The Maiden’s Reply (Parody of “When She Comes” by Raymond Ojakol – Lantern Meet of Poets)

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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—-

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FOOTPRINTS

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“Whatever you do in life will be very insignificant, but it’s very important that you do it.”— from the movie Remember Me.

I don’t particularly agree. Every thing we do has an effect and whether or not we know it, that effect can be far-reaching. Question is: What type of effect do you want to leave?

 
 
 
I will not die young-
be like cactus, master to penury,
something where all about is nothing:
devoid of fear and untamed worries,
but no less fickle than this vain earthling;
be like succulent, plump berries,
the hallmark of vitality,
lending rich tastes to whomever ‘merries’
yet courting the end with finality.
For all this lasts but for a while
sure as the the ephemera of youth.
 
 
You see, these hands still won’t help another
to bear the sometimes unfair burden of life;
these ears fear to hear- neither
sorrow nor the cacophony of strife;
and these gateways to the depths of my soul,
the abyss of my being, see but darkness of the engulfing light-
though wide open they still shun their call;
And this heart, this engine of joy and might
burns dark icy fires, freezing by the mile
and sparing no expense to self sooth.
 
 
I fear the end, but I refuse to relent!
I refuse to sow my words to the wind
to be shredded and scattered, carried to nothingness;
I refuse to my mark, my footprints in the sand
to be washed away by the unforgiving, unrelenting tide of time-
to be washed to the fringes of memory;
I refuse to dance to the tune of what is
but to the infectious melody of what can be.
I refuse to die young.
 
 
 
 
 
…………………………………..Mini-anthology: Hepatica…………………………

A poet’s apology to self

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It is true, that most(read all) poets are vain. We will deny it but you know we know it is true. To be honest, I have sometimes fancied myself a god of sorts; a god of words: a wordsmith! Something about creating things… just like that.

But it gets to our heads(my head) sometimes. Writers block of course doesnt help. It makes you feel very… mortal.

Kind sir, merciful when need occassions,

I beg that you lay eyes and lend ear

(the two themselves kind) to my confessions.

I fear I have been given to pride

on account of my divine creations,

rivaled only perhaps by those of the Creator,

brought to life but with the swift stroke of quill;

once lending its beauty to the breast of a peacock.

But most , most gracious sir, by my means to lazy stations

I have as desperate bulls, nostrils infused by promising scent,

summoned the kind muse, begging for thought(my own this volition)

yet squandered all or made filthy as swine.

But I have been schooled, my errors brought to light,

so may I be struck by lightning on this account

should ever a vain thought come to mind.

———————————mini-anthology: Hepatica——————————————

 

 

On love

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I last updated this blog sometime last year I think.Lack of inspiration you see. But I attended BHH yesterday and this morning, I woke up to some change. Something changed. I seem to have rediscovered the passion for poetry or may be it is because my Muse has returned! Ah, I don’t know. So I am back. I won’t blog everyday but I should be able to at least once a week.

And what better way to celebrate my return than this. This was my first blog post waaaayyyyy  back in 2007…. September 12th. Am kinda old here you see. I am almost 4 years old!

No branch remains still
when harmonious wind blows their way.
when the sun wakes up a humble day,
no joy strays shy of real.
but when Cupid and his wit steal
property divine,so to say,
and Fate, not one so sway,
is his cards forced to deal;
the obvious secret is this:
consequences thus far too dire
are welcomed as reason dies.
Unknown that red rose to breeze,
they present(its petals bright as sapphire)
to grace our ignorant eyes.


……………mini-anthology: Reflections from Apollo and Zeus………………….

Upon a shore

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For all those times I cried about lack of inspiration, nature was there- smiling.

Whisper, Fair one,
Sweet indiscernible things
And I will stay my worries.
Sing that age- old song as you
Caress me with light kisses.
Remind me that I can fly
High as eagles on your wings.
   
Dance on, Fair one,
With careless abandon
And I will grant my nerves peace.
Look on assuredly
As I bask in your faint glow.
Remind me of joy in life
Rife though with seeds of sorrow.
   
Twinkle, Fair one,
Joyfully in the distance
And I will harness my strengths.
Guide me through by the beauty
Of the black canvas you dot.
Remind me that I can reach
Which- ever I strive to get.
   
Call, call, Fair one,
Through eerie howl and short song
And I will hear wisdom.
As Aurora proclaims dawn
Wake me with playful chatter.
Remind me that I should know
No- matter, when to work smart.
   
Tomorrow I sail
On this path to the future.
Storms will come and I shall dance
And lend my voice so- singing-
Thinking of your face- always. 



----------------------------From mini- anthology: Hepatica

My money maker

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The last time I wrote a poem that mentioned a lady of the night, it raised many eye brows. The issues raised ranged from whether I was writing from experience(intimate experience I presume) or just imagination to why I would use a lady of the night in my poem.The answer hasn’t changed: I think of them as being strong in more ways than one.

This poem in not about them.It is about a tomato seller and her tomatoes.I came across a tomato variety called Money maker, hence the idea for the poem. And last I checked, love apple= tomato. 😀

This morning you are resting;

last night was very testing:

the hours that limped along

as Morpheus sang that old song;

the cold air, fierce and biting,

as sleep beckoned, inviting.

Rest friend, rest money maker.






I know you remember dear

when our old clients, in fear,

refused to engage in trade

for rumours of blight had spread;

when our steps were futile,

each one the minutest mile.

Times we have faced you and I!






My soul knows no greater joy

and my heart no nobler ploy

than to flaunt you ere their eyes;

even the minister sighs!

But we must struggle about

till our back- bones are worn out;

we must enjoy being cheap!






And we can never back down

nor falter when people frown.

There are many mouths to feed,

bodies to cloth; eyes must read!

Our hope can’t meet demise!

Tomorrow the sun will rise.

We’ll make it, my love apple.






That I have connived with death;

that I promote no good health!

Won’t we employ what we have

given us by God we serve?

Who in their moral stupor

dares to call me a pauper?

I am your mother and sister!

On the ambrosia of music(For Charlie Gillette)

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It was about 12:30 a.m many years ago when I chanced upon some really nice music. The host of the show was Charlie Gillette and he aroused an interest,  and appreciative instinct in me that my then 14-year- old self could not comprehend.For the years that followed I would tune in to his “World Music” show anxious to be musically transported to all corners of the globe: from the jungles of the Congo, with one-string instruments, to down under where the Aborigines make music out of the weirdest things. Alas, Mr. Gillette passed on in March this year. This poem is not particularly for him or about him, but for what he made me believe.

Guide me O ears:

Feed my troubled soul and mind,

to allay my worst fears,

with the peace of a calm wind.

Guide me to Her bliss.



Guide me o sweet lips:

savour this eternal meal,

safely through these divine sips

as Zeus his unfaithful fill.

Guide me to glory.



Guide me O deft feet:

Nimble as a weightless sail,

Boredom’s throne to un- sit;

Waltz me in careless sail.

Guide me to freedom.