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Best Poems From
MICHAEL BUHAGIAR
(13 January 1954)
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21.
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City of Light
Taut muscles of the city,
Hard gavel without pity,
And nowhere a breast
To rest.
Old broom of witch
And lolling bitch,
Or evening maw
And whore:
The city scares
And breeds hot mares
Of night that rear
Too near.
Some thinnest veil
Or skimming sail
Gales rip to show
The shadow.
The past is a grove
Where lovers love
In shade far away
From the day.
All else is dark
But the city’s park
A forest of lamps
Stamps
A coin of square gold
From a circle of old
And on its face
In place
Of the long-falling haven,
The scalp now clean-shaven,
And eyes that would disown
My own.
Michael Buhagiar
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22.
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Echo Point 3: Palimpsest
Stone, the emblem of the timeless become space
- Oswald Spengler
Her top drawer is a tip of blister packs,
All used, and blazoned ‘Serepax’.
The foils that hid their moonseed gifts
Lie torn and curled like autumn drifts.
Lucy Summers, tenured historian,
Turns another page; her blue eyes scan
The faded writing shaped across parchment.
It tells, in French, of the hero’s bent
To saunter at ease through meadows amid
Daisy plush, while dreaming of Euclid
And smiling in bliss at the birds of the air
And the coats of pretty colours the butterflies wear,
As the blue sky soars overhead without stain.
And she dreams she is him, and there comes yet again
Cold fear, galloping unreined and loud.
Now she sees, like a bright moon through cloud
Peeping, a line traversing an O.
She looks again, and the pages show
A field thick with clues…
She begins to reap,
And discovers the story of a mountain steep
With a stream that grows to a mighty current
Which flows through sunlit towns, till rent
By rocks, then plunges from cliffs to the sea,
And ascends to rain on the peak again…
Ecstasy
Reigns, as she reads—in her mind’s disjoint—
C’est finie, cette histoire d’or que j’appelle ‘Echo Pont’.
And as she gazes on an inner vista in awe,
She swoons, and knocks the pills to the floor,
And a full moon rises, smouldering, red,
Where no seed will burst again in its bed.
Michael Buhagiar
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23.
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Echo Point 5: Eclogue in a Berlin Street
Stone, the emblem of the timeless become space
- Oswald Spengler
Christopher Brennan Deep in the wildest valley of my soul
I sense something nameless struggling to be born.
I feel the merest fraction of a whole,
Rank afterbirth of midnight stains my dawn.
Old Euler is lecturing on Homer today…
Aleister Crowley I divine that between two poles you are torn.
Your nerves are shot and fear has held sway
Since the great god Phallus began to annoy.
You should chuck your degree and go your own way
And dwell no more on the sack of Troy.
Christopher Brennan
How could I abandon that beautiful tongue?
The Greeks have been my inspiration and joy,
A diamond that shines from a sea of dung.
Now so often at my desk while thinking hard
I feel a sudden jolt as if stung.
Aleister Crowley The Scorpion is your sign, and Death your card…
Christopher Brennan
They revealed to me forms which the Church holds obscene,
The Beauty that shattered forever my guard,
Standing and sunlit and balanced and clean.
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Aleister Crowley But where is the Classical symbol for infinity,
All breasts and hips of an Egyptian queen
Reclining for a Caesar to enter her sea?
Christopher Brennan Your image is strong, it sings of a world
Rich like the ground of a magical tree.
Aleister Crowley Like leaves in autumn, all yellow and curled,
Classical beauty is brittle and frail.
But I drive by night with sails unfurled
In search of Death and the Holy Grail.
From the loins of Babalon and the Serpent-Lion
Has sprung the Word to supplant your braille,
The fiery Lord of the coming Aeon.
Know that every man and woman is a star,
And trust in your own self to guide you on.
Christopher Brennan My soul shall be the barque to carry me far.
But of what shall I sing when the nights grow cold?
Aleister Crowley The only theme of Heru-Ra-Ha:
The cliffs of gold, the cliffs of gold.
Michael Buhagiar
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24.
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In the Ebor Cemetery
From zero to zero an ice wind sweeps
As dark chords close the movement of day,
And the sky a mist of moisture weeps
On the loved one beached in a wave-lashed bay.
A two-barred fence defines the square
And gums on every side surround,
Here in the heart of the country where
There comes no faintest human sound.
In this stone all night the wild winds wail
As lightning jags through flattening rain,
And spitting cobras lash the rim.
And this graven name is a thinnest veil
A deathless heart through which shines plain;
These flowers, a gallery hung with him.
Michael Buhagiar
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