|
|
|
Best Poems From
MICHAEL BUHAGIAR
(13 January 1954)
|
|
| |
|
|
9.
|
Love, Hope, Belief
A huge propeller, shed like Palinurus,
Overlies a ridge or river-bed
Whose dusty fissures fill the canvas,
On its triad of rusty blades the faded
Inscription: Liebe, Hoffnung, Glaube.
Also hes depicted Siegfried Superman
Relieving a cesspool of its toy Excalibur;
The goal of his long march to dawn
In bleeding fire; halts who would inherit
Hermann, hero of the Roman clashes;
The seven-tongued menorah alight
In a triumph-crypt encrusted with ashes;
Walkers-on-water; and strutting cocks
Compelling the seas and the sun in flight:
Persisting away at the black-box
Of a ship of dreams dashed out of sight.
Michael Buhagiar
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
10.
|
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
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
11.
|
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.
Michael Buhagiar
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
12.
|
The Witch Muse (Homage to Eric Clapton 2)
He glanced at the first bright sliver to glow
Which many would harvest and worship alone,
And yawned, thinking only of how she would grow
To the diva as Woman entrancing the throne.
He would watch her crowned, her husband-tide
Now brimming, now void, and the kingdom thriving;
The infant Prince on her lap spread wide:
While still the Acts through not wholly believing.
The backdropp of black is their shadow play.
Now the Queen is dead; there creeps from the shadows
A hag, black-cowled, to claim centre stage
With a wail as if suns at the death of day
Were fuelling in her ribs a lyric of crows.
He gazed till the stage went out into umbrage.
Michael Buhagiar
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|