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Best Poems From
MICHAEL BUHAGIAR
(13 January 1954)
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1.
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Light My Fire (Homage to Jim Morrison 2)
Let the Shadow inflict collateral damage
On Venus who alights from a shell to the shore
To light your fire as the chill winds rage
And vipers strike from the blossomless floor;
And let the Shadows gunships even pound
The trees that surge as the fresh year blooms
And the land and the folk who, all seasons round,
Within stony walls find precarious rooms:
It is the door, the door, strong hewn from oak
Whose roots strike deep as the head branch soars,
Lets pass fresh air or forbids the strafe.
And if its hinge should fail those rooms would choke
Or lodging be given to thundering boars,
As the round dances on in the valleys of Alph.
Michael Buhagiar
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2.
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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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3.
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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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4.
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Sadness of the Moon (Tristesse de la Lune) : translation
A more langorous moon is dreaming this night:
Like a beauty on several cushions reposing
Who caresses with a hand discreet and light
The contour of her breasts before the closing
Of sleep, on those soft avalanches satined
Back, dying, she is given to rapture,
And roams her eyes on the visions twinned
That ascend like blossoms, white into azure.
When sometimes she lets fall, in her dreaming bound,
A furtive tear to this earthly ground,
A poet - stranger to sleep she has won -
Will catch that dropp in the palm of his hand,
Of irissy refractions, like a fragment of opal, and
Put it in his heart, out of sight of the sun.
by Charles Baudelaire
trans. by Michael Buhagiar
Michael Buhagiar
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