to Lanaire, on having arrived at a new age

Think not of this as poetry
Lest it loses its message;

But, perhaps, with some powerful oratory

It may yet have safe passage…
Autumn;

The mild wind will pluck more leaves from trees,

An old act of service; And on the ground, 

brown leaves gather around;

And at some corners are more flowers, white, pink and pure purple robes 

Which belong to the flagrant naked ladies blooming with fragrant funnels.
As duties attended the early hours of the season, perhaps,

did you for once stop to admire the fiery tops of little woodland realms?

And at some park, in the light of mood, 

with some friends, have fun?

How few are the things we really need! 
But, again, your feet will seek another path,

As you’ve often felt your heart flutter 

At near or far off things which are your life’s course,

And you won’t cease- 

No, you won’t cease- 

from that cause; to speak in Art, to give life with words,

to offer however little service 

to the forgotten ones. 
But when the day is over, and all retiring;

When the mild wind will be blowing,

Somewhere outside a tree will stand naked in the cold

With a face lifted up,

It will wonder: 

what makes the stars shine, and their opulence;

And at the yellow moon in some glowing ring, shining brilliantly;

It’ll wonder…

Perhaps, if you should see it also, 

you may perceive a higher power above ours.

And those stars, to me, as to that bare tree, 

it seems, while they shine, they brighten the heart; 

But you, Lanaire, 

still shall outshine them eternally!

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Night

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Blithe night!
How short your reign,
How swift your flight,
How far you are from me now,
How your dim-lit landscapes clear
With your spell that has left my brow.

Night! you go with all the dreams–
The dreams of those wonted things,–
And methinks I can still see your profile from here
Where you left me
Alone.

Away, away, away you go!
And there’s no knowing
Where you go now to dwell–
I cannot tell,
I cannot follow your trail, I cannot keep the pace,
I cannot trace.

But should you find a soul there
As troubled as mine,
Twice cast your spell sublime
Bring them some peace and quiet
And sleep fit for a drowsy head.

Still here I shall await your return,
Even now
As I watch the awakening sun
Breaking quietly through a cloud
In the pale morning sky.

On Art

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Each artist and poet is a creator of their own world—
Living to create, creating to live;
Mostly are they yet not easily mirrored.

In their favour are words and things:
Supernatural, abstract, discreet
As those, which run through Nature’s course,
That some watchers of art,
some readers of verse
may yet relish,
And some albeit awed,
Struggle to grasp, and rarely explore,
And so may sigh and relinquish,
Being too eager
to find some beauty and wit
therein.

Thus the artist works,
And the poet
on the verse;
Such are the powers they possess
That with one rushing flow
On muses’ hills;—
With one swell swoop, no delay,
They hurl hitherto the art with great craft
upon the spot,
Howsoever that verse,
that piece are made
And may live then from age to age.

A Loss

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Again, I lost a friend
one of the best gifts God did well to send;
Sweet and jovial, was she,
and of a brighter mind:
One of God’s gifts to me,
But that we should part and fall behind
With life’s many complexities
was one thing grievous as death,
And what should cost me a gift as she?

My nature and emotional composition
had broken the soulful ties;
Not a thing to change it,
Not a thing
to bring back lost times.

And I wonder if she’s well,
If this too might have trailed
her most recent thought,
That a man like me was made
to feel,
to dream,
to desire,
And to cry;
But no, surely,
she’s never in my eyes seen
tears gather and fall
But well she knew
what a dreamer I am.

The world is empty without confidants
And none had I but her-
Ah,
Her gentle words,
Her kind eyes, calm
behind sleek frames
Were instituted by Nature,
who was borne out of God’s intent,
And have made out of her
a dear and gentle sex.
But she’s gone-
She’s gone
like many before;
She’s gone.

She’d say a mystery surrounds me
And would joke and tease
and strike me a light blow
in just such a fashion.
Now I imagine
I hear her laugh-
A carefree girl,
not a care in the world-
Though inaudibly it sounds,
Yet, unmistakably
the merry-carrying faint echoes
stir this heart to thump and thump-
They openly reveal
A thing that might have been,
But this-
it is real,
and not how I wished it to be.

Recollection

Woman, you are to me
Like the red rose upon the bough,
Fresh with dew drops upon every side;
Like the sweet release from Heaven’s floodgates after harmattan’s role;
Like a nap at noon,
You soothe and bring relief
With the vibe that is new…
Ah, woman sweet,
You are divine!

In my head you have stirred melodies sweeter
And they are all to me poetic,
As rhythmic as your hips do sway
Softly like a pendulum;
Fill me up to the brim
And let pleasures overflow;
For what is sweeter?

You torment me more now
With the sweetness of your aura,
Yet let me feel,
Let me dream
Inter alia:
And when I thought all joys were felt,
That all charms you have shed,
Then you opened your lips
And softly, my darling-
From those lips-
Your voice like honey it poured forth
Intellectually,
And together we went down
The depths of immense intercourse.

Oh, sweet, I resign.
But if it was made
That men must die,
Then why not I go down sweetly,
Joyfully upon your bosom
Which is paradise?

Critic

Critic,

While your job be, to you, one of sweet delight,

And noble (in your claim),

Pray, cast your interests aside awhile,

And wander off! yet in your wanderings, open your heart;

And your inner eye the essence to behold;

Perhaps the understanding to gain.

 

For all beauty and wisdom are locked out there

In the world stretched before your door;

So steadfastly follow the rhythm, Critic,

And follow well where the signs may lead;

Being faithful in your wanderings.

 

With an open mind, then, Critic…

With that mind, approach that verse again

That you may yet be present in that moment of creation;—

When Beauty was still fresh, and lofty thoughts at their strongest—

 

Follow the call then, follow the path down to Truth,

To behold the site, and feel yet the spark (which is the Poet’s),

Revealed only by the Muse.

Little Child

Little child,

Ah, dear little one, so gay—

With dancing eyes that dim

The sun in a windless sunny day

With its charm and child-like gaiety round its rim.

 

Mama’s eyes are heavy, before the hissing kettle,

From late-night vigils;

Papa’s away at work, nodding away to a Master unseen,

From those late-night vigils;

But not you, floating away in realms—

In peace.

How often your nightly cries have pierced the moonlit night through.

But now you laugh!

Now you laugh!

 

Who may spend the hour with you and still rot in grief?

Shall that air not lift the spirit and cause it to be merry?

None may know, but only to you are they revealed,

Girded in white— Seraphs of Light,

Round you, child of Light, like stars in the night sky, shining bright.

 

But let the World hear your chuckles, little one;

The World at war;

Let all hold the gaze, and tarry in your sparkling eyes that calm the storm.