—–SLYBARD—–"Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even enjoy poetry, without a certain UNSOUNDNESS of mind."
My Muse thus guides this feeble hand to con old topics as Swift did in his time; and perhaps I shall be chanced to write much better verse…Archive for January, 2012
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I was going through my stuff the other day when I came across this. I must have been 17 or 18 when I wrote this.
Must I my Muse tire
with persistent omission of satire
from all but few of my verses?
She that guides my feeble hand-
and sharpens my mind-
in forging a great many verses?
I fear I have given to the habit
but by Jove, my Muse must hear noth’n o’ it!
—Mini-Anthology: Reflections from Apollo and Zeus—
Like this:
To Dawn
Nature poetry is tricky, mostly because so much has been written that chances are, that whatever you write will border heavily on cliche. But it is nonetheless a great teacher and source of inspiration.
Dawn- slayer of pretence, usher of youth-
you, born anew as passing season,
wield those luminous swords, sharp and uncouth,
and absolve ignorance of reason.
Are you not the mother of sweet knowledge?
Dawn – light of tunnels, well of Saharas:
You, of divine hue, alive in Dark’s death
when all that’s fair is stripped of myrrhs
And Life’s Eden is, fast as youth, but heath.
Are you not the promise that Hope is nigh?
—Mini-anthology: Hepatica—
The Maiden’s Reply (Parody of “When She Comes” by Raymond Ojakol – Lantern Meet of Poets)
Resolutions can be a real pain, depending on how seriously one takes them anyway. If you, like I do, take them seriously, they have a funny habit of haunting you. Like this one in particular: to perform CPR on this blog!
As that would have it, I’ll say, for the I-don’t-know-what-th time, that I have picked up my quill, dusted it, procured some inspiration from the Muse, and returned to my trade. So, here goes:
Perched as prying pigeons as Day is born, I have gazed, hapless poet, upon you: your quill frail from wanting ink anew, oft as wind weathered your thoughts to bone; given to pity, for you’ve looked lovelorn, I have descended unannounced as dew- to remind you of the plenty in few- and done the duty for which I’ve been sworn.I too, poet, enjoy what you call “Leave” : peaceful sojourns where no work is mourned- far from bards roasting on Emotion’s coals- till to the mount in ink your voice you give and I return as a genie summoned. So, tonight you’ll verse in sultry love calls.
—–Mini-anthology: Hepatica—-
