We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Proclamation of Independence.
Touria Majdouline Moroccan b. 1960
I gather my confusion and my things My steps And the remaining illusions Of my body I run beyond time Beyond the vacant air And space
Yesterday I drew my open space here And dreamed a lot I sowed shade, and fruit, and crops around And with flames I wrote my poems… Yesterday I had plenty of time To embroider space with words. But today I am left with nothing But my dejection And the crumbs of yesterdays gone by
Thus I gather my things I wrap myself up in my own confusion And I run I run beyond time I propagate into the distance With neither shade Nor sun.
Atop the sandy banks, with my wine deplete, I wish that the sunshine inclines. Washing my feet in the clear stream, I gaze at birds flying. This meaning by itself is beautiful — Who shall receive it? As a student of Confucius, I too dance upon the rain altar and return home.
We present this work in honor of the 100th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Katherine Mansfield Kiwi 1888 – 1923
And again the flowers are come, And the light shakes, And no tiny voice is dumb, And a bud breaks On the humble bush and the proud restless tree. Come with me!
Look, this little flower is pink, And this one white. Here’s a pearl cup for your drink, Here’s for your delight A yellow one, sweet with honey. Here’s fairy money Silver bright Scattered over the grass As we pass.
Here’s moss. How the smell of it lingers On my cold fingers! You shall have no moss. Here’s a frail Hyacinth, deathly pale. Not for you, not for you! And the place where they grew You must promise me not to discover, My sorrowful lover! Shall we never be happy again? Never again play? In vain—in vain! Come away!
I asked a gardener He said: the plant… the plant of light I asked a woodcutter He said: the tree… the tree of light I asked a farmer He said: the flower… the flower of light I asked a poet He said: the word… the word of light I asked a lover She said: the kiss… the kiss of light
I asked them all The scoundrels didn’t tell me about a leaf that falls every day on the head of one of us No one told me about the shiver and the plants of the other world where there exists the smooth stone of eternity What kind of idiots are these people? Their leaves fall every day on my head while I am rocking them to their last resting place.
Abd-al Rahman, Emir of Cordoba Arab Andalusian 731 – 788
A palm tree stands in the middle of Rusafa, born in the West, far from the land of palms. I said to it: How like me you are, far away and in exile, in long separation from family and friends. You have sprung from soil in which you are a stranger; and I, like you, am far from home.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
Carl Sandburg American 1878 – 1967
Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again. And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger. And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities; Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness, Bareheaded, Shoveling, Wrecking, Planning, Building, breaking, rebuilding, Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth, Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs, Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle, Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people, Laughing! Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
Eyes thus turned gazing, Head thus inclined Steps thus taken She comes to communicate with me. Oh! Companion, It cannot be or yes it will be, The moves are those of a Brazilian. Who could have told me, But it is true; That Lisbon produced A Pretty Brazilian Woman.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 325th birthday.
Pietro Metastasio Italian 1698 – 1782
Why, froward goddess, try and try again To block my every step with brambles and rocks? Wouldst cow me by your stare of high disdain Or make me drag you toward me by your locks? Such practices might well be the undoing Of easily panicked souls, but be advised: If the whole world fell suddenly into ruin I’d watch it, curious yet unexercised.
To confrontations of this kid I feel Quite equal now. I know you are still trying To wear me down, eventually. Not so: For I am like to steel which, in defying The constant injuries of hammer and wheel, Grows finer and more luminous with each blow.
We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Vicente Huidobro Chilean 1893 – 1948
Let poetry be like a key Opening a thousand doors A leaf falls; something flies by; Let all the eye sees be created And the soul of the listener tremble.
Invent new worlds and watch your word; The adjective, when it doesn’t give life, kills it.
We are in the age of nerves. The muscle hangs, Like a memory, in museums; But we are not the weaker for it: True vigor Resides in the head.
Oh Poets, why sing of roses! Let them flower in your poems;
Poets Corner 