Reference Material for Workshops Song for the Rainy Season
Elizabeth Bishop
Hidden, oh hidden
in the high fog
the house we live in,
beneath the magnetic rock,
rain-, rainbow-ridden,
where blood-black
bromelias, lichens,
owls, and the lint
of the waterfalls cling,
familiar, unbidden.

In a dim age
of water
the brook sings loud
from a rib cage
of giant fern; vapor
climbs up the thick growth
effortlessly, turns back,
holding them both,
house and rock,
in a private cloud.

At night, on the roof,
blind drops crawl
and the ordinary brown
owl gives us proof
he can count:
five times - always five -
he stamps and takes off
after the fat frogs that,
shrilling for love,
clamber and mount.

House, open house
to the white dew
and the milk-white sunrise
kind to the eyes,
to membership
of silver fish, mouse,
bookworms,
big moths; with a wall
for the mildewıs
ignorant map;

darkened and tarnished
by the warm touch
of the warm breath,
masculate, cherished,
rejoice! For a later
era will differ.
(O difference that kills,
or intimidates, much
of all our small shadowy
life!) Without water

the great rock will stare
unmagnetized, bare,
no longer wearing
rainbows or rain,
the forgiving air
and the high fog gone;
the owls will move on
and the several
waterfalls shrivel
in the steady sun.

Sitio da Alcobacinha


Tachibana Akemi
Poem of Solitary Delights

What a delight it is
when on the bamboo matting
In my grass-thatched hut
All on my own
I make myself at ease.

What a delight it is
When, borrowing
rare writings from a friend,
I open out
The first sheet.

What a delight it is
When, spreading paper,
I take my brush
And find my hand
Better than I thought.

What a delight it is
When, after a hundred days
Of racking my brains
That verse that wouldn't come
Suddenly turns out well.

What a delight it is
When, of a morning
I get up and go out
To find in full bloom a flower
That yesterday was not there.

What a delight it is
When, skimming through the pages
of a book, I discover
A man written of there
Who is just like me.
What a delight it is
When everyone admits
It's a very difficult book
And I understand it
With no trouble at all.

What a delight it is
When I blow away the ash
To watch the crimson
Of the glowing fire
And hear the water boil.

What a delight it is
When a guest you cannot stand
Arrives, then says to you
'I'm afraid I canıt stay longı
And soon goes home.

What a delight it is
When I find a good brush
Steep it hard in water
lick it on my tongue
And give it its first try.


PAUL MULDOON

The Briefcase
for Seamus Heaney

I held the briefcase at arm's length from me;
the oxblood or liver
eelskin with which it was covered
had suddenly grown supple.

Iıd been waiting in line for the cross-town
bus when an almighty cloudburst
left the sidewalk a raging torrent.

And though it contained only the first
inkling of this poem, I knew I daren't
set the briefcase down
to slap my pockets for an obol -

for fear it might slink into a culvert
and strike out along the East River
for the sea. By which I mean the 'open' sea.


Lull

Iıve heard it argued in some quarters
That in Armagh they mow the hay
With only a week to go to Christmas,
That no oneıs in a hurry

To save it, or their own sweet selves.
Tomorrow is another day,
As your man said on the Mount of Olives.
The same is held of County Derry.

Here and there up and down the country
there are still houses where the fire
Hasn't gone out in a century.

I know that eternal interim;
I think I know what they're waiting for
In Tyrone, Fermanagh, Down and Antrim.


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