The Wave

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were filled with your most high deserts?

Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say ‘This poet lies;

Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.’

So should my papers, yellowed with their age,

Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage

And stretched metre of an antique song:

  But were some child of yours alive that time,

  You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.

For this story you will have to travel to a tiny village in Ethiopia. There lived an old man in his cottage. One day he decided to call his three daughters together at his bedside, and he said: “Dear children, I have decided to inherit all my belongings to her who possesses the most WISDOM! The person who will buy something that will fill this small cottage in its ENTIRETY shall have that honour!” Immediately the three children left for the big city, with one golden coin in their hands… The first daughter decided to buy straw. When she returned to her father, she carefully made a big heap of all the straw. But the bundles would fill the cottage only halfway… The second daughter thought to be much smarter: she bought ostrich feathers! But she didn’t succeed either: with all her feathers she would only come as far as three fourth of the cottage… Finally, the youngest daughter. This girl bought something very small. And I know, it’s unbelievable: she had even some money left! But she possessed the most wisdom. Because she bought: a candle! When she returned to her father, she waited until the sun began to fade. The cottage had now become completely dark. Then she lighted her candle, and suddenly a flame appeared: filling the cottage entirely with… LIGHT! :)

To be a woman

a shadow without form,

extinguished by sunlight,

Wombing meaningless men

in the endless chain of need;

To be worn on rainy days,

like colourless old shoes

groping between pots and pans

eyes in steam,

Streaming more than onion-tears;

to be a woman,

characterless like bamboo stalks,

to be scissored to shape,

a hedge against odd weather

and when asleep to fly

untrammelled like a bird,

to exult in the open air,

tossing between oceans and clouds

dreaming of trees kissed by the sun,

while their gnarled roots sink into the earth;

then to return with the weighted womb,

like a boomerang –  

to believe that shadows have existence.

my father moved through dooms of love through sames of am through haves of give, singing each morning out of each night  my father moved through depths of height this motionless forgetful where turned at his glance to shining here; that if(so timid air is firm)  under his eyes would stir and squirm newly as from unburied which floats the first who,his april touch drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates  woke dreamers to their ghostly roots and should some why completely weep  my father’s fingers brought her sleep: vainly no smallest voice might cry  for he could feel the mountains grow. Lifting the valleys of the sea  my father moved through griefs of joy; praising a forehead called the moon  singing desire into begin joy was his song and joy so pure a heart of star by him could steer  and pure so now and now so yes  the wrists of twilight would rejoice keen as midsummer’s keen beyond conceiving mind of sun will stand, so strictly(over utmost him so hugely) stood my father’s dream his flesh was flesh his blood was blood: no hungry man but wished him food; no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile uphill to only see him smile. Scorning the Pomp of must and shall my father moved through dooms of feel; his anger was as right as rain his pity was as green as grain septembering arms of year extend  yes humbly wealth to foe and friend  than he to foolish and to wise offered immeasurable is proudly and(by octobering flame beckoned)as earth will downward climb, so naked for immortal work  his shoulders marched against the dark his sorrow was as true as bread: no liar looked him in the head;  if every friend became his foe he’d laugh and build a world with snow. My father moved through theys of we, singing each new leaf out of each tree  (and every child was sure that spring danced when she heard my father sing) then let men kill which cannot share, let blood and flesh be mud and mire,  scheming imagine,passion willed, freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

  giving to steal and cruel kind,  a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,  to differ a disease of same, conform the pinnacle of am though dull were all we taste as bright, bitter all utterly things sweet, maggoty minus and dumb death  all we inherit,all bequeath and nothing quite so least as truth —i say though hate were why men breathe— because my Father lived his soul  love is the whole and more than all