Will you, my love?

     By Mory Keita

An old woman once told me,

“You'll die, boy. Do not fear the dark.

Death is nothing.

What matter is how you will be remembered, your legacy.”

I wonder, my love, will you love me?

will you love me when darkness falls upon me,

When I am cold and still like a frozen fish,

when I shall speak and sight no more?

Will you love me when I am rotten and stinky,

When maggots shall crawl in me, feast upon my flesh like crows?

when I am but dust, Then my love,

will you hold me in your wings and murmur

into my ear,“I love you.”

Feel my glacial skin against your fairness,

Press your lips against mine

And bite the dust as you now bite my lips?

Will you wait for me until the afterlife, if there is one?

Will you spend your old days reminiscing upon the springs and summer of our days?

Will you even cry for me for years or a couple of a months?

Will you remember me or fall into another lover's arms?

Then my love, What is love? what is death? why live? why love?

For love is death and death is oblivion

and in oblivion we fall.

Will you, my love?

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

The jerk, a poem

By Mory Keita ( This is a revised version of the previous poem.)

He is the jerk, dreams of girls.

He is the charming prince in their reveries,

The bold superman who knows how to care.

They love him because he is manly,                                                          

And he loves them because they love him.

Yeah, he is the jerk, the man.

He is the one who knows how to woo girls.

He is one who makes them cry tears of love at nights.

Yeah, he is the king, the boss of their hearts.

He holds the key to female’s hearts,

And jealously keeps its secret with malice.

He walks like a star, and speaks like a dork.

Look! He is the master of the game.

The chess-player who has mastered mind-games;

Yeah, he is the jerk the best at his game.

He has learned that a girl’s heart his a chess game,

So he has become a dauntless chess player.

He deceitfully manipulates its 16 pieces like a "real man".

Sometimes, I envy the jerk and his jerky tricks;

Truly, he is a skilful master of psychology.

For, though he is a bloody manipulative “bad boy”,

He has earned the dreams of men : women’s hearts.

The jerk, a poem

Death Song of Boromir

                                  By J.R.R Tolkien from The Lord Of The Rings

Boromir was a mighty man encompassing human both man strength and weakness. Ready this article to learn about Boromir

Aragorn:
Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass
grows
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it
goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you
bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide
and grey;
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of
Denethor.'
'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked
afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men
are.'

Legolas:
From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from
the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it
moans.
'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring
to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.'
'Ask not of me where he doth dwell -- so many bones
there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the
stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing
Sea.
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind
sends to me!'
'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs
south,
But you came not with the ailing gulls from the grey
sea's mouth.'

Aragorn:
From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past
the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you
bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he
fought.
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they do the water
brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid
to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its
breast.'
'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward
gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'

Death Song of Boromir

When the Rose is gone

By Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkh ( Rumi)

When the rose is gone and the garden faded
you will no longer hear the nightingale's song.
The Beloved is all; the lover just a veil.
The Beloved is living; the lover a dead thing.
If love withholds its strengthening care,
the lover is left like a bird without care,
the lover is left like a bird without wings.
How will I be awake and aware
if the light of the Beloved is absent?
Love wills that this Word be brought forth

When the Rose is gone

My heart is like a star

                                                      By Mory Keita

My heart is like a star, brighter that Sirius.

Its light illuminates this dull world,

Like sun shine upon us at dawn.

When my heart shall be broken,

The stars shall shatter like broken mirror

And darkness shall envelope this world.

Without my love there is no love,

Without my light there is no light,

And without light, night shall lonely sleep.

O heart, what is this world without light?

My heart is a star perched above clouds.

When the stars shall shatter, my heart shall break.

But, as long as Sirius and its companion shine,

My love shall always illuminate this dull world

My heart is like a star

Midas -- A poem

                                                     By Mory Keita

O Muse who sings undying songs into my ears,

Sing unto me songs of that mighty king fate wronged.

When he stood atop Olympus, above cold-hearted Hera,

And said unto the people of Pessinus and to all of Greece,

“I have amassed fortune beyond the Olympian himself,

if you follow me, I shall lead you to greater fortune.”

And the priests of the temple of Hera said unto him,

“O son of Gordias! do not let the curse for your sacrilege

Befall upon your house and people. Beware of the immortals.”

And wise men amongst the people of pessinus came unto him.

They said, "O mighty king! When shall this treasure befall upon us?

Surely we shall hail your name if you fill this town with treasures.”

He unwrapped the golden turban from his hand and said,

“O my people, this is our treasure. Your wish has been granted.”

And they said, “By Hermes,  is  this the granted treasure?”

He raised his hand towards Helios, bursting out of laughter,

“Hermes is poor.  This hand of mine shall enrich us. Hail me.”

And they asked, “Show us gleam of it, if you are truthful.”

He walked in the courtyard and touched a pot. It turned gold.

They sang his name, bowed to him. Cold-hearted Hera burned.

He called upon his young daughter to feast his miracle,

But lo and behold!had he touched her that she turned golden.

“O fate! My beautiful daughter, she is cold like water.”

 Midas battered his chest, felt upon his knees in imploring.

He ran to the priests demanding the mercy of the Olympian,

But had he touched them that they too turned gold.

And so were all the peoples of pessinus turned into gold by Midas touch.

And it is said that since that day Midas became poorer and died miserable.

Midas -- A poem

He Wishes For The ClothsOf Heaven By W,B Yeats

I thought i would share with you one of my favorite poems , W.B Yeats' He wishes for the clothes of heaven. despite its brevity  this poem conveys strong emotions and thoughts.

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

He Wishes For The ClothsOf Heaven By W,B Yeats

A propos de l'amour et de la Beauté

Est-il possible d’aimer  sans beauté ou de voir de la beauté sans l’amour ? Par beauté, je parle de l’apparence physique et par amour, du sentiment qui nous rajeunis. Les anciens maitres de philosophie et de science nous apprennent que l’amour est une manifestation de la beauté. Alors, je me demande que ’ce qui manifeste l’amour. Es la beauté ?  Soyons raisonnable, est-il possible de séparer les deux ? Peut-on imaginer même l’amour sans une couverture de beauté ? 

La découverte de la signification du mot «  amour » est certes une tache qui demande de la patience et de ferveur et surtout de l’expérience. Cette expérience, à mon avis, vient avec le temps. Ces implications nous apparaissent et changent comme des saisons. C’est une alternance qui nous fait questionner l’existence d’une réalité. Par-là, je parle de réalité amoureuse et non pas de la connaissance du sentiment en elle-même.

Je ne me considère de n’importe quelle façon comme un charmant garçon, ni cime une personne avec une connaissance du monde de la science ou de la poésie qui égal celle des Socrate, Newton, Platon et Baudelaire. Ma connaissance et compréhension de l’amour n’est pas livresque et elle ne dérive nullement d’un expriment scientifique ou d’une sensation poétique, mais de leçons j’ai tiré de mes expérience amoureuses. Alors, cher lecteurs, Que penser vous de l’amour et elle reconnaissable ? Pourquoi ou pourquoi pas ?

A propos de l'amour et de la Beauté

Penelope --- A poem

By Mory Keita

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A day without my love is a day without sunshine,

And a night spent without him is a starless night.

Sunsets and sunrises do but, like the sea, part us.

Stars shadow compared to his beauty and majesty,

Moon and sun, perched there above Olympus like clouds,

Envy our eternal happiness for all are but paltry jewelries.

Light and dark are but cruel illusion to compress our love.

Why should we abide by the laws of nature?

Why should we rest our love on these seashores?

A day without my love is eternity spent in solitude,

And night spent without him is like a barren horizon.

Fight my love, O my brave king, rage like wounded wind.

I shall wait for your return on every Ithacan seashore singing;

Singing with wounded wind songs of thou lost and return,

“O there he comes, there he stands, and there is my love,”

Fight my love like the wind, for thou heart art ageless.

O Olympians when shall thou return my love to my heart?

For like a falling star, my heart sinks into seas of sorrow.

Penelope --- A poem

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

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

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

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