To be a Jew in the twentieth century Is to be offered a gift. If you refuse, Wishing to be invisible, you choose Death of the spirit, the stone insanity
Accepting, take full life. Full agonies: Your evening deep in labyrinthine blood Of those who resist, fail, and resist; and God Reduced to a hostage among hostages.
The gift is torment. Not alone the still Torture, isolation; or torture of the flesh. That may come also. But the accepting wish, The whole and fertile spirit as guarantee For every human freedom, suffering to be free, Daring to live for the impossible.
In the name of Him who taught the soul to think, And kindled the heart’s lamp with the light of soul; By Whose light the two worlds were illumined, By Whose grace the dust of Adam bloomed with roses; That Almighty one who in the twinkling of an eye, From Kaf and Nun brought forth the two worlds! What time the Kaf of His power breathed on the pen, It cast thousands of pictures on the page of Not being. From that breath were produced the two worlds, From that breath proceeded the soul of Adam. In Adam were manifested reason and discernment, Whereby he perceived the principle of all things. When he beheld himself a specific person, He thought within himself “What am I?” From part to whole he made a transit, And thence returned back to the world. He saw that the world is an imaginary thing, Like as one diffused through many numbers. The worlds of command and of creatures proceed from one breath, And the moment they come forth they go away again. Albeit here there is no real coming and going, Going, when you consider it, is naught but coming. Things revert to their proper original, All are one, both the visible and the invisible. God most high is the eternal one who with a breath Originates and terminates both worlds. The world of command and that of creatures are here one, One becomes many and many few. All these varied forms arise only from your fancy, They are but one point revolving quickly in a circle. It is but one circular line from first to last Whereon the creatures of this world are journeying; On this road the prophets are as princes, Guides, leaders and counsellors. And of them our lord Muhammad is the chief, At once the first and the last in this matter. That One (Ahad) was made manifest in the mim of Ahmad. In this circuit the first emanation became the last. A single mim divides Ahad from Ahmad; The world is immersed in that one mim. In him is completed the end of this road, In him is the station of the text ‘I call to God,’ His entrancing state is the union of union, His heart ravishing beauty the light of light. He went before and all souls follow after Grasping the skirts of his garment. As for the saints on this road before and behind They each give news of their own stages. When they have reached their limits They discourse of the ‘knower’ and the ‘known,’ One in the ocean of unity says ‘I am the Truth,’ Another speaks of near, and far, and the moving boat, One, having acquired the external knowledge, Gives news of the dry land of the shore. One takes out the pearl and it becomes a stumbling-block, Another leaves the pearl and it remains in its shell. One tells openly this tale of part and of whole, Another takes his text from eternal and temporal: One tells of curl, of mole, and of eyebrow, And displays to view wine, lamp and beauty. One speaks of his own being and its illusion, Another is devoted to idols and the Magian girdle. Since the language of each is according to his degree of progress, They are hard to be understood of the people. He who is perplexed as to these mysteries Is bound to learn their meaning.
We present this work in honor of the 455th anniversary of the poet’s death.
George Wither English 1588 – 1667
Hence away, thou siren, leave me, Pish! unclasp those wanton arms, Sugared words can ne’er deceive me Though thou prove a thousand charms. Fie, fie, forbear, no common snare Can ever my affection chain. Thy painted baits and poor deceits Are all bestowed on me in vain.
I’m no slave to such as you be, Neither shall that snowy breast, Rolling eye and lip of ruby, Ever rob me of my rest. Go, go, display thy beauty’s ray To some more soon enamoured swain, Those common wiles of sighs and smiles Are all bestowed on me in vain.
I have elsewhere vowed a duty, Turn away that tempting eye, Show me not a painted beauty, These impostures I defy. My spirit loathes where gaudy clothes And feigned oaths may love obtain. I love her so, whose looks swear no, That all your labours will be vain.
I have a need for your voice, a longing for your company, and an ache of melancholy for the absence of signs of arrival. Patience requires my torment, the urgent need for you, heron of love, your solar mercy for my frozen day, your help, for my wound, I count on. Ah, need, ache and longing! Your kisses of substance, my food, fail me, and I’m dying with the May. I want you to come, the flower of your absence, to calm the brow of thought that ruins me with its eternal lightning.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 75th birthday.
Yusef Komunyakaa
American
b. 1947
On Fridays he’d open a can of Jax After coming home from the mill, & ask me to write a letter to my mother Who sent postcards of desert flowers Taller than men. He would beg, Promising to never beat her Again. Somehow I was happy She had gone, & sometimes wanted To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou Williams’ ‘Polka Dots & Moonbeams’ Never made the swelling go down. His carpenter’s apron always bulged With old nails, a claw hammer Looped at his side & extension cords Coiled around his feet. Words rolled from under the pressure Of my ballpoint: Love, Baby, Honey, Please. We sat in the quiet brutality Of voltage meters & pipe threaders, Lost between sentences… The gleam of a five-pound wedge On the concrete floor Pulled a sunset Through the doorway of his toolshed. I wondered if she laughed & held them over a gas burner. My father could only sign His name, but he’d look at blueprints & say how many bricks Formed each wall. This man, Who stole roses & hyacinth For his yard, would stand there With eyes closed & fists balled, Laboring over a simple word, almost Redeemed by what he tried to say.
When fixed his gaze upon the stone, The artist saw a nymph inside, And fire ran through vein his own – He flew to her in all his heart.
But though full of strong desire, He’s now overcome the spell: The chisel, piecemeal and unhurried, From his high goddess, sanctified, Removes a shell after a shell.
In the sweet and vague preoccupation More than a day or a year will pass; But from the goddess of his passion, The fallen veil will not be last,
Until, perceiving his desire, Under the chisel’s gentle caress, And answering by a gaze of fire, Sweat Galatea brings entire The sage into a first embrace.
We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Dulce Maria Loynaz Cuban 1902 – 1997
In my garden, roses: I don’t want to give you roses that tomorrow… that tomorrow you won’t have.
In my garden, birds with crystal song: I do not give them to you; they have wings to fly.
In my garden, bees craft a fine hive: A minute’s sweetness… I don’t want to give you that!
For you, the infinite or nothing: what is immortal or this mute sadness you won’t understand… The unnamable sadness of not having something to give to someone who carries on the forehead a portion of eternity.
Leave, leave the garden… Don’t touch the roses: things that die should not be touched.
Poets Corner 