We present this work in honor of the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
Luis de Sandoval y Zapata Mexican d. 1671
The Luminary of the Birds expires, of the wind that winged eternity, and midst the vapors of the monument burns a sweet-smelling victim of the pyre.
And now in mighty metamorphosis behold a shroud, with every flower more bright; in the Cerecloth, reasonable essence, the vegetable amber dwells and breathes.
The colours of Our Lady they portray; and from these shades the day in envy flies when the sun upon them shines his light.
You die more fortunate than the Phoenix, flowers; for he, feathered to rise, in ashes dies; but you, Our Blessed Lady to become.
We present this work in honor of the 45th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Saïda Menebhi Moroccan 1952 – 1977
You know my child
I wrote a poem for you
but don’t chastise me
for writing it is this language
that you don’t yet understand
it’s nothing my child
when you are older
you will seize this dream
that I dreamt in the middle of the day
when it’s your turn, you will tell the story of this woman
Arab prisoner
in her own country
Arab up to her white hair
her greenish eyes
the dream my child
begins
when I see a pigeon
the birds that build their nests
on the roofs of prisons
I dream of sending a message to the revolutionaries
of Palestine
in order to assure them support for victory
I dream of having wings
just like sparrows
to traverse the skies
as far as Erythrea
as far as Dhofar
arms heavy with guns
the head with poems
I want to be a passenger
on board clouds
with my war attire
combating Pinochet
in the back country of Chili
so that my blood runs
on Chilean soil
that Neruda praised
o my dream
red Africa
without hungry children
I dream
that the moon
up there is going to fall
to take out the enemy
and that the moon will leave me
in Palestine or in the Sahara
anywhere
I struggle for victory
For all people who are combatants.
We present this work in honor of the 730th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Saadi Persian 1203 – 1292
I saw bouquets of fresh roses Tied upon a cupola of grass. I asked: “What is despicable grass To sit also in the line of the roses?”
The grass wept and said: “Hush! Companionship does not obliterate nobility. Although I have no beauty, color, and perfume, Am I not after all the grass of God’s garden?”
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 480th birthday.
Mary, Queen of Scots Scots 1542 – 1587
‘Tis not because my strength outranks both flame and brand, Nor because my facets display a cunning hand, Nor because, set in fine-wrought gold, I shine so bright, Nor even that I’m pure, whiter than Phoebus’ light, But rather because my form is a heart, like unto My Mistress’ heart (but for hardness), that I’m sent to you. For all things must yield to unfettered purity And she is my true equal in each quality. For who would fail to grant that once I had been sent, My Mistress should thus, in turn, find favour and content? May it please, from these omens I shall gather strength And thus from Queen to equal Queen I’ll pass at length. O would I could join them with an iron band alone (Though all prefer gold) and unite their hearts as one That neither envy, greed nor gossip’s evil play, Nor mistrust, nor ravaging time could wear away. Then they’d say among treasures I was most renowned, For I’d have two great jewels in one setting bound. Then with my glitt’ring rays I should confound the sight Of all who saw me, dazzling enemies with my light. Then, by my worth and by her art, I should be known As the diamond, the greatest jewel, the mighty stone.
Don’t try to talk me out of clumsiness with the delusions of your crazy mind: my reason is both light and firmness, firmness and light like rock crystal.
Like the nocturnal pilgrim, my immortal hope does not look at the ground; seeing nothing but a shadow on the road, only contemplate the splendor of the sky.
Vain are the images that it carries your child spirit, dark sanctuary. Your soul, like gold on the mountain, it is virginal and therefore impure.
Through this twitching vortex, and eager to shine, I fly or crawl, caterpillar in love with a spark or eagle seduced by a star.
Useless is that with tenacious murmur you exaggerate the set in which I get entangled: I am haughty, and he who encourages pride wears a buckler impenetrable to fear.
Trusting the instinct that pushes me, I despise the dangers you point out. “The bird sings even though the branch creaks: like he knows what his wings are.”
Erect under the blow in the stubbornness, I feel superior to victory. I have faith in myself; adversity could take away the triumph, but not the glory.
Let the vile pursue me! I want to attract envy even if it overwhelms me! The flower on which insects perch It is rich in hue and perfume.
Evil is the theater in whose forum virtue, that tragic, stands out; is the sibyl with the golden word, the shadow that makes the star stand out.
Lighting is burning! I’m on It will be the raging fire that consumes me! The pearl sprouts from the wounded mollusk and Venus is born from the bitter foam.
The clear timbres of which I am proud they must come out of the slander unscathed. There are plumages that cross the swamp and they don’t stain… My plumage is one of those!
Strength is that my passion suffers! The Palm it grows on the shore that the waves whip. Merit is the castaway of the soul: live, sink; but dead, float!
Let go of your frown and let your voice lull me to sleep! Comfort the heart of the one who loves you! God said to the water of the torrent: it boils! and to the river of the margin: embalm!
Make up, woman! We have come to this valley of tears that brings down, you, like the dove, for the nest, and I, like the lion, for combat.
In poetry there’s no happy ending. Poets end up living their madness. And they’re quartered like cattle (it happened to Darío). Or they’re stoned or wind up flinging themselves to the sea or with cyanide salts in their mouths. Or dead from alcoholism, drug addiction, poverty. Or worse: canonical poets, bitter inhabitants of a tomb entitled Complete Works.
There are only two things in the world – The storm in the air and the stretch of green leaves; The flesh of the forest that quivers and heaves As the blast on its bosom is hurled. Above is the whip of the wind That scourges the cowering forest beneath: The Storm spits the hiss of the hail from his teeth, And leaves the world writhing behind! Like a beast that is bound in a cage When the keeper’s lash lights and the keeper’s goad stings, Each tree his great limbs to his torturer flings In a groaning and impotent rage. As the leaves to a fiercer gust lean The wind throws their undersides upward to sight, And the foam of the forest-sea flashes to white Out over full fathoms of green.
Poets Corner 