was the drunken skipper’s dear,
And one was a sailor’s lass;
The full o’ flood and the fall o’ tide
There’s little to guide between,
But ways are wide where the seas divide
Wi’ places to bide between.
The sun rose red, but the night fell grey —
Cheer’ly men, her load-line’s low!
Who drinks to-morrow may thirst to-day —
Cheer’ly men, still cheerily ho!
They trailed her out from the rowdy pier;
They turned her nose to the Sea;
They lent their lungs to a burly cheer,
And speeded her merrily.
Her skipper rolled to his bunk dead-tight;
Her mate in the scuppers lay,
With a starboard red and a green port light
To gladden them on their way.
They lit their lamps on the lonely pier
As the twilight brought the rain,
And the skipper’s dear laughed long and clear,
But the other laughed in pain.
For woman is woman and man is man
And the flesh it pricketh sore —
He carries his burden as best he can,
She carries her load and more.
Two women turned from the windy pier,
One hurried her home to weep:
But the skipper’s dear she was married next year
To a bank account — and sheep.
The ship that sailed as the ship went down
(Three turns and a rope to pass!)
Is posted “Lost,” and the grass goes brown
On the grave o’ the sailor’s lass.
The dank ooze silts where the deep hulk lie —
Cheer’ly men — her load-line’s low!
For men may drown and women will die —
Cheer’ly men, still cheerily ho!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 215th birthday.
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
We present this work in honor of the 5th anniversary of the poet’s death.
1
I tore from a limb fruit that had lost its green.
My hands were warmed by the heat of an apple
Fire red and humming.
I bit sweet power to the core.
How can I say what it was like?
The taste! The taste undid my eyes
And led me far from the gardens planted for a child
To wildernesses deeper than any master’s call.
2
Now these cool hands guide what they once caressed;
Lips forget what they have kissed.
My eyes now pool their light
Better the summit to see.
3
I would do it all over again:
Be the harbor and set the sail,
Loose the breeze and harness the gale,
Cherish the harvest of what I have been.
Better the summit to scale.
Better the summit to be.
Poets Corner 