Carpe Diem (Revisited)

                                               By Mory Keita

When ye shall grow old from old ages,

In thirty falling seasons of leafy days,

Ye shall not be whom ye desire,

Under leaves yer soul shall grow old too:

In summer ye shall walk under falling leaves,

Seeking yer old self under breezy winds,

But ye shall not find muse in its beauty,

For yer summer days shall grow old too.

In winter ye shall walk under falling snow,

Ye shall be alone in cold days in a coat,

Alas! cold shall whelm yer endurance,

For yer bones shall grow old of old days.

Beware of old ages, live yer youth in warmth,

For ye shall never live these days once more.

Original post,here.

Carpe Diem (Revisited)

Happy People

By Mory Keita

I hate happy people and their happy lives,
for they wear happy glasses--
Lens that makes them smile
while the neighbor's house burn.

When you're dying of hunger in the street,
these mockingbirds fly by you without a glance.
They fly, jump, sing,“Hooray life's beautiful!”

They read their magazines in the subway
while a mother begs for silver coins to feed
the tiny, innocent creature in her arms.

They fucking drive hummers aware that
earth's slowly dying of pollution.

Happy glasses are awesome!
with them life's mellow and rosy,
Illusions and reality blend
and all you see is happiness,
while sorrow gnaw your soul.

Oh sister, I am not happy
and will not be happy,
for these happy people, I have learned,
are but sad clowns wearing happy masks.

Damn be them happy people, fuck them all.
How can you be indifferent to the human condition
when there's too much pain and suffering in this world?


Oh Mr. Happy man, what will you do
when your happy glasses break?
When the weight of reality befall upon you?
When you find yourself in Mr Sadman's shoes?

Happy People

If--- A poem

               

 I am sure that the title of this poem will immediately remind the name of Rudyard Kipling to most of this blog post readers. Who is Kipling? If you wondered, is a sign of lack of general knowledge. Kipling was famous author and poet who coined the historical phrase “The White Man’s Burden" in his poem of the later name. Kipling actually won the Nobel prize in literature in 1907. This is not a post about Kipling, thought I strongly suggest you read this Wikipedia article if I have aroused your interest. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling

“If”, today’s poem, was written by the forgotten African American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar.  Dunbar was truly a creative genius though lesser known than Kipling due to racial prejudices of his time (which I will not discuss here.)   Please read this Wikipedia article about Dunbar,http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Laurence_Dunbar

There are many things I could say about Dunbar, though I fear I might not be able to do him justice but his work will. Let us judge is genius by his verses.

                      


    
                       If by Paul Laurence Dunbar


IF life were but a dream, my Love,
And death the waking time;
If day had not a beam, my Love,
And night had not a rhyme, —
A barren, barren world were this
Without one saving gleam;
I'd only ask that with a kiss
You'd wake me from the dream.
If dreaming were the sum of days,
And loving were the bane;
If battling for a wreath of bays
Could soothe a heart in pain, —
I'd scorn the meed of battle's might,
All other aims above
I'd choose the human's higher right,
To suffer and to love!

If--- A poem

Hell is a lonely place

 Charles Bukowski is the newest poet i have discovered. His poetry his eloquent and impregnated with passion. I particularly enjoy his poem, which i am posting for the day, Hell is a lonely place. I hope you enjoy each of its words as i do. The poetry is indeed sad but it's beauty is exquisite.

                                                       Hell is a lonely place
                                                                 By Charles Bukowski

he was 65, his wife was 66, had 
Alzheimer's disease. 

he had cancer of the 
mouth. 
there were 
operations, radiation 
treatments 
which decayed the bones in his 
jaw 
which then had to be 
wired. 

daily he put his wife in 
rubber diapers 
like a 
baby. 

unable to drive in his 
condition 
he had to take a taxi to 
the medical 
center, 
had difficulty speaking, 
had to 
write the directions 
down. 

on his last visit 
they informed him 
there would be another 
operation: a bit more 
left
cheek and a bit more 
tounge. 

when he returned 
he changed his wife's 
diapers 
put on the tv 
dinners, watched the 
evening news 
then went to the bedroom, got the 
gun, put it to her 
temple, fired. 

she fell to the 
left, he sat upon the 
couch 
put the gun into his 
mouth, pulled the 
trigger. 

the shots didn't arouse 
the neighbors. 

later 
the burning tv dinners 
did. 

somebody arrived, pushed 
the door open, saw 
it. 

soon 
the police arrived and 
went through their 
routine, found 
some items: 

a closed savings 
account and 
a checkbook with a 
balance of 
$1.14 
suicide, they 
deduced. 

in three weeks 
there were two 
new tenants: 
a computer engineer 
named 
Ross 
and his wife 
Anatana 
who studied 
ballet. 

they looked like another 
upwardly mobile 
pair.

Hell is a lonely place

Laughing stones-- a poem

By Mory Keita

Friends do not joke.
Their hearts must be stone.
Their smiles, dry like the harmattan.
Joke around and be called a fool,
Show friendship and be hated.
Friends must not laugh together.
Friends are foes, foes friends.
Friendship has reached dead end.

Laughing stones-- a poem

Le cimetière

By Mory Keita

Les cadavres de morts englouties  le terrain,

Comme des corbeaux penchés  sur de la viande fraiche.

La sérénité du cimetière me fait pense’ a l’éternité.

Ah éternité !  Englouti moi dans ta profondeur sèche ;

Englouti moi que je puisse échapper à la mort.

 ( English version)

Dead bodies engulf the terrain,

Like crows perched upon fresh meat.

The serenity of the cemetery makes me think about eternity.

Ah eternity! Sink me into your dry profounder,

Sink me that I can escape death.

Le cimetière

Supreme understanding

By Mory Keita

The horizon appears far above my head,

The sun gleams without end behind cloudy curtains,

Like some eternal flame blown by an eternal being.

Beyond my sight lie comets, stars and distant galaxies.

Is it reasonable if one seek things beyond one’s  comprehension?

If one was to ponder upon the unknown, the unseen?

If one was to say, all things can be seen through the mind?

I have seen a ladder spreading from continent to continent,

I have seen all there is to be seen on earth, and I wasn’t amazed.

Should I build a ladder spreading from earth to heaven?

Should I climb it to see the farthest corners of the universe?

Is it possible to understand the universe, to spread it across a table?

Perhaps, there is no such things as supreme understand; not in this world.

Supreme understanding

Regarde mon amour

Par Mory Keita

Regarde dans  mes yeux  mon amour,

Vois-tu cette lumière  éclairant mon visage,

Sur le flan droit de ma joue, me vois-tu sourire ?

Regarde le ciel étoilé, et les oiseaux qui chantent,

Entends-tu ton nom sur leurs petites lèvres ?

It chantent de ta beauté, et seulement  d’elle.


English translation


Look in my eyes my love
,Do you see that light shining on my face,
On the right flank of my cheek, you see me smile?
Look at the starry sky and the birds sing,
Do you hear your name on their lips?Sing your beauty It, and only her.

Regarde mon amour

Tales of an idle man

By Mory Keita

For many a century, I have plucked and pocked my nose,

Slept and visited place I did not visit or sleep at.

I have visited Caesar’s palace in Rome and sat at his dinner table.

I flew on a flying carpet to India and sat atop the Taj Mahal.

I have lived fairy tales and saved a princess from a evil dragon.

Then relaxing my muscles, I suddenly was transported in Egypt,

And felt in love with Cleopatra, fought with Mark Antoine and Caesar.

In short I have lived and traveled across the Milky Way in a hot bathtub,

And I have lived my life to the fullest like the great Ulysses.

Written in response to  Magpie Tales: Mag 28.

Tales of an idle man

Spring of youth

By Mory Keita

The springs and summers of our days are spread across this seashore

Like some lonely drunkard lost in the sweetness of his beverage.

Shall we see ere the end those unseen moons and sunsets,

Those wasted times lived with dullness in lieu of vagabondage?

Perhaps there is redemption, a magic defying the laws of physic,

At some place I have heard of long ago during some trivialities;

At some shrouded place pours water from a fountain that renew the vow of youth.

Perhaps we might find it accompanied by some old companions  

If we sail the sea and travel across earth like Jason and the Argonauts.

Guided by venus, we may find that trio of one-eyes crones,

Those ageless creatures said to know everything that lies on earth.

Will thou come with me delicate flower of saintly days?

Let us sail hand in hand and heart in heart under the moonlight

Like sunrises and sunsets, springs and summers to that oasis of youth.

Let us run away from these insolent sights of youths and nurses.

Under thousands smiling faces of constellations and stars,

Walking On the trail of Venus listening to love songs and tales of heroes,

Perhaps we may found that fountain of youth and regain our juvenilities

And live those springs and summers that lie across these seas.

It may be we shall not return from this odyssey or find the spring

And live again those unlived days as I forebode,

But we shall see some sparkles of adventurous days we missed long ago.

Shared with One Stop Poetry.

Spring of youth

Staring at a blank paper

By Mory Keita

I stare at a blank paper spreading beneath my pen,

As I ponder upon some lines of little meaning.

Just beside my pen lies another blank paper,

Staring at me with tears as if imploring my mercy,

 Or Waiting for some transforming drops of ink.

I pity it much, for though I would like to fulfill its wish,

My head is as blank as its surface, maybe blanker.

I vainly try to write some lines as a sign of generosity,

But what should I write? How should I begin?

I am not T.S Eliot or a Shakespeare; I am no genius.

I cannot paint on it lines worthy of remembrance,

neither do I wish to abandon it like some worthless junk.

Should I ignore its pleads and shamefully bow my head?

Is it my fault if I cannot write without muse? I know not.

I am not a writer; neither do I intend to become one.

But, as long as I feel a pen in my hand, an inner voice murmurs,

 “You may not be Shakespeare or T.S Eliot or do not wish to be,

But you will always have something to write as long as you believe.”

Now I look at the blank paper beside my pen, still staring at me,

And say to myself “if I have nothing  worthy to write,

I shall write what comes to my mind as long as I breathe.”

Thus, I took my pen and began writing these first lines.

Staring at a blank paper

Carpe diem

By Mory Keita

When ye shall grow old from old ages,

In thirty falling seasons of leafy days,

Ye shall not be yerself as ye desire,

Under leaves yer soul shall grow old too:

In summer ye shall walk under falling leaves,

Seeking yer old self under breezy winds,

But ye shall not find muse in its beauty,

For yer summer days shall grow old too.

In winter ye shall walk under falling snow,

Ye shall be alone in cold days in a coat,

Alas! cold shall  whelm yer endurance,

For yer bones shall grow old of old days.

Beware of old ages, live yer youth in warmth,

For ye shall never live these days once more.


Modern Version  ( i have been told that i am too much old-fashioned.)



When you will grow old from old ages,

In thirty falling seasons of leafy days,

You will not be yourself as you desire,

Under leaves your soul will grow old too:

In summer you will walk under falling leaves,

Seeking your old self under breezy winds,

But you will not find muse in its beauty,

For your summers days will grow old too.

In winter you will walk under falling snow,

You shall be alone in cold days with a coat,

Alas! Cold shall over power your endurance,

For your bones will grow old of old days.

Beware of old ages, live your youth under sun,

You will never live these seasons once more.

Carpe diem

I Missed His Book , But I Read His Name

A parody of John Updike's poem I Missed His Book, But I Read His Name By Mory Keita

Though author are a savage people

To be guillotined if you can,

I’d like to spare the Indian,

M. Anantanarayanan.

I picture him as short and cherry.

We’d meet, perhaps, in Bombay.

I’d yell, with clumsy elan,

“Ah, Antanarayanan --

I’ve heard of you, the Bounty hunter once bade

denars on your head, a

Bountiful sum and renown. “

And Anantanarayanan

Would bride me with a novel

And sign his name – that unmelodious span

Of ‘a’s and ‘n’s more lovely than

‘In xanadu, Kuban khan smoking pipe”--

Aloud to me all season. I plan

Henceforth to spare the life

Of Anantanarayanan----

M.Anantanarayanan.

Below is the original poem by the great John Updike.

I Missed His Book But I Read His Name by John Updike

Though authors are a dreadful clan
To be avoided if you can,
I'd like to meet the Indian,
M. Anantanarayanan.

I picture him as short and tan.
We'd meet, perhaps, in Hindustan.
I'd say, with admirable elan ,
"Ah, Anantanarayanan --

I've heard of you. The Times once ran
A notice on your novel, an
Unusual tale of God and Man."
And Anantanarayanan

would seat me on a lush divan
and read his name -- that sumptuous span
of 'a's and 'n's more lovely than
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan" --

Aloud to me all day. I plan
Henceforth to be an ardent fan
of Anantanarayanan --
M. Anantanarayanan.

Note: This poem is one of my favorites. i like it so much that i sometime recite it in bed. it happens that updide didn't intend to write this poem to the more know M.Anantanarayanan but another person with the same name
.
Shared with the One Stop Poetry community.

I Missed His Book , But I Read His Name

The road ahead

                                                        By Mory Keita

I feel life in my skin and heart,

I feel its winds blowing north, south, west and east,

I feel its sorrow consuming my heart, darkening my soul.

I see life, atop mountains and down valleys,

I see its tears falling down valleys like a river,

I see its roads through the steps of ancients and stories,

I see its ladder spreading from earth to heavens.

Knowing the road ahead shivers my heart,

I know it will be hard and steep to climb,

I know my destination is far and uncertain,

But I shall not give up; I shall climb and climb,

I shall advance against the wind, I shall withstand the sorrow.

For I know that I am destined to greatness,

I know that I will achieve my full potential.

I believe that if the lord, the great architect of

The universe wishes, I shall achieve my goal.              

The road ahead

Clumsy Mory

    

                                   By Mory Keita

              I guess I was born clumsy – unorthodox isn’t it. Since my early childhood, I was often criticized for my odd behavior and my “care-free” personality. Though I dislike writing this genre of mini-autobiographical story, I must admit that as I write this brief story, I feel nostalgia; I realize how fast I have grown and how different I have become.

            Surrounded by family, friends and the enchanting majesty of nature, I grew curious like Ulysses, and began questioning the purpose of life itself. Though I have always been overly fascinated by the functioning of things around me, particularly machines, like king Midas’ golden touch, I have also been “blessed” with the ability to cause damage to any object I touch in my investigations and pursuit of understanding. I remember opening my dad’s watch because I was fascinated by its moving hands. Though I successfully completed my goal of putting the watch’s pieces apart, I unintentionally destroyed it.  That is one reason I was mockingly referred to as “clumsy Mory” by my sister and friends. Apart from this instance, there have been numerous other instances, which I do not wish to mention here, where my childish curiosity, or should I say naivety, has gotten me into trouble.

          When I look now at myself and think of how ridiculous my childhood nickname was, I wonder if I was the only adolescent who hated his nickname. Why couldn’t it have been “Mory, the cool guy”, or something nice to hear, or at least good sounding?

            Now that I have attained a certain level of “maturity”, it amuses me to hear my family sarcastically referring to me as “clumsy”. I wonder if it a trait that I still hold. My lost of childhood imagination and curiosity pain me, I now know that the little prince was right, grow-ups are “mushrooms”; all they ever think of are authority , riches and vain praises. But, Alas, I failed to follow its advices and have become a mushroom too; for, “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

            To conclude this short story, I have always wondered whether my so-called clumsiness was a gift or an object of mockery. Recently, I have realized that, although being clumsy isn’t perceived positively, it is more virtuous that many other characteristic and it is what made me who I am now. As I grow up, I still wonder if I shall ever once again regain that clumsiness that I have lost.

Clumsy Mory

The Romantic

By Mory Keita

Though she is not Cinderella or snow white,

She lives their lives and dreams in the castle,

Where she is stranded in a dungeon for life,

Till her charming prince delivers her from the wicked spell.

Then,when she wakes up from fairyland she sees no prince.

A classic fairytale she lives in her sleeps,

Awake a  modern tragedy she experiences.

She reads poetry; listen to it, like her bible.

She imagines herself in John Donne’s hands,

While he recites that poetic melody in her ears,

The wind transporting sounds of her name to the ears of

Envious sirens in Neptune, the sun sweeping her face.

She wishes she was a Byron’s or a Poe’s lover,

Or at least one they fancy in their poetic dreams,

And write about lines unheard, unwritten by men, lines such as:

    Vois-tu  mon amour  le soleil qui brille ?

   Écoutes-tu la chanson des pigeons volant ?

   Ils envient  notre bonheur, notre amour.                             

She fancies that  lady, that “mon amour”,

She wishes she could find the whirl of space- time,

She years to travel to the romantic era,

She desires to fall in love with the Victorians,

The Shakespeares and the likes of Caspar Davis Friedrich;

With her fairness she would seduce the romantics,

She would make them write poems, novels and paint,

Paintings like never before, with a passion molded in romance.

She pray that  men could rise above sexual fantasies,

She aspires to become an art, an inspiration.

Alas! her aura of romance is but pathetic fancy,

For romance, as she wishes, is but a joke to modern men.

She pities the dullness of our era, this unromantic jungle.

This epoch  without castles, dungeons and princes.

She is bored by this world without fairy, witches and happy ending.

She misses the romantics maybe because of her naiveté,

Or she had been rocked by false tales of quixotic lovers,

Or perhaps, she is simply some lunatic, a mind living in fairyland.

  

I too pity her much, much to sympathize.

Though I am not a Tennyson or Byron or a poetic heart,

Nor I am Don Quixote , Don Juan or a chivalrous prince,

I too feel lost in this materialistic universe of ladies.

We both are lost in romance like sad clowns on stages.


Brief history: i wrote this in response to another of my poem The jerk because i thought i had generalized too much.
Shared with the one stop poetry community.

The Romantic

In solitude I have found Knowledge

 By Mory Keita

In solitude I have found knowledge I sought,

More desirous than treasures of Alexander,

Knowledge that shall satisfy till thy riches pale,

For thy treasures guide thou to voracious thirst.

If thou would to bribe me with golden myriad,

Or if thou would to offer to me Midas’golden hand,

I shall not be tempted, nor shall I smile of envy.                                                 
Why should I, when I hold papyrus from my Lord?

If thou are prepared to abandon futility to join me,

I shall show to thy greedy sight fairest of all wanders,

And thou shall fall on thy knees in front of thy Lord,

For, he dwelled his grace upon me with this wisdom.

                                                                                                                       

Thus, thou shall acquire wealth beyond Alexander’s,

And thou shall cherish thyself more than treasures.

In solitude I have found Knowledge

sound of water

By Mory Keita

Sound of pattering water on floor,
Drops  jump like frogs in river,

Atoms collide in the quantum like cars,

Winds blow and carry it to my hears,

"A poetic symphony in nature", I wonder,

"What a pacific resonance", I thought.

sound of water

Untitled

By Mory keita

The sun shades in darkness when I close my eyes,

Stars and moon disappear when sun rise from its sleep,

The stillness of night become troubled at dawn,

Peace is unsustainable in face of greed and hatred,

Love and friendship vanish  into oblivion with time,

Wisdom and deeds of the saint may not be remembered,

The universe has a beginning in the big bang and an end,

Life is but a brief journey of joy and sadness,

All fade in the silent harmony of death,

Tell me, O death what is eternal? Tell me, what is man?


Share your poem at one shot poetry.

Untitled

Fire extinguisher

By Mory Keita

I didn’t know she was flirting with me,

She stared at me oddly, with a smile on her face,

Leaning against the table as we spoke,

Touching her dark brownish hair,

Laughing at my silly jokes, poking me.

Methought she laughed because of my dialect,

Because people always laugh around me,

But no, she smiled whether I spoke or not.

I didn't know she was waiting for me,

She asked me personal questions,

Complimented me for the silliest things:

What book are you reading? what is it about?

How did you learn French? I love your smile,

So, will you help me with my project?

These were normal questions to me,

Thus, I gave her friendly answers.
how can a sixteen years old read such signs?

I didn't feel the blazing  flame within her heart.

Tho’ I would ignore her sometimes,

She always acknowledged me, spoke to me.

She forced me to talk of things I didn't want to talk about,

I felt for once that I wasn’t being interviewed.

I wanted to tell her that I loved her,

Friends advised me to not make a fool out of myself,

So, I didn’t brush a word--oh silly me.

I didn’t see that I was unintentionally hurting her.

She proposed to me three times to hang out,

And I, an imbecile, replied that I had to study.

She didn’t give up on me,she stood by along the way.

Either did i see the fireman with his fire extinguisher.

He came into her life slowly with appreciation,

He wooed her with adventurous tales while I stood by.

She felt for him with such celerity, but I stood by.

A new flame grew in her heart, and the old was extinguished.

Note: I didn’t want to publish this poem on my blog, but I felt that I should not be ashamed and that I needed to “let it out” by sharing this story with others.

Fire extinguisher