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Best Poems From
MICHAEL BUHAGIAR
(13 January 1954)
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1.
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Koala
In the long arms of mother let him sleep
With her eyes bent above
To gaze through locks that steep
And guard from the skys rough love
As heat he inflicts without care
Or showers more than enough.
Soon, of hunger deep aware,
He may wake and take his fill,
Then sleep, a bulging bear.
One day may fall a chill
And a glacier creep, when
Full turn comes the wheel of the mill,
Or a sea fill that valley again,
Or chunk hot plummet from the deep;
Yet come what may, until then
In the long arms of mother let him sleep.
Michael Buhagiar
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2.
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Rider on the Storm (Homage to Jim Morrison)
Adios to the lands and great house, Caballero,
A kiss for the Lady in White and your friends,
For you ride out to meet the wild Toronegro
Pounding the plain, and the world on you depends.
Now that sombre shape as the moon is dawning
Behind you is not yet horned with sails,
And a blade through the neck will dropp him, fawning,
In a test which your fool on his ass ever fails.
Though the bull should blast into stormswept hells
All knights, you shine even there, dimmed never.
For the bullet has not yet has culled the white horn
Nor the navy lowered its dark-mouthed barrels
To blast the last steed into kingdom ever
From a cloistered village, just before you were born.
Michael Buhagiar
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3.
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A Look
Those eyes so black; that gaze so blank.
Black like witching moons her eyes
When stars burn the night with lonely cries,
That through foam to the floor of my ocean sank.
Eyes like the vaults of a global bank
That takes all for growth when the tenant dies,
With heaps of gold that to the ceilings rise,
That to test its worth my coinage drank.
Eyes wherein smouldered Greek fire.
Eyes that would prove me a frozen liar,
Inherited straight from African Eve,
Black as the maw of a low-toned bell,
The notes of a cello that for summer grieve,
The hangman as he opens the door of my cell.
Michael Buhagiar
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4.
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A Tree
It starts with a seed, whose segments gather
A trust protecting the wealth of their ancestry
With promise of flowers and a soaring majesty
And fruits to ravish you, like any other;
That falls in a desert, whose miles might smother
With still weight of air and the noons easy clarity.
Yet its God, staring hard, has sensed there Eternity
And, groping in blindness, it takes Him for mother.
Now its roots are foothills, and a breezes pass
MIght shatter that length; while its fruits are sparse
And brittle, and no moisture give or need.
Yet, sitting at its foot, a poet meditates,
And though he cast away the sterile seed
Its mortal flesh he loves, assimilates.
Michael Buhagiar
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