Botany Bay
by ANONYMOUS
Farewell to old England for ever,
Farewell to my rum culls as well,
Farewell to the well-known Old Bailey,
Where I used for to cut such a swell.
Chorus Singing, too-ral, li-ooral, li-addity,
Singing, too-ral, li-ooral, li-ay,
Singing, too-ral, li-ooral, li-addity,
Singing, too-ral, li-ooral, li-ay.
There's the captain as is our commander,
There's the bo'sun and all the ship's crew,
There's the first- and the second-class passengers,
Knows what we poor convicts goes through.
'Tain't leaving old England we care about,
'Tain't cos we misspells wot we knows,
But because all we light-fingered gentry
Hops round with a log on our toes.
For fourteen long years I have ser-vi-ed,
And for fourteen long years and a day,
For meeting a bloke in the area,
And sneaking his ticker away.
Oh had I the wings of a turtle-dove,
I'd soar on my pinions so high,
Slap bang to the arms of my Polly love,
And in her sweet presence I'd die.
Now, all my young Dook-ies and Duch-ess-es,
Take warning from what I've to say-
Mind all is your own as you touch-es-es,
Or you'll meet us in Botany Bay.
MORETON BAY
Moreton Bay
by ANONYMOUS
One Sunday morning as I went walking
by Brisbane waters I chanced to stray,
And I heard a convict his fate bewailing
as on the sunny river bank he lay:
'I am a native of Erin's island,
though banished now from my native shore;
They tore me from my aged parents
and from the maiden whom I do adore.
'I've been a prisoner at Port Macquaire,
at Norfolk Island and Emu Plains,
At Castle Hill and at cursed Toongabbie,
at all those settlements I've worked in chains;
But of all places of condemnation
and penal stations in New South Wales
To Moreton Bay I have found no equal,
excessive tyranny each day prevails.
'For three long years I've been beastly treated
and heavy irons on my legs I wore;
My back with flogging is lacerated
and often painted with my crimson gore.
And many a man from downright starvation
lies mouldering now underneath the clay;
And Captain Logan he had us mangled
at the triangles of Moreton Bay.
'Like the Egyptians and ancient Hebrews
we were oppressed under Logan's yoke,
Till a native black lying there in ambush
did give our tyrant his mortal stroke.
My fellow prisoners, be exhilarated
that all such monsters such a death may find!
And when from bondage we are liberated
our former sufferings shall fade from mind.'
by ANONYMOUS
One Sunday morning as I went walking
by Brisbane waters I chanced to stray,
And I heard a convict his fate bewailing
as on the sunny river bank he lay:
'I am a native of Erin's island,
though banished now from my native shore;
They tore me from my aged parents
and from the maiden whom I do adore.
'I've been a prisoner at Port Macquaire,
at Norfolk Island and Emu Plains,
At Castle Hill and at cursed Toongabbie,
at all those settlements I've worked in chains;
But of all places of condemnation
and penal stations in New South Wales
To Moreton Bay I have found no equal,
excessive tyranny each day prevails.
'For three long years I've been beastly treated
and heavy irons on my legs I wore;
My back with flogging is lacerated
and often painted with my crimson gore.
And many a man from downright starvation
lies mouldering now underneath the clay;
And Captain Logan he had us mangled
at the triangles of Moreton Bay.
'Like the Egyptians and ancient Hebrews
we were oppressed under Logan's yoke,
Till a native black lying there in ambush
did give our tyrant his mortal stroke.
My fellow prisoners, be exhilarated
that all such monsters such a death may find!
And when from bondage we are liberated
our former sufferings shall fade from mind.'
FIRE AND ICE
Fire and Ice
by ROBERT FROST
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
BETWEEN GOING AND COMING
Between Going and Coming
by OCTAVIO PAZ
Between going and staying
the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.
The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.
The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 43: HOW DO I LOVE THEE? LET ME COUNT THE WAYS
Sonnets from the Portuguese 43: How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways
by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
THE WINDHOVER
The Windhover
by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
To Christ our Lord
I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, —the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
To Christ our Lord
I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, —the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
JOURNEY TO THE INTERIOR
Journey to the Interior
by MARGARET ATWOOD
There are similarities
I notice: that the hills
which the eyes make flat as a wall, welded
together, open as I move
to let me through; become
endless as prairies; that the trees
grow spindly, have their roots
often in swamps; that this is a poor country;
that a cliff is not known
as rough except by hand, and is
therefore inaccessible. Mostly
that travel is not the easy going
from point to point, a dotted
line on a map, location
plotted on a square surface
but that I move surrounded by a tangle
of branches, a net of air and alternate
light and dark, at all times;
that there are no destinations
apart from this.
There are differences
of course: the lack of reliable charts;
more important, the distraction of small details:
your shoe among the brambles under the chair
where it shouldn't be; lucent
white mushrooms and a paring knife
on the kitchen table; a sentence
crossing my path, sodden as a fallen log
I'm sure I passed yesterday
(have I been
walking in circles again?)
but mostly the danger:
many have been here, but only
some have returned safely.
A compass is useless; also
trying to take directions
from the movements of the sun,
which are erratic;
and words here are as pointless
as calling in a vacant wilderness.
Whatever I do I must
keep my head. I know
it is easier for me to lose my way
forever here, than in other landscapes
by MARGARET ATWOOD
There are similarities
I notice: that the hills
which the eyes make flat as a wall, welded
together, open as I move
to let me through; become
endless as prairies; that the trees
grow spindly, have their roots
often in swamps; that this is a poor country;
that a cliff is not known
as rough except by hand, and is
therefore inaccessible. Mostly
that travel is not the easy going
from point to point, a dotted
line on a map, location
plotted on a square surface
but that I move surrounded by a tangle
of branches, a net of air and alternate
light and dark, at all times;
that there are no destinations
apart from this.
There are differences
of course: the lack of reliable charts;
more important, the distraction of small details:
your shoe among the brambles under the chair
where it shouldn't be; lucent
white mushrooms and a paring knife
on the kitchen table; a sentence
crossing my path, sodden as a fallen log
I'm sure I passed yesterday
(have I been
walking in circles again?)
but mostly the danger:
many have been here, but only
some have returned safely.
A compass is useless; also
trying to take directions
from the movements of the sun,
which are erratic;
and words here are as pointless
as calling in a vacant wilderness.
Whatever I do I must
keep my head. I know
it is easier for me to lose my way
forever here, than in other landscapes
CARRION
Carrion
by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE (1821-1867)
Darling, do you recall that thing we found
("A lovely summer day!" you said)
That noisome carcass where the path swung round
A sprawling pebble-covered bed.
Its legs raised like a whore's in lubric play,
It burned, oozing rank fetors there,
Shameless and nonchalant, it offered day
Its belly. Poisons filled the air.
The sun beat down on this putrescent mold
As if to fry it to a turn,
To give great Nature back one hundredfold
All she had gathered in her urn.
The skies watched that proud carcass, lax or taut,
Bloom like a flowery mass.
So pungent was the stench, my love, you thought
To swoon away upon the grass.
Horseflies buzzed loud over this putrid belly,
Whence sallied column and battalion
Of stable maggots, flowing like a mucose jelly,
Over this live tatterdemalion.
Waves seemed to rise and fall over this mass,
Spurting with crepitation,
As though this corpse, filled with breaths of gas,
Lived by multiplication.
This world uttered a curious melody,
Like waters, wind, or grains of wheat
That winnowers keep stirring rhythmically
In the broad baskets at their feet.
The forms, fading into a dream, grew fainter;
Here was a sketch of misty tone
On a forgotten canvas which the painter
Completes from memory alone.
Hiding behind the rocks, an anxious bitch
Stood, watching us with angry eye,
Poised to regain the olid morsel which,
Hearing us come, she had laid by.
- Yet shall you be like this ordurous blight,
You, too, shall rot in just such fashion,
Star of my eyes, sun of my soul's delight,
Aye, you, my angel and my passion.
Such you, O queen of graces, in the hours,
When the last sacrament is said,
That bear you under rich sods and Iush flower
To molder with the moldering dead.
Then, O my beauty! Tell such worms as will
Kiss you in ultimate coition
That I have kept the form and essence of
My love in its decomposition.
- Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil.
by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE (1821-1867)
Darling, do you recall that thing we found
("A lovely summer day!" you said)
That noisome carcass where the path swung round
A sprawling pebble-covered bed.
Its legs raised like a whore's in lubric play,
It burned, oozing rank fetors there,
Shameless and nonchalant, it offered day
Its belly. Poisons filled the air.
The sun beat down on this putrescent mold
As if to fry it to a turn,
To give great Nature back one hundredfold
All she had gathered in her urn.
The skies watched that proud carcass, lax or taut,
Bloom like a flowery mass.
So pungent was the stench, my love, you thought
To swoon away upon the grass.
Horseflies buzzed loud over this putrid belly,
Whence sallied column and battalion
Of stable maggots, flowing like a mucose jelly,
Over this live tatterdemalion.
Waves seemed to rise and fall over this mass,
Spurting with crepitation,
As though this corpse, filled with breaths of gas,
Lived by multiplication.
This world uttered a curious melody,
Like waters, wind, or grains of wheat
That winnowers keep stirring rhythmically
In the broad baskets at their feet.
The forms, fading into a dream, grew fainter;
Here was a sketch of misty tone
On a forgotten canvas which the painter
Completes from memory alone.
Hiding behind the rocks, an anxious bitch
Stood, watching us with angry eye,
Poised to regain the olid morsel which,
Hearing us come, she had laid by.
- Yet shall you be like this ordurous blight,
You, too, shall rot in just such fashion,
Star of my eyes, sun of my soul's delight,
Aye, you, my angel and my passion.
Such you, O queen of graces, in the hours,
When the last sacrament is said,
That bear you under rich sods and Iush flower
To molder with the moldering dead.
Then, O my beauty! Tell such worms as will
Kiss you in ultimate coition
That I have kept the form and essence of
My love in its decomposition.
- Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil.
THE SOUL SELECTS HER OWN SOCIETY
The Soul Selects Her Own Society
by EMILY DICKINSON (1830-1886)
The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —
Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —
At her low Gate —
Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat —
I've known her — from an ample nation —
Choose One —
Then — close the Valves of her attention —
Like Stone —
by EMILY DICKINSON (1830-1886)
The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —
Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —
At her low Gate —
Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat —
I've known her — from an ample nation —
Choose One —
Then — close the Valves of her attention —
Like Stone —
ANECDOTE OF THE JAR
Anecdote of the Jar
by WALLACE STEVENS (1879-1955)
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
by WALLACE STEVENS (1879-1955)
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
IN MEMORIAM
In Memoriam
by Léopold Sédar Senghor (1906-2001)
Sunday.
The crowding stony faces of my fellows make me afraid.
Out of my tower of glass haunted by headaches and my restless Ancestors
I watch the roofs and hills wrapped in mist
Wrapped in peace . . . the chimneys are heavy and stark.
At their feet my dead are sleeping, all my dreams made dust
All my dreams, blood freely spilt along the streets, mingled with blood from butcheries.
And now, from this observatory, as if from the outskirts of the town
I watch my dreams listless along the streets, sleeping at the foot of the hills
Like the forerunners of my race on the banks of the Gambia and Salum
Now of the Seine, at the foot of the hills.
Let my mind turn to my dead!
Yesterday was All Saints, the solemn anniversary of the sun
In all the cemeteries, there was no one to remember.
O dead who have always refused to die, who have resisted death
From the Sine to the Seine, and in my fragile veins you my unyielding blood
Guard my dreams as you have guarded your sons, your slender-limbed wanderers
O dead, defend the roofs of Paris in this sabbath mist
Roofs that guard my dead
That from the dangerous safety of my tower, I may go down into the street
To my brothers whose eyes are blue
Whose hands are hard.
by Léopold Sédar Senghor (1906-2001)
Sunday.
The crowding stony faces of my fellows make me afraid.
Out of my tower of glass haunted by headaches and my restless Ancestors
I watch the roofs and hills wrapped in mist
Wrapped in peace . . . the chimneys are heavy and stark.
At their feet my dead are sleeping, all my dreams made dust
All my dreams, blood freely spilt along the streets, mingled with blood from butcheries.
And now, from this observatory, as if from the outskirts of the town
I watch my dreams listless along the streets, sleeping at the foot of the hills
Like the forerunners of my race on the banks of the Gambia and Salum
Now of the Seine, at the foot of the hills.
Let my mind turn to my dead!
Yesterday was All Saints, the solemn anniversary of the sun
In all the cemeteries, there was no one to remember.
O dead who have always refused to die, who have resisted death
From the Sine to the Seine, and in my fragile veins you my unyielding blood
Guard my dreams as you have guarded your sons, your slender-limbed wanderers
O dead, defend the roofs of Paris in this sabbath mist
Roofs that guard my dead
That from the dangerous safety of my tower, I may go down into the street
To my brothers whose eyes are blue
Whose hands are hard.
Translation by MELVIN DIXON
Today is Sunday.
I fear the crowd of my fellows with such faces of stone.
From my glass tower filled with headaches and impatient Ancestors,
I contemplate the roofs and hilltops in the mist.
In the stillness—somber, naked chimneys.
Below them my dead are asleep and my dreams turn to ashes.
All my dreams, blood running freely down the streets
And mixing with blood from the butcher shops.
From this observatory like the outskirts of town
I contemplate my dreams lost along the streets,
Crouched at the foot of the hills like the guides of my race
On the rivers of the Gambia and the Saloum
And now on the Seine at the foot of these hills.
Let me remember my dead!
Yesterday was All Saints’ Day, the solemn anniversary of the Sun,
And I had no dead to honor in any cemetery.
O Forefathers! You who have always refused to die,
Who knew how to resist Death from the Sine to the Seine,
And now in the fragile veins of my indomitable blood,
Guard my dreams as you did your thin-legged migrant sons!
O Ancestors! Defend the roofs of Paris in this dominical fog,
The roofs that protect my dead.
Let me leave this tower so dangerously secure
And descend to the streets, joining my brothers
Who have blue eyes and hard hands.
Translated, from the French, by ZACK ROGOW
It’s Sunday.
I’m afraid of the crowd that looks like me with its stone faces.
From my glass tower crowded with migraines and impatient Ancestors
I muse over the rooftops and hills in the mist
In the calm—the chimneys are serious and naked.
At their feet my dead are sleeping; all my dreams deeds—dust
All my dreams, needless blood spilled down the streets, mixing with the blood of butcher shops.
And now, from this observation post, as if from the outskirts of the city
I muse over my dreams walking distractedly down the streets, sleeping at the foot of the hills,
Like the drovers of my race on the banks of the Gambia and the Saloum
And now the Seine, at the foot of the hills.
Let me think about my dead!
Yesterday was All Saints, the Sun’s solemn birthday
And all the cemeteries were empty of memories.
Oh my Dead, who always refused to die, who were able to keep Death at bay
Away from the Sine, away from the Seine, and in my fragile veins, my indomitable blood
Protect my dreams as you protected your migratory sons with their skinny legs.
Oh my dead! defend the Paris rooftops in the Sunday fog
The rooftops that protect my dead.
Let me leave my dangerously safe tower and walk down to the street
With my brothers who have blue eyes
And rough hands.
THE CANONIZATION
The Canonization
by JOHN DONNE (1572-1631)
For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king's real, or his stampèd face
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
The phœnix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for Love.
And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!"
by JOHN DONNE (1572-1631)
For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king's real, or his stampèd face
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
The phœnix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for Love.
And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!"
NIGHT IN SINE
Night in Sine
by LÉOPOLD SÉDAR SENGHOR (1906-2001)
Translated by MELVIN DIXON
Woman, place your soothing hands upon my brow,
Your hands softer than fur.
Above us balance the palm tress, barely rustling
In the night breeze. Not even a lullaby.
Let the rhythmic silence cradle us.
Listen to its song. Hear the beat of our dark blood,
Hear the deep pulse of Africa in the mist of lost villages.
Now sets the weary moon upon its slack seabed
Now the bursts of laughter quiet down, and even the storyteller
Nods his head like a child on his mother's back
The dancers' feet grow heavy, and heavy, too,
Come the alternating voices of singers.
Now the stars appear and the Night dreams
Leaning on that hill of clouds, dressed in its long, milky pagne.
The roofs of the huts shine tenderly. What are they saying
So secretly to the stars? Inside, the fire dies out
In the closeness of sour and sweet smells.
Woman, light the clear-oil lamp. Let the Ancestors
Speak around us as parents do when the children are in bed.
Let us listen to the voices of the Elissa Elders. Exiled like us
They did not want to die, or lose the flow of their semen in the sands.
Let me hear, a gleam of friendly souls visits the smoke-filled hut,
My head upon your breasts as warm as tasty dang streaming from the fire,
Let me breathe the odor of our Dead, let me gather
And speak with their living voices, let me learn to live
Before plunging deeper than the diver
Into the great depths of sleep.
by LÉOPOLD SÉDAR SENGHOR (1906-2001)
Translated by MELVIN DIXON
Woman, place your soothing hands upon my brow,
Your hands softer than fur.
Above us balance the palm tress, barely rustling
In the night breeze. Not even a lullaby.
Let the rhythmic silence cradle us.
Listen to its song. Hear the beat of our dark blood,
Hear the deep pulse of Africa in the mist of lost villages.
Now sets the weary moon upon its slack seabed
Now the bursts of laughter quiet down, and even the storyteller
Nods his head like a child on his mother's back
The dancers' feet grow heavy, and heavy, too,
Come the alternating voices of singers.
Now the stars appear and the Night dreams
Leaning on that hill of clouds, dressed in its long, milky pagne.
The roofs of the huts shine tenderly. What are they saying
So secretly to the stars? Inside, the fire dies out
In the closeness of sour and sweet smells.
Woman, light the clear-oil lamp. Let the Ancestors
Speak around us as parents do when the children are in bed.
Let us listen to the voices of the Elissa Elders. Exiled like us
They did not want to die, or lose the flow of their semen in the sands.
Let me hear, a gleam of friendly souls visits the smoke-filled hut,
My head upon your breasts as warm as tasty dang streaming from the fire,
Let me breathe the odor of our Dead, let me gather
And speak with their living voices, let me learn to live
Before plunging deeper than the diver
Into the great depths of sleep.
SONGS OF SORROW
Songs of Sorrow
by KOFI AWOONOR (1935-2013)
I.
Dzogbese Lisa has treated me thus
It has led me among the sharps of the forest
Returning is not possible
And going forward is a great difficulty
The affairs of this world are like the chameleon feces
Into which I have stepped
When I clean it cannot go.
I am on the world's extreme corner,
I am not sitting in the row with the eminent
But those who are lucky
Sit in the middle and forget
I am on the world's extreme corner
I can only go beyond and forget.
My people, I have been somewhere
If I turn here, the rain beats me
If I turn there the sun burns me
The firewood of this world
Is for only those who can take heart
That is why not all can gather it.
The world is not good for anybody
But you are so happy with your fate;
Alas! The travelers are back
All covered with debt.
II.
Something has happened to me
The things so great that I cannot weep;
I have no sons to fire the gun when I die
And no daughters to wail when I close my mouth
I have wandered on the wilderness
The great wilderness men call life
The rain has beaten me,
And the sharp stumps cut as keen as knives
I shall go beyond and rest.
I have no kin and no brother,
Death has made war upon our house;
And Kpeti's great household is no more,
Only the broken fence stands;
And those who dared not look in his face
Have come out as men.
How well their pride is with them.
Let those gone before take note
They have treated their offspring badly.
What is the wailing for?
Somebody is dead. Agosu himself
Alas! A snake has bitten me
My right arm is broken,
And the tree on which I lean is fallen.
Agosi if you go tell them,
Tell Nyidevu, Kpeti, and Kove
That they have done us evil;
Tell them their house is falling
And the trees in the fence
Have been eaten by termites;
That the martels curse them.
Ask them why they idle there
While we suffer, and eat sand.
And the crow and the vulture
Hover always above our broken fences
And strangers walk over our portion.
by KOFI AWOONOR (1935-2013)
I.
Dzogbese Lisa has treated me thus
It has led me among the sharps of the forest
Returning is not possible
And going forward is a great difficulty
The affairs of this world are like the chameleon feces
Into which I have stepped
When I clean it cannot go.
I am on the world's extreme corner,
I am not sitting in the row with the eminent
But those who are lucky
Sit in the middle and forget
I am on the world's extreme corner
I can only go beyond and forget.
My people, I have been somewhere
If I turn here, the rain beats me
If I turn there the sun burns me
The firewood of this world
Is for only those who can take heart
That is why not all can gather it.
The world is not good for anybody
But you are so happy with your fate;
Alas! The travelers are back
All covered with debt.
II.
Something has happened to me
The things so great that I cannot weep;
I have no sons to fire the gun when I die
And no daughters to wail when I close my mouth
I have wandered on the wilderness
The great wilderness men call life
The rain has beaten me,
And the sharp stumps cut as keen as knives
I shall go beyond and rest.
I have no kin and no brother,
Death has made war upon our house;
And Kpeti's great household is no more,
Only the broken fence stands;
And those who dared not look in his face
Have come out as men.
How well their pride is with them.
Let those gone before take note
They have treated their offspring badly.
What is the wailing for?
Somebody is dead. Agosu himself
Alas! A snake has bitten me
My right arm is broken,
And the tree on which I lean is fallen.
Agosi if you go tell them,
Tell Nyidevu, Kpeti, and Kove
That they have done us evil;
Tell them their house is falling
And the trees in the fence
Have been eaten by termites;
That the martels curse them.
Ask them why they idle there
While we suffer, and eat sand.
And the crow and the vulture
Hover always above our broken fences
And strangers walk over our portion.
THE ACHILL WOMAN
The Achill Woman
by EAVAN BOLAND (1944)
She came up the hill carrying water.
She wore a half-buttoned, wool cardigan,
a tea-towel round her waist.
She pushed the hair out of her eyes with
her free hand and put the bucket down.
The zinc-music of the handle on the rim
tuned the evening. An Easter moon rose.
In the next-door field a stream was
a fluid sunset; and then, stars.
I remember the cold rosiness of her hands.
She bent down and blew on them like broth.
And round her waist, on a white background,
in coarse, woven letters, the words "glass cloth."
And she was nearly finished for the day.
And I was all talk, raw from college—
week-ending at a friend's cottage
with one suitcase and the set text
of the Court poets of the Silver Age.
We stayed putting down time until
the evening turned cold without warning.
She said goodnight and started down the hill.
The grass changed from lavender to black.
The trees turned back to cold outlines.
You could taste frost
but nothing now can change the way I went
indoors, chilled by the wind
and made a fire
and took down my book
and opened it and failed to comprehend
the harmonies of servitude,
the grace music gives to flattery
and language borrows from ambition—
and how I fell asleep
oblivious to
the planets clouding over in the skies,
the slow decline of the Spring moon,
the songs crying out their ironies.
by EAVAN BOLAND (1944)
She came up the hill carrying water.
She wore a half-buttoned, wool cardigan,
a tea-towel round her waist.
She pushed the hair out of her eyes with
her free hand and put the bucket down.
The zinc-music of the handle on the rim
tuned the evening. An Easter moon rose.
In the next-door field a stream was
a fluid sunset; and then, stars.
I remember the cold rosiness of her hands.
She bent down and blew on them like broth.
And round her waist, on a white background,
in coarse, woven letters, the words "glass cloth."
And she was nearly finished for the day.
And I was all talk, raw from college—
week-ending at a friend's cottage
with one suitcase and the set text
of the Court poets of the Silver Age.
We stayed putting down time until
the evening turned cold without warning.
She said goodnight and started down the hill.
The grass changed from lavender to black.
The trees turned back to cold outlines.
You could taste frost
but nothing now can change the way I went
indoors, chilled by the wind
and made a fire
and took down my book
and opened it and failed to comprehend
the harmonies of servitude,
the grace music gives to flattery
and language borrows from ambition—
and how I fell asleep
oblivious to
the planets clouding over in the skies,
the slow decline of the Spring moon,
the songs crying out their ironies.
BIRTHDAYS
Birthdays
by A. K. RAMANUJAN (1929-1993)
Birthdays come and go,
for brother, son, daughter,
spouse, niece and nephew,
and among them, mine, and as I grow
older, they come as often as death
anniversaries in all families
I know,
and they linger under tamarind
trees like other absences.
Even universities,
art museums, apple trees
that recycle the seasons,
and inventions like guns
have their birthdays
like St Francis, Shakespeare,
Gandhi and Washington
marked on calendars.
Birth takes a long time
though death can be sudden,
and multiple, like pregnant deer
shot down on the run.
Yet one would like to think,
one kicks and grabs the air
in death throes as a baby
does in its mother's womb
months before the event.
There's no evidence as far
as I can see, which isn't
very far, to say that death
throes are birth pangs.
Birth seems quite special
every time a mayfly is born
into the many miracles
of day, night and twilight,
but death? Is it a dispersal
of gathered energies
back into their elements,
earth, air, water, and fire,
a reworking into other moulds,
grass, worm, bacterial glow
lights, and mother-matter
for other off-spring with names
and forms clocked into seasons?
DIGGING
Digging
by SEAMUS HEANEY
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
FAREWELLS
Farewells
by A. K. RAMANUJAN (1929-1993)
There are farewells
with formulae
farewells
without.
At the railway
station, standing
at the window of your friend,
the train delayed
for two hours
and then again for another two,
you can neither go home
nor stop talking over and again
about the delay, the old days
when banana sellers were not rude
and tea was really from Darjeeling.
Also that recurring farewell
to the lady president
of the cooperative society
when they present her
with a silver medal
but don't have the time
to inscribe
her name.
So they take it back to get it
properly inscribed.
Now the secretary ducks
under his umbrella
and turns into the garbage alley
whenever he sees the lady
in the road
as he cannot bear the thought
of the unfinished farewell,
the nameless medallion
lost in his office drawer.
Then there is the farewell
of the dying patriarch
among all his clan:
the youngest grandson
standing next to grandpa
with the peculiar smell,
two months without front teeth,
mother crying into her sari, father busy on the phone
trying to locate brothers
on trains that do not arrive
according to the time changes in April.
Mother's farewell had no words,
no tears, only a look
that moved on your body from top to toe
with the advice that you should
not forget your oil bath
every Tuesday
when you go to America.
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