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

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

Ulysses by Alfred,Lord Tennyson

    Ulysses is most certainly   my favorite poem. I hope you will enjoy it.            


Ulysses     







It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though

We are not now that strength which in the old days

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,

One equal-temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Ulysses by Alfred,Lord Tennyson