Boris Pasternak, translated by Andrey Kneller When He entered Jerusalem during The Passion Week, on that day, Hosannas resounded with fury, And palm leaves were blocking His way. But days have grown harsher and crueler And love, it seems, lost its command. The eyebrows are frowning rudely, Here, at last, is the postscript, the end. As heavy as lead, the grey heavens Have fallen on top of the roofs. The Pharisees, shrewd in His presence, Were secretly searching for proofs. By the dark command of the Temple, He was left to a villainous horde. With passionate hatred, they trembled, Just as once, they praised Him before. The crowds were gathering early On the neighboring yard, by the gate. They jostled, awaiting the verdict, And pushed forth, unable to wait. The whispers barely reached Him And the rumors were all on one theme. His youth and the flight into Egypt, He remembered it all like a dream. He remembered the peak he ascended In the wilderness, and He recalled The cliff, where Satan would tempt Him With the kingdoms of the world. And the wedding at Cana, the feast, All the wondrous miracles; and How he walked to the boat through the mist On the sea, as though walking on land; And the beggars who met in the hovel, And the cellar to which he was led, Where the frightened candle went out When Lazarus rose from the dead…
Milton Bradley died May 30, 1911.
by Vachel LindsayWhen Yankee soldiers reach the barricadeThen Joan of Arc gives each the accolade.For she is there in armor clad, today,All the young poets of the wide world say.Which of our freemen did she greet the first,Seeing him come against the fires accurst?Mark Twain, our Chief, with neither smile nor jest,Leading to war our youngest and our best.The Yankee to King Arthur's court returns.The sacred flag of Joan above him burns.For she has called his soul from out the tomb.And where she stands, there he will stand till doom.But I, I can but mourn, and mourn againAt bloodshed caused by angels, saints, and men.
by Juan Ramón Jiménez, translated by Robert Bly
I have a feeling that my boathas struck, down there in the depths,against a great thing. And nothinghappens! Nothing…Silence…Waves… —Nothing happens? Or has everything happened,and are we standing now, quietly, in the new life?
by Alfonsina Storni (translation uncredited)
The sky a black sphere,the sea a black disk.The lighthouse opensits solar fan on the coast.Spinning endlessly at night,whom is it searching forwhen the mortal heartlooks for me in the chest?Look at the black rockwhere it is nailed down.A crow digs endlesslybut no longer bleeds.
Suite espanola op. 47 - leyenda, Isaac Albeniz, performed on guitar by Gordon Rowland. It’s very haunting and beautiful. Click the title and it will play.
by Indian poet K. Satchidanandan, born May 28, 1946
Every lover is cursedto forget, at least for a while,his woman: as the river ofamnesia devours his love.Every beloved is cursed to be forgotten until her secretis trapped in the net of memory.Every child is cursedto grow fatherless,with his hand in the lion’s mouth.