Maya Angelou / When Great Trees Fall

When Great Trees Fall

by Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance,

fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance

of dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly.  Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed.  They existed.

We can be.  Be and be

better.  For they existed.

Maya Angelou / Voices in the lower register

 

Maya Angelou

Voices in the lower register

Roberta Clarke
May 30, 2014

There are times when words are not enough, cannot express the insult to the soul of humanity. Such it is for the gang rape and hanging of those teenage girls in India; such it is for the stoning to death of Farzana by her unrepentant father; such it is for the girls of Nigeria, still missing. Such it is for the daily killing of women in the Caribbean.

The Rumpus Interview with Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou

The Rumpus Interview with Maya Angelou

BIOGRAPHY

BY
WHITNEY MACKMAN
5 SEPTEMBER 2014

“Whitney, who’s your person?” I clenched my hands together under the desk. It was my turn to report which author I hoped to interview for professor Carolyn Hembree’s assignment. I knew I had picked a long shot, but I had to believe.

Seventh Heaven by Patti Smith

Illustration by Margaux Carpentier

Seventh Heaven
by Patti Smith

Patti Smith / Séptimo cielo

Patti Smith / Settimo cielo

Oh Raphael. Guardian angel. In love and crime
all things move in sevens. seven compartments
in the heart. the seven elaborate temptations.
seven devils cast from Mary Magdalene whore
of Christ. the seven marvelous voyages of Sinbad.
sin/bad. And the number seven branded forever
on the forehead of Cain. The first inspired man.
The father of desire and murder. But his was not
the first ecstasy. Consider his mother.

Eve’s was the crime of curiosity. As the saying
goes: it killed the pussy. One bad apple spoiled
the whole shot. But be sure it was no apple.
An apple looks like an ass. It’s fags’ fruit.
It must have been a tomato.
Or better yet. A mango.
She bit. Must we blame her. abuse her.
poor sweet bitch. perhaps there’s more to the story.
think of Satan as some stud.
maybe her knees were open.
satan snakes between them.
they open wider
snakes up her thighs
rubs against her for a while
more than the tree of knowledge was about
to be eaten…she shudders her first shudder
pleasure pleasure garden
was she sorry
are we ever girls
was she a good lay
God only knows

The Striking of Fire by Endre Ady

 

A poem by Endre Ady in translation by Bernard Adams.

The Striking of Fire 

by Endre Ady

Translation by Bernard Adams

 

Great things are only done when there are bold

Men that are venturesome, come to the fore,

Can show their mettle over and again

And, holding to their course, can weather storms.

 

Blessèd may that man be that first struck Fire:

The first in daring of the race of men,

He looked upon the unfamiliar flame

As something that by right he'd give to them.

 

His work, as there he shivered in the snow,

Brought to him tribute due as to a God:

And to this day each valiant man remains

Willing to dare the shedding of his blood.

 

This world is not for the inheritance

Of backward-looking, worthless ne'er-do-wells;

The best of men is he that dares to act

And better only one: the braver still.

 

And he that wants things not to stay the same

Is no more chary of his precious hide

Than was his godsend ancestor of old,

That splendid ancient, he that first struck Fire.

 

 

 

A TŰZ CSIHOLÓJA

 

Csak akkor születtek nagy dolgok,

Ha bátrak voltak, akik mertek

S ha százszor tudtak bátrak lenni,

Százszor bátrak és viharvertek.

 

Az első emberi bátorság

Áldassék: a Tűz csiholója,

Aki az ismeretlen lángra

Úgy nézett, mint jogos adóra.

 

Mint egy Isten, hóban vacogva

Fogadta szent munkája bérét:

Még ma is minden bátor ember

Csörgedezteti az ő vérét.

 

Ez a világ nem testálódott

Tegnaphoz húzó, rongy pulyáknak:

Legkülömb ember, aki bátor     

S csak egy külömb van, aki: bátrabb.

 

S aki mást akar, mint mi most van,

Kényes bőrét gyáván nem óvja:

Mint ős-ősére ütött Isten:

A fölséges Tűz csiholója.

HLO HU

 

Anne Carson

MEET THE AUTHOR

Interview

Anne Carson: ‘I do not believe in art as therapy’

The poet and classics professor talks about her new collection, Float, her love of volcanoes and the power of brevity

Kate Kellaway
Sunday 30 October 2016

Anne Carson’s The Beauty of the Husband, published in 2001, made her name; she became a poetic guru, revered as an original. Her writing is a hybrid – a wayward mix of ancient and modern. She is an essayist, translator and dramatist. Born in Ontario in 1950, she has worked most of her life as a classics professor. She appears in the newly launched Penguin Modern Poets Series and has just published a new collection, Float.

 

Seamos Heaney
Photo by Jane Bown

Seamus Heaney’s poems for a darkening age

Collected in a landmark new edition, the late Irish writer’s work is attuned to wonder, replete with humanity and rooted in the tragedies of history

Fintan O’Toole

Friday 24 October 2025

A place I happen to know very well is the Flaggy Shore, a thin spit of land that sticks out into the south side of Galway Bay. In the autumn of 1992, Seamus Heaney drove up the narrow tarmacked pathway with his wife Marie, the great playwright Brian Friel and his wife Anne. He does not seem to have bothered to get out of the car, or even to stop for a few minutes to take in the scene. Because the path is usually blocked by walkers, it’s a slow drive – but still it couldn’t have taken him much more than 10 minutes. He had, as he later recalled, a “quick sidelong glimpse of something flying past”.