We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Marianne Moore
American
1887 – 1972
The illustration is nothing to you without the application. You lack half wit. You crush all the particles down into close conformity, and then walk back and forth on them.
Sparkling chips of rock are crushed down to the level of the parent block. Were not ‘impersonal judgment in aesthetic matters, a metaphysical impossibility,’ you
might fairly achieve It. As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive of one’s attending upon you, but to question the congruence of the complement is vain, if it exists.
A thin jug to a cup his head did bend And a painful secret to her ear he did sigh; I do not know what he told, what he said, But I saw blood pouring down his eye.
The new skirt, the vague gesture cigarette in hand, the daily inversion of time intranscendent; its emptiness pointing at us, making us feel like parasites, spider weaver of a useless web that wraps and suffocates us.
what would I do without this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where every instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been without this wave where in the end body and shadow together are engulfed what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love without this sky that soars above its ballast dust
what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before peering out of my deadlight looking for another wandering like me eddying far from all the living in a convulsive space among the voices voiceless that throng my hiddenness
We present this work in honor of the 1,320th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Princess Ōku
Japanese
661 – 702
From tomorrow ever Shall I regard as brother The twin-peaked mountain of Futagami- I, daughter of man! I would break off the branch Of the flowering staggerbush Growing on the rocky shore; But no one says he lives To whom I would show it!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 45th birthday.
Andrés Neuman Argentine b. 1977
My attention steps down from its center like an oil stain.
Contradictory hand: while it feigns snatching specific objects, its fingers count digressions. Is to touch to have faith?
I attend to that shoe that almost frees itself from a young woman’s heel, to the deaf-mute debates on the TV in the back, to the impatient tics of the light and, just every so often, to the time I have left.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 190th birthday.
Lewis Carroll
English
1832 – 1898
The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright — And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done — “It’s very rude of him,” she said, “To come and spoil the fun.”
The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead — There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: “If this were only cleared away,” They said, “it would be grand!”
“If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, That they could get it clear?” “I doubt it,” said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.
“O Oysters, come and walk with us!” The Walrus did beseech. “A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.”
The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head — Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat — And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn’t any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more — All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row.
“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax — Of cabbages — and kings — And why the sea is boiling hot — And whether pigs have wings.”
“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried, “Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!” “No hurry!” said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that.
“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, “Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed — Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.”
“But not on us!” the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. “After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!” “The night is fine,” the Walrus said. “Do you admire the view?”
“It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!” The Carpenter said nothing but “Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf — I’ve had to ask you twice!”
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said, To play them such a trick, After we’ve brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!” The Carpenter said nothing but “The butter’s spread too thick!”
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said: I deeply sympathize.” With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.
“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter, “You’ve had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?” But answer came there none — And this was scarcely odd, because They’d eaten every one.
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