We present this work in honor of the 55th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Forough Farrokhzad Persian 1935 – 1967
I shed my clothes in the lush air to bathe naked in the spring water, but the quiet night seduced me into telling it my gloomy story.
The water’s cool shimmering waves moaned and lustily surrounded me, urged with soft crystal hands my body and spirit into themselves.
A far breeze hurried in, poured a lapful of flowers in my hair, breathed into my mouth Eurasian mint’s pungent, heart-clinging scent.
Silent and soaring, I closed my eyes, pressed my body against the soft young rushes, and like a woman folded into her lover’s arms gave myself to the flowing waters.
Aroused, parched, and fevered, the water’s lips rippled trembling kisses on my thighs, and we suddenly collapsed, intoxicated, gratified, both sinners, my body and the spring’s soul.
We are the miracles that God made To taste the bitter fruit of Time. We are precious. And one day our suffering Will turn into the wonders of the earth.
There are things that burn me now Which turn golden when I am happy. Do you see the mystery of our pain? That we bear poverty And are able to sing and dream sweet things
And that we never curse the air when it is warm Or the fruit when it tastes so good Or the lights that bounce gently on the waters? We bless things even in our pain. We bless them in silence.
That is why our music is so sweet. It makes the air remember. There are secret miracles at work That only Time will bring forth. I too have heard the dead singing.
And they tell me that This life is good They tell me to live it gently With fire, and always with hope. There is wonder here
And there is surprise In everything the unseen moves. The ocean is full of songs. The sky is not an enemy. Destiny is our friend.
We present this work in honor of the 185th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Alexander Pushkin Russian 1799 – 1837
If beasts within a silent forest moan, If trumpets sound, if thunder rolls and cracks, Or young girls sing almost inaudibly— For each initial tone The atmosphere resounds quite suddenly With a response, your own.
You listen to the peal of distant thunder, The rumbling voice of violent waves and storm, And hear the village shepherd’s lonely cry— And then you send your answer, But hear no echo, there is no reply… This also, poet, is your nature.
My friend is married to a man married also to another. He divides his life fairly and squarely between them, One half for my friend and the second half for the other woman. A married man once came to me and said ‘I love you.’ I asked him what he wanted. He said a lawful wife in accordance with God’s precepts. I said being a whole woman I could not accept half a man. He went livid and accused me of heresy. Pointing his gun at my head, he said, ‘Death to the woman who does not know God.’ So I pointed my gun at his head saying, ‘Death to the half men.’ So he retracted and went back to his wife.
We present this work in honor of the 160th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Francisco Martínez de la Rosa Spanish 1787 – 1862
Written in London in 1811
I saw upon the shady Thames Unnumber’d ships with riches fraught; I saw the power the nation claims Immense, the greatness it has wrought, And arts that such renown have brought.
But the afflicted mind exhaled A thousand sighs; again to view The flowery banks the wish prevail’d, Where glides the Douro calmly through, Or Henil’s streams their course pursue.
I saw the proud Court’s ladies forth Their wealth and grandeur gaily show; I saw the beauties of the North, Their bright complexions white as snow, Commingling with the rose’s glow.
Their eyes appear’d of heavenly blue, Their tresses of the purest gold; Their stately forms arose to view, Beneath the veil’s transparent fold, As white and lovely to behold.
But what avail the gay brocade, The city’s silks, and jewels’ pride; Or charms in rosy smiles array’d, With brilliant gaiety supplied, That all to beauty are allied?
When but is seen my country girl, Clad in her robe of simple white, Shamed are the needless silk and pearl; And by her pure and blooming light Confused hides beauty at the sight.
Where shall I find in icy clime Her black and beaming eyes of fire? That whether scornfully the time, To look, or kindly they desire, To rob me of my peace conspire?
Where the black hair that may like hers In hue with ebony compare? Where the light foot that never stirs, When bounding o’er the meadows fair, The lowly flowers that blossom there?
Maids of the Henil! dark ye be; But ne’er would I exchanged resign Your charms for all that here I see, Proud Albion shows, of brows that fine Ev’n as the polish’d ivory shine.
O, father Douro! gentle stream, Whose sands a golden store supply, Deign of my heart the wish supreme To hear, thy sacred margins by, That it may be my lot to die!
My hands are none too white, Nor lovely nor tender either, They’re rough and ugly to your sight, Because of the constant labour, But my hands are not complaining, There’s no whinging in my breast, When I recall my tidy house, containing, My happy little family, like a Nest.
The kids would go early to bed, And I’d set to doing the wash, The little snow white clothes all aired, I’d get them up so nice and posh, I’d sew a button on David’s shirt, And put a nail in Sam’s shoe, And I’d mend Enid’s red skirt- Those chores that all mothers do.
And Oh! They were all around me, Like glad little chicks in a throng, And my single purpose was to see, My children happy, fit and strong, To keep an eye on their progress, To care for them all day long, To keep their language spotless: I was happy, all smiles and song.
But, alas, they’ve all grown up, And all have left the nest, They’ll no more come home to sup, And their old toys are all at rest! The workbox for mending their things, And for putting a nail in Sam’s shoe, Is now quite useless- a bird without wings; A mam’s initiative unwanted, no more for her to do!
Poets Corner 