We present this work in honor of the 115th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Qiu Jin Chinese 1875 – 1907
Just a short stay at the Capital But it is already the mid autumn festival Chrysanthemums infect the landscape Autumn is making its mark The infernal isolation has become unbearable here All eight years of it make me long for my home It is the bitter guile of them forcing us women into femininity We cannot win! Despite our ability, men hold the highest rank But while our hearts are pure, those of men are rank My insides are afire in anger at such an outrage How could vile men claim to know who I am? Heroism is borne out of this kind of torment To think that so putrid a society can provide no camaraderie Brings me to tears!
We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Yone Noguchi Japanese 1875 – 1947
At night the Universe grows lean, sober- faced, of intoxication, The shadow of the half-sphere curtains down closely against my world, like a doorless cage, and the stillness chained by wrinkled darkness strains throughout the Uni- verse to be free. Listen, frogs in the pond, (the world is a pond itself) cry out for the light, for the truth! The curtains rattle ghostlily along, bloodily biting my soul, the winds knocking on my cabin door with their shadowy hands.
In honor of the Twelfth, we present this work by one of modern Ireland’s liveliest poets.
Leland Bardwell Irish 1922 – 2016
I have willed my body to the furthering of science Although I’ll not be there to chronicle my findings I can imagine all the students poring over me: “My God, is that a liver? And those brown caulifowers are lungs?” “Yes, sir, a fine example of how not to live.” “And what about the brain?” “Alas the brain. I doubt if this poor sample ever had one.” As with his forceps he extracts a single rose.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 65th birthday.
Makhosazana Xaba South African b. 1957
She is my friend. No, she was my friend – Over time, we went our separate ways.
She became richer when her father died; I became poorer when my parents retired.
When she moved to the coast, another inconvenience: The distance between our homes.
When she visits the city, she worries about the safety of her car outside my home. When I travel for work not too far from the coast, I cannot afford to travel to hers.
Although we still chat, the content builds walls between us; Her holidays longer, the number of her white friends larger.
Although she still plans on learning an indigenous language, I—her preferred practice ground—have become an absence.
She was my friend when we were anti-apartheid activists. What are we today? The common enemy has yet to surface.
Ghālib ibn Ribāh al-Hajjām Arab Andalusian 11th century
She is an immigrant from other lands. When she stretches out her ebony wings shows her ivory body opens her sandalwood beak and laughs with great guffaws it’s a sign of good weather.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Carilda Oliver Labra
Cuban
1922 – 2018
I.
Father of yesterday who made hope full of children and debts. I conjure your hand which was never dry and never knew stone or spear.
When you were judge, you were ill with insomnia… as you longed to save so many thieves. Let the sparrows chirp peace for you and may you have playthings at last!
I make believe, now, that you’re sleeping and your affectionate greeting, your amazement, lives on. My life now moves with entropy;
Now, I’m truly the sad little daughter that can no longer lean on your shoulder because you died in January, Father.
II.
Grief arrives so violently like the rain after the dawn; today my smile is different: an invisible tear that doesn’t weep.
(I tell myself in secret: maybe he’s coming by, and not only as he knows of this grieving but because I still wait anxiously in case he asks for the key to our house…)
I can’t believe it… I need you, and you are dead, my father, little dead one. This time you are checkmated.
Like a crazy person, in super human delirium, I lift your chess piece with my hand and place you playing in the game!
III.
I have dressed in white, green, red, because grief does not rhyme with love. It has been a long time, my father, since your eyes refused darkness or glare.
Don’t let hail and snow fall on your innocent and foreign grave. Let the birth of spring sing to you let a flower exude perfume on the ninth!
I reserve the glory of your room for you, a happy sparkle of the sun, that I keep apart that piece of earth where you were born, your robes, your books, your saw… It’s not enough now to love you so much: you’re dead, my father, you’re dead.
IV.
Your comfortable chair… where is it? Your student violin… how does it sound? You buried pennies in the sand and gave my mother other names.
I keep all your letters and pictures. In my dream your prostate is cured. On the patio floor and in my affection, your last shoes walk on.
I want to see you beyond the shutter. Come, spirit; come, my supportive angel. I no longer know what to do, what to say,
because I long to eat breakfast with my father, my sage, my almsman, at 81 Tirrey Avenue.
Poets Corner 