Sorrow of Departure by Li Ch’ing-chao
To the Tune “Cutting a Flowering Plum Branch” Red lotus incense fades on The jeweled curtain. Autumn Comes again. Gently I open My silk dress and float alone On the orchid boat. Who can Take…
Category: World Literature
A Poem by Li Ch’ing-chao (Lǐ Qīngzhào)
Autumn Love “A Weary Song to a Slow Sad Tune” Search. Search. Seek. Seek. Cold. Cold. Clear. Clear. Sorrow. Sorrow. Pain. Pain. Hot flashes. Sudden chills. Stabbing pains. Slow agonies. I can find no peace.
Three Poems by Hồ Chí Minh
Advice to Oneself Without the cold and desolation of winter There could not be the warmth and splendor of spring. Calamity has tempered and hardened me, And turned my mind to steel.
Reading/Writing/Seeing
for Emily, Kelley, and Lindsay 1. In reality every reader is, while she is reading, the reader of her own self. The writer’s work is merely a kind of optical instrument which he offers to…
This Palestinian Life
Mounif is calling me In America From Qatar About Fahim’s martyrdom In Beirut And burial In Kuwait And about the necessity Of informing Sitti Umm ‘Ata In Deir Ghassanah And his maternal grandmother In Nablus…
Thơ
Little Sister At the end of our lesson At the Bread Co on South Grand You gave me a simple assignment: “Write a four-line poem in Vietnamese” You came to this country at age eight…
The On-Going Responsibility: Cleaning the Flag
In 1985 during the terrorist contra war in Nicaragua, Brazilian bishop Pedro Casaldáliga visited and engaged in what he called the ministries of the border and of consolation. His reflection on these ministries: “The visits…
Subversives
In the New Directions collection, Zero Hour and Other Documentary Poems, Ernesto Cardenal includes an “Epistle to Monsignor Casaldáliga (whom Mev Puleo interviewed in her book The Struggle is One, and from which I quoted…
Rādha goes to meet Krishna in the trysting place
O Mādhava, how shall I tell you of my terror? I could not describe my coming here If I had a million tongues. When I left my room and saw the darkness I trembled: I…
A Poem by Dorothee Sölle: hospital in haiphong
doan is three years old in his head a fragment of that handy bomb that leaves buildings undamaged never puts a factory out of production doesn’t even harm bridges