Poetry Miscellany
Ekamalakanta Bhattacharya
Contributors: Tiye Ialiyah Aton
Is My Mother Really Black?
“If She’s black,
how can She light up the world?
Sometimes my Mother is white,
sometimes yellow, blue, and red.
I cannot fathom Her.
My whole life has passed
trying. ”
Anne Bradstreet
Contributors:
- Morgan Marshall-McKinney
Then higher on the glistering Sun I gaz'd
Whose beams was shaded by the leavie Tree,
The more I look'd, the more I grew amaz'd
And softly said, what glory's like to thee?
Soul of this world, this Universes Eye,
No wonder, some made thee a Deity:
Had I not better known, (alas) the same had I
William Brimble
Contributors: Mary Murdock
To Celia, with a Tuft of Flowers
Dear Celia, see the blooming rose,
With woodbines sweet, this tuft compose;
Resplendent bright their teints appear,
Their breath perfumes the ambient air;
Just emblems those of thee, transcendant fair!
But soon their beauty will be gone!
The wither'd chaplet view anon;
Robb'd of its teints the rose will fade!
The woodbines fragrance will be fled:
So time will steal thy beauty, lovely maid!
Catch then,--O catch the fleeting hour;
Our youth once fled returns no more!
Be reason's voice obey'd:
By virtue's rules your conduct steer;
That Beauty's lss will well repair,
And never,--never fade!
Frances Brooke
Contributors:
ODE TO FRIENDSHIP.
NO more fond Love shall wound my breast,
In all his smiles deceitful drest,
I scorn his coward sway;
And now with pleasure can explore
The galling chains I felt before,
Since I am free to-day.
To-day with Friendship I'll rejoice,
Whilst dear Lucinda's gentle voice
Shall soften every care:
O Goddess of the joy sincere!
The social sigh! the pleasing tear!
Thy noble bonds I'll wear.
When first, ill-fated, hapless hour!
My soul confest Amintor's power,
Lucinda shar'd my grief;
And leaning on her faithful breast,
The fatal passion I confest,
And found a soft relief.
My steps she oft was wont to lead
Along the fair enamell'd mead,
To soothe my raging pain;
And oft with tender converse strove
To draw the sting of hopeless Love,
And make me smile again.
O! much-lov'd Maid! whilst life remains
To thee I'll consecrate my strains,
For thee I'll tune my lyre;
And, echoing with my sweetest lays,
The vocal hills shall speak the praise
Of Friendship's sacred fire.
ODE TO HEALTH.
THE Lesbian lute no more can charm,
Nor my once-panting bosom warm;
No more I breathe the tender sigh;
Nor when my beauteous swain appears,
With down-cast look, and starting tears,
Confess the lustre of his eye.
With Freedom blest, at early dawn
I wander o'er the verdant lawn,
And hail the sweet returning Spring:
The fragrant breeze, the feather'd choir,
To raise my vernal joys conspire,
While Peace and Health their treasures bring.
Come, lovely Health! divinest maid!
And lead me thro' the rural shade,
To thee the rural shades belong:
'Tis thine to bless the simple swain;
And, while he tries the tuneful strain,
To raise the raptur'd Poet's song.
Behold the patient village-hind!
No cares disturb his tranquil mind;
By thee, and sweet Contentment, blest:
All day he turns the stubborn plain,
And meets at eve his infant train,
While guiltless pleasure fills his breast.
O! ever good and bounteous! still
By fountain fresh, or murmuring rill,
Let me thy blissful presence find!
Thee, Goddess, thee my steps pursue,
When, careless of the morning dew,
I leave the lessening vales behind.
ODE.
O Far remov'd from my retreat
Be Avarice and Ambition's feet!
Give me, unconscious of their power,
To taste the peaceful, social hour:
Give me, beneath the branching vine;
The woodbine sweet, or eglantine,
While evening sheds its balmy dews,
To court the chaste inspiring Muse!
Or, with the partner of my soul
To mix the heart-expanding bowl!
Yes, dear Sabina, when with thee
I hail the Goddess, Liberty;
When, joyous, thro' the leafy grove,
Or o'er the flowery mead, we rove;
When thy dear, tender bosom shares
Thy faithful Delia's joys and cares;
Nor Pomp, nor Wealth my wishes move.
Nor the more soft deceiver, Love.
Elizabeth Margaret Chandler
Contributors:
Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz
Contributors: Sam Stewart
*All work has been translated from its mother tongue; Spanish*
You Men
(English)
Silly, you men-so very adept
at wrongly faulting womankind,
not seeing you're alone to blame
for faults you plant in woman's mind.
After you've won by urgent plea
the right to tarnish her good name,
you still expect her to behave--
you, that coaxed her into shame.
You batter her resistance down
and then, all righteousness, proclaim
that feminine frivolity,
not your persistence, is to blame.
When it comes to bravely posturing,
your witlessness must take the prize:
you're the child that makes a bogeyman,
and then recoils in fear and cries.
Presumptuous beyond belief,
you'd have the woman you pursue
be Thais when you're courting her,
Lucretia once she falls to you.
For plain default of common sense,
could any action be so queer
as oneself to cloud the mirror,
then complain that it's not clear?
Whether you're favored or disdained,
nothing can leave you satisfied.
You whimper if you're turned away,
you sneer if you've been gratified.
With you, no woman can hope to score;
whichever way, she's bound to lose;
spurning you, she's ungrateful--
succumbing, you call her lewd.
Your folly is always the same:
you apply a single rule
to the one you accuse of looseness
and the one you brand as cruel.
What happy mean could there be
for the woman who catches your eye,
if, unresponsive, she offends,
yet whose complaisance you decry?
Still, whether it's torment or anger--
and both ways you've yourselves to blame--
God bless the woman who won't have you,
no matter how loud you complain.
It's your persistent entreaties
that change her from timid to bold.
Having made her thereby naughty,
you would have her good as gold.
So where does the greater guilt lie
for a passion that should not be:
with the man who pleads out of baseness
or the woman debased by his plea?
Or which is more to be blamed--
though both will have cause for chagrin:
the woman who sins for money
or the man who pays money to sin?
So why are you men all so stunned
at the thought you're all guilty alike?
Either like them for what you've made them
or make of them what you can like.
If you'd give up pursuing them,
you'd discover, without a doubt,
you've a stronger case to make
against those who seek you out.
I well know what powerful arms
you wield in pressing for evil:
your arrogance is allied
with the world, the flesh, and the devil
Since I Am Condemned
Since I'm condemned to death
by your decree, Fabio,
and don't appeal, resist or flee
the wrathful judgment, hear me,
for there's no culprit of such guilt
should be refused confession.
Because, you say, you've been informed
my breast has caused offence to you,
I stand condemned, ferocious one.
Does uncertain news, not fact,
achieve more in your obdurate breast
than experience of so many truths?
If you've believed in others', Fabio,
why not believe in your own eyes?
Why, reversing the sense of Law,
deliver to the rope my neck?
You're as liberal with your rigours
as meanly strict with favours.
If I have looked at other eyes, Fabio,
kill me with your wrathful eyes.
If I serve another care,
let your implacable anger serve me.
And if another's love diverts me,
you, who've been my life, strike me dead.
If I have viewed another with delight,
never be delight in our mutual looks;
if with another I engaged in pleasant speech,
let your eternal displeasure point at me.
And if another love disturbs my sense,
chase out of me my soul, who've been my soul.
But as I die without resisting
my unhappy lot, my only wish
is you allow me choose the death I like.
Let my death be of my choice,
for your mere choice
continues me in life.
Let me not die of harshness, Fabio,
when I can die of love.
That will do you credit,
redeem me, since to die for love,
not for guilt, is no less a death,
but more an honoured one.
And now, finally, I seek your pardon
for all the wrongs I did to you through love.
Wrongs they are and they deserve your scorn.
Your offence is just in my accosting you,
because by loving you
I turn you to ingratitude.
Phyllis
(English)
Phyllis, a brush's boldness
emboldens my feather-pen:
that brush's glorious failure
engenders hope, not fear.
Risking error in your cause
sufficed to spur me on.
When risk becomes so precious,
what value has mere success?
So do allow this quill
to risk another flight,
since, having offended once,
it otherwise has no leave.
.....
You, 0 exquisite Phyllis,
such a heavenly creature,
grace's gift to the world,
heaven's very perfection.
On your most hallowed altars
no Sheban gums are burnt,
no human blood is spilt,
no throat of beast is slit,
for even warring desires
within the human breast
are a sacrifice unclean,
a tie to things material,
and only when the soul
is afire with holiness
does sacrifice glow pure,
is adoration mute.
.....
I, my dearest Phyllis,
who revere you as divine,
who idolize your disdain,
and venerate your rigor;
I, like the hapless lover
who, blindly circling and circling,
on reaching the glowing core,
falls victim to the flame;
I, like the innocent child,
who, lured by the flashing steel,
rashly runs a finger
along the knife-blade's edge;
who, despite the cut he suffers,
is ignorant of the source
and protests giving it up
more than he minds the pain;
I, like adoring Clytie,
gaze fixed on golden Apollo,
who would teach him how to shine--
teach the father of brightness!
I, like air filling a vacuum,
like fire feeding on matter,
like rocks plummeting earthward,
like the will set on a goal-
in short, as all things in Nature,
moved by a will to endure,
are drawn together by love
in closely knit embrace ...
But, Phyllis, why go on?
For yourself alone I love you.
Considering your merits,
what more is there to say?
That you're a woman far away
is no hindrance to my love:
for the soul, as you well know,
distance and sex don't count.
.....
How could I fail to love you,
once I found you divine?
Can a cause fail to bring results,
capacity go unfulfilled?
Since you are the acme of beauty,
the height of all that's sublime--
that Time's green axle-tree
beholds in its endless turning--
can you wonder my love sought you out?
Why need I stress that I'm true,
when every one of your features
betokens my enslavement?
Turn your eyes toward yourself
and you'll find in yourself and in them
not only occasion for love
but compulsion to surrender.
Meanwhile my tender care
bears witness I only live
to gaze at you spellbound and sigh,
to prove that for you I die.
Philip Freneau
Contributors:
Elizabeth Fowler Heywood
Contributors:
Charlotte Smith
Contributors:
Lucy Terry
Contributors: Nina Page, Lylah Uttamsingh
"Bars Fight"
August ’twas the twenty-fifth,
Seventeen hundred forty-six;
The Indians did in ambush lay,
Some very valiant men to slay,
The names of whom I’ll not leave out.
Samuel Allen like a hero fout,
And though he was so brave and bold,
His face no more shalt we behold
Eteazer Hawks was killed outright,
Before he had time to fight, –
Before he did the Indians see,
Was shot and killed immediately.
Oliver Amsden he was slain,
Which caused his friends much grief and pain.
Simeon Amsden they found dead,
Not many rods distant from his head.
Adonijah Gillett we do hear
Did lose his life which was so dear.
John Sadler fled across the water,
And thus escaped the dreadful slaughter.
Eunice Allen see the Indians coming,
And hopes to save herself by running,
And had not her petticoats stopped her,
The awful creatures had not catched her,
Nor tommy hawked her on the head,
And left her on the ground for dead.
Young Samuel Allen, Oh lack-a-day!
Was taken and carried to Canada.
Mary Tighe
Contributors: Lexi Uhrin, Daniella Odutola
The Lily
How wither'd, perish'd, seems the form
Of yon obscure unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of wintry storm
It hides secure the precious fruit.
The careless eye can find no grace,
No beauty in the scaly folds,
Nor see within the dark embrace
What latent loveliness it holds.
Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales
The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales
Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.
Yes, hide beneath the mould'ring heap,
The undelighting slighted thing;
There in the cold earth buried deep,
In silence let it wait the spring.
Oh! many a stormy night shall close
In gloom upon the barren earth,
While still in undisturb'd repose,
Uninjur'd lies the future birth.
And ignorance, with sceptic eye,
Hope's patient smile shall wond'ring view;
Or mock her fond credulity,
As her soft tears the spot bedew;
Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear,
The sun, the show'r indeed shall come
The promised verdant shoot appear,
And nature bid her blossoms bloom.
And thou, O virgin queen of spring,
Shalt from thy dark and lowly bed,
Bursting thy green sheath's silken string,
Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed;
Unfold thy robes of purest white,
Unsullied from their darksome grave,
And thy soft petals' flow'ry light,
In the mild breeze unfett'd wave.
So faith shall seek the lowly dust,
Where humble sorrow loves to lie,
And bid her thus her hopes intrust,
And watch with patient, cheerful eye;
And bear the long, cold, wintry night,
And bear her own degraded doom,
And wait till heav'n's reviving light,
Eternal spring! shall burst the gloom
Written at Rossana.
OH, my rash hand! what hast thou idly done?
Torn from its humble bank the last poor flower
That patient lingered to this wintery hour:
Expanding cheerly to the languid sun
It flourished yet, and yet it might have blown,
Had not thy sudden desolating power
Destroyed what many a storm and angry shower
Had pitying spared. The pride of summer gone,
Cherish what yet in faded life can bloom;
And if domestic love still sweetly smiles,
If sheltered by thy cot he yet beguiles
Thy winter's prospect of its dreary gloom,
Oh, from the spoiler's touch thy treasure screen,
To bask beneath Contentment's beam serene!
Phillis Wheatley
Contributors: Cristina Granados, Ben Beal
On Being Brought From Africa to America
‘Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there’s a God, that there’s a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
“Their colour is a diabolic die.”
Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,
May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.
A Farewell to America
I.
ADIEU, New–England's smiling meads,
Adieu, the flow'ry plain:
I leave thine op'ning charms, O spring,
And tempt the roaring main.
II.
In vain for me the flow'rets rise,
And boast their gaudy pride,
While here beneath the northern skies
I mourn for health deny'd.
III.
Celestial maid of rosy hue,
O let me feel thy reign!
I languish till thy face I view,
Thy vanish'd joys regain.
IV.
Susanna mourns, nor can I bear
To see the crystal show'r,
Or mark the tender falling tear
At sad departure's hour;
V.
Not unregarding can I see
Her soul with grief opprest:
But let no sighs, no groans for me,
Steal from her pensive breast.
VI.
In vain the feather'd warblers sing,
In vain the garden blooms,
And on the bosom of the spring
Breathes out her sweet perfumes.
VII.
While for Britannia's distant shore
We sweep the liquid plain,
And with astonish'd eyes explore
The wide–extended main.
VIII.
Lo! Health appears! celestial dame!
Complacent and serene,
With Hebe's mantle o'er her Frame,
With soul–delighting mein.
IX.
To mark the vale where London lies
With misty vapours crown'd,
Which cloud Aurora's thousand dyes,
And veil her charms around.
X.
Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow?
So slow thy rising ray?
Give us the famous town to view,
Thou glorious king of day!
XI.
For thee, Britannia, I resign
New–England's smiling fields;
To view again her charms divine,
What joy the prospect yields!
XII.
But thou! Temptation hence away,
With all thy fatal train,
Nor once seduce my soul away,
By thine enchanting strain.
XIII.
Thrice happy they, whose heav'nly shield
Secures their souls from harms,
And fell Temptation on the field
Of all its pow'r disarms!
John Wilkes
Contributors: Joshua Senderling
On the Reverse of a Watch Presented to Miss Wilkes
From the deep gloom of sickness and of pain,
Your tender care brought cheerful health again.
Epitaph on Miss H. Wilkes's Favourite Owl Peter
Minerva's bird, poor Peter,'s dead,
The gravest form, the gravest head;
From glare and noise he chose to go,
To quiet in the realms below.
As some lov'd vision-favour'd youth,
Whom dreams to realms of bliss convey,
Sees at his side a spirit stand,
Companion of his nightly way;
I look in wonder on thy brow,
In wonder view thy light locks play;
I hear the crystal portals close,
And turn the tribute due to pay.
O vanish not-the dreary change
Too sudden comes-still, still be near!
So shall I deem the vision true,
Be thou aërial form, but here.
A Well Known Character. [Mr. Garrick.]
Little his body, but much less his soul,
All things by halves, but nothing in the whole;
He comes prepar'd by nature, and by art,
With half a head, but not quite half a heart,
Half cowardice, half courage to dispense,
Half modesty, half pride, half wit, half sense.
Charlotte Smith
Contributor: Adrianna Tate
from Beachy Head
On thy stupendous summit, rock sublime!
That o’er the channel reared, half way at sea
The mariner at early morning hails,
I would recline; while Fancy should go forth,
And represent the strange and awful hour
Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent
Stretched forth his arm, and rent the solid hills,
Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between
The rifted shores, and from the continent
Eternally divided this green isle.
Imperial lord of the high southern coast!
From thy projecting head-land I would mark
Far in the east the shades of night disperse,
Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave
Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light
Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun
Just lifts above it his resplendent orb.
Advances now, with feathery silver touched,
The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands,
While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scar
Thy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry,
Their white wings glancing in the level beam,
The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food,
And thy rough hollows echo to the voice
Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws,
With clamor, not unlike the chiding hounds,
While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog,
Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock.
The high meridian of the day is past,
And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven,
Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low
The tide of ebb, upon the level sands.
The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still,
Catches the light and variable airs
That but a little crisp the summer sea,
Dimpling its tranquil surface.
Sonnet: On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking the Sea, Because It Was Frequented by a Lunatic
Is there a solitary wretch who hies
To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow,
And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes
Its distance from the waves that chide below;
Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighs
Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf,
With hoarse, half-uttered lamentation, lies
Murmuring responses to the dashing surf?
In moody sadness, on the giddy brink,
I see him more with envy than with fear;
He has no nice felicities that shrink
From giant horrors; wildly wandering here,
He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know
The depth or the duration of his woe.
To the Shade of Burns
Mute is thy wild harp, now, O Bard sublime!
Who, amid Scotia’s mountain solitude,
Great Nature taught to “build the lofty rhyme,”
And even beneath the daily pressure, rude,
Of laboring Poverty, thy generous blood,
Fired with the love of freedom—Not subdued
Wert thou by thy low fortune: But a time
Like this we live in, when the abject chime
Of echoing Parasite is best approved,
Was not for thee—Indignantly is fled
Thy noble Spirit; and no longer moved
By all the ills o’er which thine heart has bled,
Associate worthy of the illustrious dead,
Enjoys with them “the Liberty it loved.”