Tag Archives: poetry

A Celebration of Linguistic Diversity

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One language is falling silent every two weeks. Half of the 7,000 languages spoken in the world today will be lost by the end of this century. With the loss of these languages, we also lose the unique poetic traditions of their speakers and writers. Poems from the Edge of Extinction is a celebration of our linguistic diversity and a reminder of our commonalities and the fundamental role verbal art plays in human life around the world. With poems in a wide range of languages by influential, award-winning poets such as US poet laureate Joy Harjo, Hawad, Valzhyna Mort and Jackie Kay, this anthology offers a unique insight into both languages and poetry, taking the reader on an emotional, life-affirming journey into the cultures of these beautiful languages. 

Geryow Kernewek by Donald R. Rawe, Cornish Words translated by Tim Saunders

Welsh English
Pandra’ wren-ny genough, 

Agan geryow Kernewek?

A wren-ny donsya genough

Po delynya ikenow,

Leverel dythys fur, rymys-fleghes sempel,

Dysputya gwlasageth py fylosofy?

Martesen, bledhen war bledhen,

Os arta os, ny a vyth cafos

Worteweth an styr gwyr kellys – 

Nag yu yn agan lynow bardhonnek

Mes ynter an lynow-na,

Goskesek, ow hyntya a substans, 

Kekemys ny a wayt sygnfya.

 What shall we do with you, 

Our Cornish words?

Shall we dance with you

Or portray icons,

Speak wise sayings, simple childish rhymes,

Argue politics or philosophy?

Perhaps, year after year, 

Age after age, we shall find

At last the true lost meaning

Not in our bardic lines, 

But between those lines, 

Shadowed, hinting at the essence, 

Something of what we hope to signify.

“Partition”

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“you’re kashmiri until they burn your home. take your orchards. stake a different flag. until no one remembers the road that brings you back. you’re indian until they draw a border through punjab. until the british captains spit paki as they sip your chai, add so much foam you can’t taste home. you’re seraiki until your mouth fills with english. you’re pakistani until your classmates ask what that is. then you’re indian again. or some kind of spanish. you speak a language until you don’t. until you only recognize it between your auntie’s lips. your father was fluent in four languages. you’re illiterate in the tongues of your father. your grandfather wrote persian poetry on glasses. maybe. you can’t remember. you made it up. someone lied. you’re a daughter until they bury your mother. until you’re not invited to your father’s funeral. you’re a virgin until you get too drunk. you’re muslim until you’re not a virgin. you’re pakistani until they start throwing acid. you’re muslim until it’s too dangerous. you’re safe until you’re alone. you’re american until the towers fall. until there’s a border on your back.”

Call Number: 816.21 A818I

A Lebanese Canadian Poet

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Why The Nectar of Pain?

They asked me,

How is your soul able to

give so much love to

this world?

I said,

There is a sweetness in

the nectar that

bees seek

for honey.

There is a

sweetness in

you that

every sting and

every pain

seek

to make love.

Do not allow your

pain to make you

bitter.

Turn it into

the sweet nectar

that your soul

contains and gives

as a sign of

strength and resilience

after

it is shattered.

(Zebian, 2)

Call Number: 892.408 Z41N

First Native American U.S. Poet Laureate

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The United States first Native American Poet Laureate (named in the Summer of 2019), Joy Harjo. She began writing as a college student, and now at 68, has written eight books of poetry, a memoir, and two books for young audiences. An important figure in the second wave of the literary Native American Renaissance of the late 20th century. Her works include themes such as defining self, the arts, and social justice.

From “A Postcolonial Tale”

“Every day is a reenactment of the creation story. We emerge from

dense unspeakable material, through the shimmering power of

dreaming stuff.

This is the first world, and the last.

Once we abandoned ourselves for television, the box that separates

the dreamer from the dreaming. It was as if we were stolen, put into

a bag carried on the back of a whiteman who pretends to own the

earth and the sky. In the sack were all the people of the world. We

fought until there was a hole in the bag.”

(The Woman Who Fell from the Sky, page 18).

Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings: Call Number 816.21 H282C

The Woman Who Fell From the Sky: Call Number 816.21 H282W

An American Sunrise: Call Number 816.21 H282A