We present this work in honor of the 210th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Christoph Martin Wieland German 1733 – 1813
Now through the outward court swift speeds the knight ; Within the second from his steed descends; Along the third his pace majestic bends: Where’er he enters, dazzled by his sight, The guards make way, — his gait, his dress, his air, A nuptial guest of highest rank declare. Now he advances towards an ebon gate, Where with drawn swords twelve Moors gigantic wait, And piecemeal hack the wretch who steps unbidden there. But the bold gesture and imperial mien Of Huon, as he opes the lofty door, Drive back the swords that crossed his path before, And at his entrance flamed with lightning sheen. At once, with rushing noise, the valves unfold: High throbs the bosom of our hero bold, When, locked behind him, harsh the portals bray : Through gardens decked with columns leads the way, Where towered a gate incased with plates of massy gold. There a large forecourt held a various race Of slaves, a hapless race, sad harem slaves, Who die of thirst ‘mid joy ‘s o’erflowing waves ! And when a man, whom emir honors grace, Swells in his state before their hollow eye, Breathless they bend, with looks that seem to die, Beneath the weight of servitude oppressed ; Bow down, with folded arms across the breast, Nor dare look up to mark the pomp that glitters by.
Oh, women of this land! There is no life, nothing. This is nothing but failure and grief. Death for us is hundred times Better than such a life. This life is nothing But a symbol of slavery. Beware, women of this land! Be friends to one another! Dissolve your links with men! Why do you take on the name of Your husband, though you have A name of your own?
O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live. True love is life’s true end, My heart can comprehend, And therefore I intend My love unceasingly to give. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love lends me confidence, Grants conscience calmer sense, Builds patient competence, Forms faith and hope restorative; O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love is my victory, Honor, gleaming glory; Fashions me his story Of pleasure’s daily narrative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love has such lovely grace That when I see his face I find a tranquil place For fervent years contemplative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love offers deep content: With his care provident And arm omnipotent, I need no aid alternative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love draws me lovingly, Attracts with gloom, then glee, Charms me with misery. Alas! His changes I misgive. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love spreads his wings to fly, Calls me to gratify Him by pursuit; I sigh, And hurry toward the fugitive. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love, to secure my heart, Falls in my arms by art, And then away will dart In dalliance provocative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
My joy without a peer Inspires such songful cheer, I cry to every ear, “Love love, or lapse insensitive!” O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Shepherdesses gracious, For Love be amorous, Thereby more rapturous Than queens of high prerogative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
We present this work in honor of the 15th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Hone Tuwhare Kiwi 1922 – 2008
No one comes by way of the doughy track through straggly tea tree bush and gorse, past the hidden spring and bitter cress.
Under the chill moon’s light no one cares to look upon the drunken fence-posts and the gate white with moss.
No one except the wind saw the old place maker her final curtsy to the sky and earth:
and in no protesting sense did iron and barbed wire ease to the rust’s invasion nor twang more tautly to the wind’s slap and scream.
On the cream lorry or morning paper van no one comes, for no one will ever leave the golden city on the fussy train; and there will be no more waiting on the hill beside the quiet tree where the old place falters because no one comes anymore no one.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Ivor Cutler Scots 1923 – 2006
Got a letter from a thrush. Come and see me compose. So I went. She stuck her beak into the ink and sputtered on to the manuscript. Then sang it. Tra la la tweet tweet warble warble ptui ptui. When she finished I was asked for an opinion. With a grave look I opined: Well it’s very good. Regular thrush music good range plenty of variety nice timbre. Look Cutler said thrush do you think it’s worth making a demodisc or a tape and going round the agents? I think it’s chart material. Look thrush I replied it could only succeed as a gimmick. Yea, I suppose, she tweeted and flew into a stump.
We present this work in honor of the 675th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Sesson Yūbai Japanese 1290 – 1348
Who travels the Way heeds the Heart’s and the Way’s beginnings, But the Way’s everywhere, without boundaries — I’ll go till the rivers run dry, exhaust the peaks: In the calm of the clouds I’ll sit, and watch the moon light up the heavens.
We present this work in honor of the 1,320th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Empress Jitō Japanese 645 – 703
Oh, the autumn foliage Of the hill of Kamioka! My good Lord and Sovereign Would see it in the evening And ask of it in the morning. On that very hill from afar I gaze, wondering If he sees it today, Or asks of it tomorrow. Sadness I feel at eve, And heart-rending grief at morn – The sleeves of my coarse-cloth robe Are never for a moment dry.
Poets Corner 