Let’s go embark on the sea
To spend the night under the stars.
Look! The wind is blowing just enough
To puff out the canvas sails.

The old Italian fisherman
And his two sons, who steer us,
Listen but do not make any sense
Of the words our mouths utter.

On the dark, serene sea, look -
We can exchange souls,
And no one will understand our voices
Except the night, the sky, and the swells of the water.

Do not ask where I come from -
My hometown lies far away.
Why do I wander on?
In distant lands, I wander on.

For the birds flying in the sky,
For the brooks that flow in the valleys,
For the vast green meadows,
In distant lands, I wander on.

Also, also, for the Olive Tree in my dreams.

Do not ask where I come from...

You are like a flower,
So sweet and beautiful and pure;
I get a glimpse of you, and melancholy
Sneaks into my heart.

It is as if I must lay
My hands on your head,
Praying that God may keep you
So pure and beautiful and sweet.

I was a shy and lonely girl
With the heavens in my eyes,
And as I walked along the lane,
I heard the echoes of her crise.

I cannot fight,
I cannot a warrior be;
It’s not my nature nor my teaching,
It is the womanhood in me.

I was a lost and angry youth,
There were no tears in my eyes.
I saw no justice in my world.
Only the echoes of her cries.

I cannot fight,
I cannot a warrior be;
It’s not my nature nor my teaching,
It is the womanhood in me.

I am an older woman now,
And I will heed my own cries,
And I will a fierce warrior be
‘Til not another woman dies.

I can and will fight.
I can and will a warrior be.
It is my nature and my duty,
It is the womanhood in me.

In the early morning, women gather in the marketplace
Carrying baskets, brimming with weariness of life--
On their heads, on their backs, in their arms.
Women gather…

Showing every detail of their poor lives,
They are pushed and pulled…
All are shouting for their lives...and struggle.

All day long they measure their bundles of life
With tubs, and scales, and yardsticks.
When darkness falls, the women depart,
Carrying on their heads the bitterness of life they have exchanged.

--Yun Dong-ju (1917-1945)

Perhaps it does not begin,
Perhaps it is always.

Perhaps it takes a lifetime
To open our eyes, to learn to see
What has forever shimmered in front of us--

The luminous line
of the map
in the dark

The vigil flame
In the house
Of the heart
The love
So searing
We cannot keep from singing,
From crying out
In testimony and praise.

Perhaps this day
Will be the mountain
Over which the dawn breaks.

Perhaps we will turn our face
Toward it,
Toward what has been
Always.

Perhaps our eyes
Will finally open
In ancient recognition,
Willingly dazzled,
Illuminated at last.

Perhaps this day
The light begins
In us.

--Jan Richardson

Konnakkol is the performance art form of the intoned, rhythmic recitation of solkatuu, the vocalised rhythmic syllables of South Indian classical music and dance. Konnakkol is a sophisticated language of vocal percussion, whose syllables onomatopoeically reference the mridangum drum.

Though I have been wounded; aching heart, full of pain.
Jus’ like a budding rose, my bloom is nourished by rain.
Haven’t time to wonder why, though fearful I strive.
My prayer and faith uphold my ‘til my courage arrives.

Still I rise as an eagle, soaring above ev’ry dear.
With each day I succeed, I grow strong an’ believe that it’s all...
Within my reach; I’m reaching for the skies,
Bolstered by courage, yes, still I rise.
Yes, it’s all within my reach I’m reachin’ for the skies, Yes, still I rise.

Gentle as a woman; tender sweet are my sighs.
Strength is in my tears and healing rains in my cries.
Plunging depths of anguish,
I determine to strive.
My prayer and faith uphold me ‘til my courage arrives.

Though you see me slump with heartache;
Heart so heavy that it breaks.
Be not deceived I fly on birds’ wings,
Rising sun, its healing rays.

Look at me you see a woman;
Gentle as a butterfly.
But don’t you think, not for one moment,
That I’m not strong because I cry.
Yes, still I rise as an eagle...