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Best Poems From
MICHAEL BUHAGIAR
(13 January 1954)
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33.
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The Ross Valley, Kiama
A high new moon of mountains cradling
Rolling stonewalled velvet fields,
With herds and homes and apt hands ladling
Milk pumped fresh which fullness yields;
Rows of palms like milk ejecting
In lofty founts from massaged nipples;
High thin calls of birds injecting
Silence; a breeze that dam glass ripples.
And Rex with dainty pearls not hung
Is thrusting his blade, or charging a rival,
Or fixing a rambler with Mars-red eyne.
While a corpse is served on a crust of dung
As a calf in plaints abides its revival.
A bores dark eye is lashed with kine.
Michael Buhagiar
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34.
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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
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