Claude McKay: Two Sonnets

If We Must Die

If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

America

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate,
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

Festus Claudius McKay was born in Jamaica in 1889, came to the US in 1912 to attend college, eventually ended up in New York in and became one of the lights of the Harlem Renaissance. He was a militant atheist and flirted with communism, joining the IWW in 1919 and making a trip to the Soviet Union in 1922, but never joined the CPUSA. He wrote several novels as well as poetry. He died in 1948.

Alice Oswald, "Memorial"

A partial translation of The Iliad published in 2013 that focuses on death and simile. Selections:

Like a wind-murmur
Begins a rumour of waves
One long note getting louder
The water breathes a deep sigh
Like a land-ripple
When the west wind runs through a field
Wishing and searching
Nothing to be found
The corn-stalks shake their green heads

     *     *     *

Like an oak tree struck by lightning
Throws up its arms and burns
Terrifying for a man out walking
To smell that sulphur smell
And see the fields flickering ahead of him
Lit up blue by the strangeness of god

     *     *     *

As if it was June
A poppy being hammered by rain
Sinks its head down
It’s exactly like that
When a man’s neck gives in
And the bronze calyx of his helmet
Sinks his head down

Poor ARCHEPTOLEMUS
Someone was there
And the next moment no one

     *     *     *

Like the hawk of the hills the perfect killer
Easily outflies the chattering dove
She slips away but he follows he ripples
He hangs his black hooks over her
And snares her with a thin cry
In praise of her softness

Wislawa Szymborska, "The End and the Beginning"

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

We’ll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.

From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.

Translated by Joanna Trzeciak

Pictures are of Syria, where, I read, the civil war is nearly done.

Burnt Norton

What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.

–T.S. Eliot, thought by some scholars to be a reflection on his relationship with Emily Hale.

Everything is Plundered

Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,
Death’s great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?

By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.

And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses –
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.

–Anna Akhmatova

You, Darkness

You, darkness, from which I come
I love you more than the flames
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes for each a circle of light
outside of which you cannot be known.

But the darkness contains everything–
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how it gathers them,
powers and people–

and perhaps a great presence is moving past.

I have faith in the night.

– Rainer Maria Rilke

Carmina Burana, O Fortuna

Audio here for Orff's Version, with lyrics, to my mind the 20th century's greatest work of choral music.

O Fortuna,	O Fortune,
velut luna	like the moon
statu variabilis,	you are changeable,
semper crescis	ever waxing
aut decrescis;	and waning;
vita detestabilis	hateful life
nunc obdurat	first oppresses
et tunc curat	and then soothes
ludo mentis aciem,	as fancy takes it;
egestatem,	poverty
potestatem	and power
dissolvit ut glaciem.	it melts them like ice.
Sors immanis	Fate - monstrous
et inanis,	and empty,
rota tu volubilis,	you whirling wheel,
status malus,	you are malevolent,
vana salus	well-being is in vain
semper dissolubilis,	and always fades to nothing,
obumbrata	shadowed
et velata	and veiled
michi quoque niteris;	you plague me too;
nunc per ludum	now through the game
dorsum nudum	I bring my bare back
fero tui sceleris.	to your villainy.
Sors salutis	Fate is against me
et virtutis	in health
michi nunc contraria,	and virtue,
est affectus	driven on
et defectus	and weighted down,
semper in angaria.	always enslaved.
Hac in hora	So at this hour
sine mora	without delay
corde pulsum tangite;	pluck the vibrating strings;
quod per sortem	since Fate
sternit fortem,	crushes the strong,
mecum omnes plangite!	everyone weep with me!

A Black Kite

These long cool days at the end of spring
begin with a soundless blaze at sunrise
above the distant rim of the valley
all day clouds gather and clear again
as I remember other cold springtimes here
through the coming and  going of years
the losses the changes the long love come to at last
with the river down there flowing through it all
under the clear moment that never changed
n all that time not asking for anything
still the wren sings and the oriole remembers
and every evening now a black kite
glides low overhead coming from the upland
alone not climbing the thermals not huntins
not calling nor busy about anything
wings and tail scarcely moving as he
slips out above the open valley
filled with the long gold light before sunset
sailing into it only to be there.

--W.S. Merwin

Come

Come, come, whoever you are.

Wonderer, worshipper, lover of travel.

It doesn't matter.

Ours is not a caravan of despair.

Come, even if you have broken your vow

a thousand times

Come, yet again, come, come.

--Rumi

William Blake

Awake! awake O sleeper of the land of shadows, wake!

I must Create a System, or be enslav'd by another Man's. I will not Reason and Compare; my business is to Create.

If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.

Men are admitted into Heaven not because they have curbed and governd their Passions or have No Passions but because they have Cultivated their Understandings. The Treasures of Heaven are not Negations of Passion but Realities of Intellect from which All the Passions Emanate Uncurbed in their Eternal Glory.

The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesars Laurel Crown

The sun descending in the west;
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.

All Bibles or sacred codes have been the causes of the following Errors.

1. That Man has two real existing principles Viz: a Body and a Soul.
2. That Energy, called Evil, is alone from the Body, and that Reason, called Good, is alone from the Soul.
3. That God will torment Man in Eternity for following his Energies.

But the following Contraries to these are True

1. Man has no Body distinct from his Soul for that calld Body is a portion of Soul discernd by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age.
2. Energy is the only life and is from the Body and Reason is the bound or outward circumference of Energy.
3. Energy is Eternal Delight.

Abstinence sows sand all over
The ruddy limbs and flaming hair
But Desire Gratified
Plants fruits and beauty there.

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?
Or Love in a golden bowl?

We are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour

Joy and woe are woven fine.

Isaiah 60: the Glory of Zion

Arise, shine, for your light has come,
     and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.
See, darkness covers the earth
     and thick darkness is over the peoples,
but the Lord rises upon you and his glory appears over you.
     Nations will come to your light,
and kings to the brightness of your dawn.
     Lift up your eyes and look about you:
All assemble and come to you;
     your sons come from afar,
and your daughters are carried on the hip.

Then you will look and be radiant,
     your heart will throb and swell with joy;
the wealth on the seas will be brought to you,
     to you the riches of the nations will come. . . .

Then you will know that I, the Lord, am your Savior,
     your Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob.
Instead of bronze I will bring you gold,
     and silver in place of iron.
Instead of wood I will bring you bronze,
     and iron in place of stones.
I will make peace your governor
     and well-being your ruler.
No longer will violence be heard in your land,
     nor ruin or destruction within your borders,
but you will call your walls Salvation
     and your gates Praise.

The sun will no more be your light by day,
     nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,
for the Lord will be your everlasting light,
     and your God will be your glory.
Your sun will never set again,
     and your moon will wane no more;
the Lord will be your everlasting light,
     and your days of sorrow will end.
Then all your people will be righteous
     and they will possess the land forever.
They are the shoot I have planted,
     the work of my hands,
for the display of my splendor.
     The least of you will become a thousand,
the smallest a mighty nation.
     I am the Lord;
in its time I will do this swiftly.

New International Version

Ursula LeGuin, "After the Death of Orpheus"

The rocks his song had moved, the wild
creatures that had gathered to him,
grieved as the echo of his song
followed the river into silence.

His shade stood awhile bewildered
at the shadowy door. At last
he went in and saw the downward way.
He had gone that way before
yet it could not be familiar.
Did he know the slight figure waiting
beside the pathway for him?

She turned and went ahead,
unspeaking. He followed her.
She did not turn around.
She led him down the vast descent
of twilight to the shore
where the old boatman waited,
received his payment,
and rowed them slowly over.

There was nothing to be said.

Under the weightless boat
the waters of shadow ran silent
towards the beginning of all music.

From So Far So Good: Final Poems, 2014-1018

Yehuda Amichai, "Sonnet"

My father fought their war four years or so,
And did not hate or love his enemies,
Already he was forming me, I know,
Daily, out of his tranquilities;

Tranquilities, so few, which he had gleaned
Between the bombs and smoke, for his son's sake,
And put into his ragged knapsack with
The leftovers of my mother's hardening cake.

He gathered with his eyes the nameless dream,
The many dead for my sake unforsaken,
So that I should not die like them in dread,
But love them, seeing them as once he saw.
He filled his eyes with them; he was mistaken.
Like them, I must go out to meet my war.

1958

Mary Oliver, "The Journey"

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice —
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voice behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life that you could save.

1986

Suffering

In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

–Aeschylus

No-Fly Zone

She fears something but can't say what.
She goes in reverse, mopping up her own tracks.
When she sleeps, it's always the same foggy night.

The dead have stopped knocking. No answer.
Their big cars hover along her block, engines
Idling, woofers pumping that relentless bass

Into the bones of her house. All night they pass
Bottles cinched in bags back and forth
Through open windows.

I want to wake her. Drag her by the gown
Down into the street where her parents
Are alive again, laughing like stoned teenagers

At some idiot joke. Look, I want to say,
The worst thing you can imagine has already
Zipped up its coat and is heading back
Up the road to wherever it came from.

–Tracy K. Smith

Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
     Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
     When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
     Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
   Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

--Ernest Dowson

Pablo Neruda, "Ode to Happiness"

Happiness,
A green leaf fallen on the window,
New, shining;
An elephant's call;
A dazzling coin;
A ray of light. . . .

I scorned you, happiness.
I was badly advised.
The moon
carried me on her roads,
The ancient poets lent me
glasses to see,
but I placed by each thing a shadow,
on the flower a black crown,
on the beloved mouth
a sad kiss. . . .

A melancholy young man,
I found your hair scandalous. . . .

I erred.
Today I call on you, happiness.
You are necessary like the earth.

Like the fire you sustain the home. . . .

With you I want to go from home to home,
from town to town,
from flag to flag.
You are not for me alone.
We journey to the islands,
to the seas.
To the mines we go,
to the forests.
Not only lonely woodcutters,
poor laundresses
or hard-edged stone cutters
will receive us with fruit,
but all those parishoners,
the reunited,
from land and sea,
the brave young men
in their struggle.

With me through the world!
With my song!
With the star's half-seen flight,
And the joy of salt spray.

I will help everyone
because I owe
my happiness to all.

Do not be surprised
by my ambition;
I learned as a soldier
that my true duty was to happiness.

I fulfill my destiny with song.


— Translated by Ilan Stavans, modified by me. From a wonderful bilingual edition, Pablo Neruda: All the Odes, 2013, edited by Ilan Stavans. The odes were written between 1925 and 1945, and Neruda reworked and modified them many times, so it is hard to give a composition date for any of them.

Wait for It

"Wait for It" by Lin Manuel Miranda, from Hamilton.

ARON BURR:

Theodosia writes me a letter every day
I'm keeping the bed warm while her husband is away
He's on the British side in Georgia
He's trying to keep the colonies in line
But he can keep all of Georgia
Theodosia, she's mine

Love doesn't discriminate
Between the sinners
And the saints
It takes and it takes and it takes
And we keep loving anyway
We laugh and we cry
And we break
And we make our mistakes
And if there's a reason I'm by her side
When so many have tried
Then I'm willing to wait for it
I'm willing to wait for it

My grandfather was a fire and brimstone preacher
But there are things that the
Homilies and hymns won't teach ya
My mother was a genius
My father commanded respect
When they died they left no instructions
Just a legacy to protect

Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners
And the saints
It takes and it takes and it takes
And we keep living anyway
We rise and we fall
And we break
And we make our mistakes
And if there’s a reason I’m still alive
When everyone who loves me has died
I’m willing to wait for it
I’m willing to wait for it

kumrads die because they're told

kumrads die because they're told)
kumrads die before they're old
(kumrads aren't afraid to die
kumrads don't
and kumrads won't
believe in life) and death knows why

(all good kumrads you can tell
by their altruistic smell
moscow pipes good kumrads dance)
kumrads enjoy
s.freud knows whoy
the hope that you may mess your pance

every kumrad is a bit
of quite unmitigated hate
(travelling in a futile groove
god knows why)
and so do i
(because they are afraid to love

e.e. cummings, 1935

Cummings grew up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, among society socialists; his parents were big movers in the Unitarian church and friends with people like William James. In World War I he volunteered for the ambulance corps but was eventually arrested for writing anti-war letters home. He had little interest in politics until a friend talked him into visiting the Soviet Union in 1931. The friend presumably hoped that Cummings would be converted to communism, but the opposite: he came home a violent anti-communist and began writing poems like this. I was immediately struck by this because so many westerners who went to the Soviet Union in that era came home impressed and enthusiastic; but the horror was there for anyone with eyes to see, even before the purges and the famine.

No, I don't really understand his insistence on peculiar spellings and omitted punctuation. Maybe it was that his poems were actually very traditional (some of them sonnets, even) so he had to do something to make his work seem interesting and avant garde. Most of Cummings' poems are untitled, so they are known either by their first line or by their number in his collected works. This is 40.