there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
I came to know I am so bad,
This is the reason why I am sad.
I hurt them and I always fight,
That’s why my days are not so bright.
I can’t feel what others feel
And want them under my heels.
I am selfish, I am harsh
Break intentions and their hearts.
I misunderstand, I misbehave,
I speak
Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labor, I in labor lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th’ eyes of busy fools may be
It keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Often ’tis in such gentle temper found
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be mov’d for days from whence it sometime fell,
When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
Oh
Poor harlot, Mary Magdalene,
Into the feast with trembling crept,
Past frowns that stabbed her with their hate
And falling at His feet she wept.
Self-righteous Simon spurned her there
And marveled that her sinful touch
Displeased Him not, but he forgave:
“Though sinning sore she love’d much.”
Brave, grateful Mary Magdalene,
When Peter all his faith had lost,
Pressed on
The child and the old man sat alone
In the quiet, peaceful shade
Of the old green boughs, that had richly grown
In the deep, thick forest glade.
It was a soft and pleasant sound,
That rustling of the oak;
And the gentle breeze played lightly round
As thus the fair boy spoke:-
‘Dear father, what can honor be,
Ukwa killed Nwaka Dimkpolo
E-e Nwaka Dimkpolo!
Who will punish this Ukwa for me?
E-e Nwaka Dimkpolo!
Matchet will cut up this Ukwa for me?
E-e Nwaka Dimkpolo!
Who will punish this Matchet for me?
E-e Nwaka Dimkpolo!
Blacksmith will hammer it for me?
E-e Nwaka Dimkpolo!
Who will punish this Blacksmith for me?
E-e Nwaka Dimkpolo!
First, suicide notes should be
(not long) but written
second,
all suicide notes
should be signed
in blood
by hand
and to the point—
that point being, perhaps,
that there is none.
I wasn’t able to comprehend
what was happening to me
and the air of melancholy
that was wrapped around me
Everything was in accordance
but still, my mind tossing
my ear filled with buzz
my heart left with flowers
that no longer blossomed
There was nothing left that could soothe my soul
Even the moon that once used to answer
O PEACE! and dost thou with thy presence bless
The dwellings of this war-surrounded Isle;
Soothing with placid brow our late distress,
Making the triple kingdom brightly smile?
Joyful I hail thy presence; and I hail
The sweet companions that await on thee;
Complete my joy let not my first wish fail,
Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favourite be,<br
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over:
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
I witnessed the hardiest crows in the system shattered by
immorality, trembling neurotic wreak,
slogging themselves through welfare cheques at twilight
searching for a sturdy foundation,
fork-tongued politicians yearning for the popular vote
persuasion to sugary elixir in the cogs of time,
whose destitution and disorder and listless gaze and wired up
intaking in the psychological coldness of
sterile sanitoriums
I’ll sing you a new ballad, and I’ll warrant it first-rate,
Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate;
When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate
On ev’ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev’ry noble gate,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
The good old laws were
STAY, O sweet and do not rise!
The light that shines comes from thine eyes;
The day breaks not: it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay! or else my joys will die
And perish in their infancy.
In after-time, a sage of mickle lore
Yclep’d Typographus, the Giant took,
And did refit his limbs as heretofore,
And made him read in many a learned book,
And into many a lively legend look;
Thereby in goodly themes so training him,
That all his brutishness he quite forsook,
When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim,
Fall into autumn,
Descend with English oak leaves as they bow to conifer neighbours,
Tangle yourself in the knotted hazel hanging on to avoid its premature shed.
Dance with the spinning sycamores,
Twirl with the autumn debris,
Tap dance around horse chestnut’s treasures.
Fly with the gathering geese ready to venture south,
Glide amongst their hopeful proposals for new escapades,
Pulling the
Snow falling on China’s land,
Cold is blocking China…
Wind,
Like a wailing old woman,
Closely following
The claws stretching with cold,
To clasp the clothes of passengers,
Endlessly prattling
In words as old as the land…
You, China’s farmhand
Emerging from forest,
Driving a cart,
When I said nothing happened
I lied to you.
It happens, it happens every day,
on bridges, in open spaces.
Because I yielded to love
I walk, for some an object of shame,
for others a mirror. Whoever looks at me
is turned to stone,
frozen.
A poor man doesn’t know
how to eat with a rich man.
When he eats fish
he begins with the head.
If you invite a poor man
he comes without manners:
He comes licking his lips
upsetting the platter in eagerness.
The poor man has no reserves.
If invited, he comes in a hurry
with the blood of his lice
dirtying his
Wines of the great châteaux
Have been uncorked for you;
Come, take this terrace chair:
Examine the menu.
The view from here is such
As cannot find a match,
For even as you dine
You’re so placed as to watch
Starvation in our streets
That gives your canapé
