We present this work in honor of the 115th anniversary of the poet’s death.
William Henry Drummond
Canadian
1854 – 1907
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, W’at do I see w’en I dream of you? A shore w’ere de water is racin’ by, A small boy lookin’, an’ wonderin’ w’y He can’t get fedder for goin’ fly Lak de hawk makin’ ring on de summer sky. Dat ‘s w’at I see.
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, W’at do I hear w’en i dream of you? Too many t’ing for sleepin’ well! De song of de ole tam cariole bell, De voice of dat girl from Sainte Angèle (I geev’ her a ring was mark “fidèle”) Dat ‘s what I hear.
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, W’at do I smoke w’en I dream of you? Havana cigar from across de sea, An’ get dem for not’ing too? No siree! Dere ‘s only wan kin’ of tabac for me. An’ it grow on de Rivière des Prairies- Dat ‘s what I smoke.
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, How go I feel w’en I t’ink of you? Sick, sick for the ole place way back dere- An’ to sleep on ma own leetle room upstair W’ere de ghos’ on de chimley mak’ me scare I ‘d geev’ more monee dan I can spare- Dat ‘s how I feel.
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, W’at will I do w’en I ‘m back wit’ you? I ‘ll buy de farm of Bonhomme Martel, Long tam he ‘s been waitin’ a chance to sell, Den pass de nex’ morning on Sainte Angèle, An’ if she ‘s not marry -dat girl- very well, Dat ‘s w’at I ‘ll do.
We present this work in honor of the Ching Ming Festival.
Wang Bo
Chinese
650 – 676
By this wall that surrounds the three Qin districts, Through a mist that makes five rivers one, We bid each other a sad farewell, We two officials going opposite ways…. And yet, while China holds our friendship, And heaven remains our neighbourhood, Why should you linger at the fork of the road, Wiping your eyes like a heart-broken child?
Today I shall celebrate this blind night I shall drink for its health I shall puff on its complexion some of my cigarette smoke I shall read him some of my poems When I am emptied I shall lead him safe and sound To the edge of the day
Old with a young heart, witty, kind, whose mind, dipped in much honey with now gall, imparted nothing bitter in your whole life. Nepotianus, comfort to my heart, partaking as much in games as serious work: when silent, you’d outdo Amyclas in speechlessness: Ulysses—who left the Sirens singing their enchantments— could not leave you when you were talking: honest and modest, moderate, thrifty, abstemious, eloquent, in style yielding place to no orator: debater approaching the Stoic Cleanthes: knowing well by heart Scaurus and Probus, your memory greater than Cineas’s of Epirus: friend table-companion and frequent guest— too seldom, for you stimulated my mind. No one gave counsel with so pure a heart or hid confidences with deeper secrecy. With the honor of an illustrious governorship conferred, having lived through the changes of ninety years, leaving two children, you meet your death, with much grief to your family, as to me.
This morning I woke up saddened. This land can’t give any Wonder. Is it impossible for this Insanityland to grow a little bit (a little green corner) of Wonder? This land is sadder than a woman asking for sugar. This morning I woke up downright depressed. And I have 35 reasons. Someone has to be guilty of planting the bombs around this Wonderlessland. Without poetry readers these bombs are invisible, they don’t make noise, don’t cause panic. These are perfect bombs that kill soundlessly. These are the modern bombs that man invented, they kill like falling leaves. But leaves in the forest, they aren’t, falling are bombs. In the cities, every day, every hour, and people think that it’s winter arriving. Why would they plant so many bombs in this Wonderlessland and in so many countries like this one, Wonderless. Is it that they are filled with wonder seeing how their bombs explode over our houses, on the heads of our children, onto our beds and tables; our chairs become matches. And what will happen to the people of this Land who don’t react? The people of this land are living in the bombs’ ruins and don’t react and don’t even try to wake up sad, at the very least, like I do, this January morning. You go out onto the street and no one hears the bombs, they don’t see the mutilated children wrapped in the aura of their own pain, I don’t know if no one sees them or hears them or if they don’t want to see or listen. These are the modern bombs that humanity has invented, bombs against hearing, against listening. Bombs that destroy everything with the greatest possible sensibility and diplomacy. Peaceful bombs that burn, mutilate, uproot the tree trunks and turn the butterflies from Patagonia’s Eden of dreams into wild monsters. They invented their silent pacifist bombs that day after day they shoot at us with their missile launchers and no one hears, or sees, or feels anything. This is Insanityland, no Wonder no green, no red kiss, no flow of children across a field, this is the land of total destruction, of catastrophe approaching all that is possible. I go into the street and scream: Hey, you! Hey, you! Hey you, Dominicanne! But no one hears or sees or feels anything, I go through the streets and the bars and all the hang outs showing people a mutilated child and they don’t see him, they don’t see him. Don’t you see this child who I have by the hand? I say to some friendly beer drinkers at a downtown bar. Where? Where? they say, and keep drinking. The world is a beerzy lane. I prefer to think that nobody hears anything because the noise from bombings across the land doesn’t let them think.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 120th birthday.
Maria Polydouri Greek 1902 – 1930
Today just before the light filled up the sky, far off I heard bells sounding in the city. Bells… why did I notice? As if sowing hate the last shadows slowly and dolefully moved on. Where have I left my sweet, childlike soul, in what season, with what bell’s tune entwined? In what season… and today to say my prayers I stayed on bended knee in sorrow. A prayer to beauty, to a forgotten mother, to ignorance, to a smile, to the voice of a dream, listening to the day’s bell of anguish which sadly tolled an untimely death.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 140th birthday.
Korney Chukovsky Russian 1882 – 1969
The telephone rang. “Hello! Who’s there?” “The Polar Bear.” “What do you want?” “I’m calling for the Elephant.” “What does he want?” “He wants a little Peanut brittle.” “Peanut brittle!.. And for whom?”
“It’s for his little Elephant sons.” “How much does he want?” “Oh, five or six tons. Right now that’s all That they can manage — they’re quite small.”
The telephone rang. The Crocodile Said, with a tear, “My dearest dear, We don’t need umbrellas or mackintoshes; My wife and baby need new galoshes; Send us some, please!” “Wait — wasn’t it you Who just last week ordered two Pairs of beautiful brand-new galoshes?”
“Oh, those that came last week — they Got gobbled up right away; And we just can’t wait — For supper tonight We’d like to sprinkle on our goulashes One or two dozen delicious galoshes!” The telephone rang. The Turtle Doves Said: “Send us, please, some long white gloves!”
It rang again; the Chimpanzees Giggled: “Phone books, please!”
The telephone rang. The Grizzly Bear Said: “Grr — Grr!” “Stop, Bear, don’t growl, don’t bawl! Just tell me what you want!” But on he went — “Grr! Grrrrrrr…” Why; what for? I couldn’t make out; I just banged down the receiver.
The telephone rang. The Flamingos Said: “Rush us over a bottle of those Little pink pills!.. We’ve swallowed every frog in the lake, And are croaking with a stomachache!”
The Pig telephoned. Ivan Pigtail Said: “Send over Nina Nightingale! Together, I bet, We’ll sing a duet That opera lovers will never forget! I’ll begin — ” “No, you won’t. The Divine Nightingale Accompany a Pig! Ivan Petrovich, No! You’d better call on Katya Crow!”
The telephone rang. The Polar Bear Said: “Come to the aid of the Walrus, Sir! He’s about to choke on a fat oyster!”
And so it goes. The whole day long The same silly song: Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling! A Seal telephones, and then a Gazelle, And just now two very queer Reindeer, Who said: “Oh, dear, oh, dear, Did you hear? Is it true That the Bump-Bump Cars at the Carnival Have all burned up?”
“Are you out of your minds, you silly Deer? The Merry-Go-Round At the Carnival still goes round, And the Bump-Bump Cars are running, too; You ought to go right Out to the Carnival this very night And buzz around in the Bump-Bump Cars And ride the Ferris Wheel up to the stars!”
But they wouldn’t listen, the silly Deer; They just went on: “Oh, dear, oh, dear, Did you hear? Is it true That the Bump-Bump Cars At the Carnival Have all burned up?”
How wrong-headed Reindeer really are!
At five in the morning the telephone rang: The Kangaroo Said: “Hello, Rub-a-dub-dub, How are you?” Which really made me raving mad. “I don’t know any Rub-a-dub-dub, Soapflakes! Pancakes! Bubbledy-bub Why don’t you Try calling Pinhead Zero Two!..” I haven’t slept for three whole nights. I’d really like to go to bed And get some sleep. But every time I lay down my head The telephone rings.
Who’s there — Hello! It’s the Rhino.” “What’s wrong. Rhino?” “Terrible trouble. Come on the double!” “What’s the matter? Why the fuss?” “Quick. Save him .. “Who?” “The hippopotamus. He’s sinking out there in that awful swamp…” “In the swamp?” “Yes, he’s stuck.” “And if you don’t come right away, He’ll drown in that terrible damp And dismal swamp. He’ll die, he’ll croak — oh, oh, oh. Poor Hippo- po- po………..“
“Okay … I’m coming Right away!” Whew: What a job! You need a truck To help a Hippo when he’s stuck!
Once I wrote of leaders violating sacred tracts, of those who cling to their terrible thirst for power; of so many slaughters, the cruel campaigns of Kings, of blood-brothers at battle, illustrious shields spattered with kindred gore, trophies taken from would-be allies, cities widowed once again of their countless peoples: of these, I confess, I once wrote. It is enough to record such evil. Now, all-powerful God, take, I pray, my sacred song, loosen the voices of your eternal, seven-fold Spirit; unlock the innermost chambers of my heart, that I, Proba, the prophet, might reveal its secrets. Now I spurn the nectar of Olympus, find no joy in calling down the Muses from their high mountain haunts; not for me to spread the idle boast that rocks can speak, or pursue the theme of laureled tripods, voided vows, the brawling gods of princes, vanquished votive idols: Nor do I seek to extend my glory through mere words or court their petty praise in the vain pursuits of men. But baptised, like the blest, in the Castalian font – I, who in my thirst have drunk libations of the Light – now begin my song: be at my side, Lord, set my thoughts straight, as I tell how Virgil sang the offices of Christ.
As it is true that I, like all, must die, I crave that death may take me unawares At the very end of some transcendent day; May creep upon me when I least suspect, And, with slick fingers light as feather tips, Unfasten every little tenuous bolt That held me all my years to this illusion Of flesh and blood and air and land and sea.
I’d have death work meticulously too – Splitting each moment into tenths of tenths, Replacing each infinitesimal fragment Of old dream-stuff with new.
So subtly will the old be shed That I’ll dream on and never know I’m dead.
I am a woman Round as the universe A pyramid that ignores its secrets Triangular in some parts with perfect and calculable hypotenuses on any one of its sides.
I am a woman Square and stubborn when it’s about you Pentagonal when I plan the most secret of my weapons
I am a woman Lineal the shortest distance between your all and my nothing
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