We present this work in honor of the poet’s 65th birthday.
I demand to know the whys, even the whens the how and where
and that hushed question that strangles me and lives in silence
And then you answer
Majestic
an immense green buck
water country
where the dreamers gather.
You speak to me
great sea
curtain of the sky
and your wings perform like pages
of a book whose author knows all
like pages, sea
and like petals of a rose that never sheds.
I saw a gazelle today wandering alone on the way,
running scared in the desert— the Arabs called her a jinn!
If she could be bought I’d spare a hundred sultanis!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Even though I could spare a hundred that won’t be enough!
As I look into her eyes I feel I have to sing about her
for all beauty is hers— she’s torturing me, O listeners!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
All beauty’s gone to her— she with the languid eyes!
The perfect body— which sets my heart ablaze!
Her forehead—a shiny full moon makes me shiver with love!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Eyebrows & eyelashes like swords; jewels hanging down a shiny forehead.
I stared at her all the time feeling crazy about her!
I’ve lost my mind, I’m sure— should you try, you’ll forgive me!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
When I keep silent, my friends, I can hear demons inside me!
I hear a string plucked in my head but no one starts singing!
In spite of the oud & wine in the glass I find no one to entertain me!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Fall in love & you’ll see what I had to go through because of this gazelle
I once met on my way & since then she’s driven me crazy!
When I cry no one feels any pity! When I stifle my pain it hurts so much!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
What can I do? I need help! No description fits her beauty!
This gazelle is so gorgeous my words can’t describe her!
Her hair’s soft as silk & black as a Sudanese!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Black, yellow, & of all colors! Her eyes do cast a spell!
Her neck’s a fine bough from a ben tree or the stem of a lily!
Her mouth an agate or pure gold set with coral!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
When will this fire be quenched O you who understand my poem?
I didn’t know I’d roam the high seas when my pirate took me on that schooner!
I beg the merciful Lord forgive my sins!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
Be kind to me, O friends! Look for the bough of the ben tree
the one who lives beyond my reach in the district of Laqran!
She left me with a tormented mind— O Lord, give me patience!
I saw a gazelle today that tormented me, O listeners!
We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Nothing remains of the old
The light made its nest
On the train parallels
We present this work in honor of the Jamaican holiday, Emancipation Day.
Each race that breathes the air of God’s fair world
Is so bound up within its little self,
So jealous for material wealth and power
That it forgets to look outside itself
Save when there is some prospect of rich gain;
Forgetful yet that each and every race
Is brother unto his, and in the heart
Of every human being excepting none,
There lies the selfsame love, the selfsame fear,
The selfsame craving for the best that is,
False pride and petty prejudice prevail
Where love and brotherhood should have full sway.
When shall this cease? ‘Tis God alone who knows;
But we who see through this hypocrisy
And feel the blood of black and white alike
Course through our veins as our strong heritage
Must range ourselves to build the younger race.
What matter that we be as cagéd birds
Who beat their breasts against the iron bars
Till blood-drops fall, and in heartbreaking songs
Our souls pass out to God? These very words,
In anguish sung, will mightily prevail.
We will not be among the happy heirs
Of this grand heritage – but unto us
Will come their gratitude and praise,
And children yet unborn will reap in joy
What we have sown in tears.
For there will come
A time when all the races of the earth,
Grown weary of the inner urge for gain,
Grown sick of all the fatness of themselves
And all their boasted prejudice and pride,
Will see this vision that now comes to me.
Aye, there will come a time when every man
Will feel that other men are brethren unto him—
When men will look into each other’s hearts
And souls, and not upon their skin and brain,
And difference in the customs of the race.
Though I should live a hundred years,
I should not see this time, but while I live,
‘Tis mine to share in this gigantic task
Of oneness for the world’s humanity.
Everything is in order
My loves folded inside my heart
my heart as steady as the horizon
I held the hands of friends, warmth
of seasonal homes. This is how
I burn with pride
Everything is in order
The blue gold of your veins in my gaze
on brooding mountaintops
in this tough air as patient as a lizard
I follow the straight path of nebulae
into the forest that self-devours
You walk inside my eyes so that I can rest
and exhaustion laid bare is harmed by your silence
You make the land buried in my memory sing
when I carve from my chest a thousand years of space
As I go I sow your presence
the anchor of your goodness in the depths of hatred
In your heart is a right of asylum and I make use
of you like I would cut my veins
Everything is in order
No longer can the sun
intoxicate me with snow from another side
My luggage suits me exactly
like skin. And while I keep vigil
night open at the pure flank of Ramadan
in the city heavy with steel my mother
puts away my books that she cannot read
and ages. Everything is in order
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 120th birthday.
Sudden, first
grey
hair, like an icy hello
from the one I love most…
you gave me the slip, and among
this riot of hair I haven’t found you again;
now I look for you,
as one indifferently seeks
a forgotten face.
I needn’t hide you;
the whole world could pass by,
it would be absurd for anyone
to suspect your presence.
Only I will know about this buried treasure.
I’ll scribble some humorous lines,
and you’ll forget me while I greet
people; if the barber uncovers you,
he will scientifically
expound on your presence,
then prescribe a hair tonic.
He’ll be the only one to know about you
but I’ll hush him in disbelief,
ask him to be discrete,
and you’ll remain one fleeting
thought amid a myriad.
In twenty years, you will long
have gone off into the world;
by then it will be normal
for no one to spot you
among others of the same age.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Coffee and apples on an afternoon in June.
In a lukewarm civiliesed corner
my senses take in a faintly abstract situation.
The world has become hospitable,
like a truce in the middle of history.
The apples give off a yellow radiance,
the coffee offers up its intimate steam.
In terms of my failure as a contemporary individual
all this seems sufficient,
the inner chill of apples,
the unstable heat of coffee,
two details from nature that escape my dominion.
So here am I with my sprawling backside
in some chamber adequate to my social class.
Gentle things put in a safe place,
Shut away from the general tumult.
But at times a bomb explodes on the ground floor
and the police show up to find out who is who in this world.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 150’th birthday.
1. Because man’s place is the armory.
2. Because no really manly man wants to settle any question otherwise than by fighting about it.
3. Because if men should adopt peaceable methods women will no longer look up to them.
4. Because men will lose their charm if they step out of their natural sphere and interest themselves in other matters than feats of arms, uniforms and drums.
5. Because men are too emotional to vote. Their conduct at baseball games and political conventions shows this, while their innate tendency to appeal to force renders them particularly unfit for the task of government.
When the woodland everywhere is despoiled of its green honours, make straight for the deep forest, mounted on the snow-white housing of your steed. The snipe is an easy and agreeable prey. You will find it no larger in body than Venus’ doves. It feeds close to the edge of embankments, by the wash of the water, hunting tiny worms, its favourite fare. But its pursuit thereof is rather with keen-scented nose than with the eyes, in which its sense is rather dull, too big for the body though they be. With the point of the beak driven into the ground it drags out the little worms which needs must follow, therewith rewarding an appetite cheap to satisfy.
Every night I scan
the heavens with my eyes
seeking the star
that you are contemplating.
I question travelers
from the four corners of the earth
hoping to meet one
who has breathed your fragrance.
When the wind blows
I make sure it blows in my face:
the breeze might bring me
news of you.
I wander over roads
without aim, without purpose.
Perhaps a song
will sound your name.
Secretly I study
every face I see
hoping against hope
to glimpse a trace of your beauty.
Poets Corner 