Poets

03-27 Frame
Janet Frame
Kiwi
1924 – 2004

If poets die young

they bequeath two thirds of their life to the critics
to graze and grow fat in
visionary grass.

If poets die in old age
they live their own lives
they write their own poems
they are their own might-have-been.

Young dead poets are prized comets.
The critics queue with their empty wagons ready for hitching.

Old living poets
stay faithfully camouflaged in their own sky.
It may even be forgotten they have been shining for so long.
The reminder comes upon their falling
extinguished into the earth.
The sky is empty, the sun and moon have gone away,
there are not enough street bulbs, glow-worms, fireflies to give light

and for a time it seems there will be no more stars.

To a Butterfly

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.

03-26 Varma
Mahadevi Varma
Indian
1907 – 1987

The rain is about to fall,
Come through my window, butterfly.

Outside, when they become wet,
Those charming colors will melt away,
The flower will fall to the ground,
It won’t be able to save you, small butterfly,
Come through my window, butterfly!

A little one will manage to catch you,
He will place you in a small box and take you away,
After, he’ll paste you into a book
You’ll die, then, butterfly,
Hide inside my window, butterfly.

To Samos

We present this work in honor of Greek Independence Day.

03-25 Kalvos
Andreas Kalvos
Greek
1792 – 1869

 

Let those who feel
the heavy brazen hand of fear
bear slavery:
freedom needs virtue,
needs daring.

This (for myth may veil
the spirit of truth) lent wings
to Icarus – and though he fell,
the wingèd one and drowned
beneath the waves,

he fell from on high
and died free. Should you
die like a sheep, dishonoured,
at the hands of a tyrant,
your grave will be an abomination.

 

Translation by James Munro

Piu Avanti

We present this work in honor of Argentina’s Dia de la Memoria.

03-24 Palacios
Pedro Bonifacio Palacios
Argentine
1854 – 1917

Don’t embrace defeat, even defeated,
don’t feel yourself a slave even enslaved,
trembling in terror, think you fearless,
and charge with fury, badly wounded.
Have the tenacity of the rusted nail,
though old and ruined, become a nail as ever.
Not the cowardly folly of the turkey
that folds its plumage at first tremor.
Proceed like God, who never cries,
or like Lucifer, who never prays;
or be like the oaktrees, whose grandour
has need of water and won’t beg…
Let bites and yells of vengeance
Rolling on the dust!, your furious head.

To as-Samar

03-23 Al Kiram
Umm Al-Kiram
Arab Andalusian
c. 1070

 

Marvelously, friends,
of what has harvested a burning passion
therefore not for that, there would be lowered,
accompanied by the moon, the night,
from the highest heaven to Earth.
My passion is that I love in such a way
that if I broke up, my heart would follow him.

Oh, I wish I knew.

If there is a way to be alone together
which do not reach the ears of the spy.
How wonderful
I want to be alone with my beloved
living, even when it is in my gut and in my chest.

Without a Place

We present this work in honor of Bihar Divas.

03-22 Anamika
Anamika
Indian
b. 1961

 

This is how the shloka goes —
women, nails and hair
once they’ve fallen
just can’t be put back in place
said our Sanskrit teacher.

Frozen in place out of fear
we girls held on tight to our seats.
Place, what is this ‘place’?
We were shown our place
in the first grade.
We remembered our elementary school lessons
Ram, go to school, son,
Radha, go and cook pakora!
Ram, sip sugar syrup,
Radha, bring your broom!
Ram, bedtime, school tomorrow
Radha, go and make the bed for brother.
Aha! This is your new house
Look Ram! Here’s your room
“And mine?”
Oh, little loony!
Girls are wind, the sun and the good earth
They have no homes
“Those who don’t have a home,
where do they belong?”

Which is the place from where we fall
become clipped nails, fallen hair trapped in combs,
fit only to be swept away
Houses left behind, paths left behind
people were left behind
questions chasing us, too left behind
Leaving behind tradition,
it seems to me I’m as out of context
as a short line
from a great classic
scribbled on a BA examination paper

But I don’t want
somebody to sit down and
analyse me
to pigeonhole me
At long last, beyond all contexts
with real difficulty
I’ve gotten here

Let me be hummed
like an abhang,
unfinished.

 

Translation by Arlene Zide

Fall Tomorrow

We present this work in honor of Human Rights Day.

03-21 Thomas
Gladys Thomas
South African
b. 1934

Don’t sow a seed
Don’t paint a wall
Tomorrow it will have to fall

Let the dog howl and bark
Tomorrow he will Sleep in the dark
Let the cock crow
Let the hen lay
Tomorrow will be their last day

Let the children chop trees
Let them break
Let the destructive little devils
Ruin and take
For tomorrow they know not their fate

Don’t sow a seed
Don’t pain a wall
Tomorrow the yellow monster will take all

Let our sons dazed in eye
Rape and steal
For they are not allowed to feel
Let the men drink
Let them fight
Let what is said about them
Then be right
For they are not allowed to think

So bark, howl, crow,
Chop, break, ruin,
Steal, drink, fight,
Let what’s made of us be right

Tomorrow we gaze at a new view
Seas of sand given by you
And we say
Sow the seed
Paint the wall
Be at home in our desert for all
You that remade us
Your mould will break
And tomorrow you are going to fall

Old Photographs

03-19 Baderoon
Gabeba Baderoon
South African
b. 1969

On my desk is a photograph of you
taken by the woman who loved you then.

In some photos her shadow falls
in the foreground. In this one,
her body is not that far from yours.

Did you hold your head that way
because she loved it?

She is not invisible, not
my enemy,
nor even the past.
I think
I love the things she loved.

Of all your old photographs, I wanted
this one for its becoming. I think
you were starting
to turn your head a little,
your eyes looking slightly to the side.

Was this the beginning of leaving?

Lines Written Upon Seeing Strawberry Hill

03-18 Penny
Anne Penny
Welsh
1729 – 1784

When Thames, in plaintive murmurs, lav’d the grott
Where once his darling Pope each care forgot;
Where, with the Muse, he pass’d the smiling day,
Whose strains celestial crown’d the moral lay;
Each drooping Swan with sorrow view’d the shore,
And mourn’d, in melting dirge, their Bard no more:
Ah! flown, O Thames! thy fairest Swan (they sung)
Whose warbling lyre immortal Genius strung,
Truth, Nature, Virtue, touch’d the trembling chord,
While mute Attention caught the Poet’s word.
And must thy beauteous stream incessant mourn?
Is Genius banish’d, never to return?
No—thy sweet banks, immortal Thames! shall prove
His fond affection, and the Muses’ love;
Succeeding years will sure a Walpole give,
In whose progressive mind shall genius live:
His wish to crown—each Muse—each Grace shall meet,
And fix on Strawberry Hill their lov’d retreat.