Age of Jahiliyah

A blog of wide and varied interest, including Islam, Muslims, Poetry, Art and much more.

Archive for the day “May 17, 2007”

Bird by Pablo Neruda

It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air –
and there, night came in.

When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography –
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.

Prophecy by Elinor Wylie

I shall lie hidden in a hut
In the middle of an alder wood,
Wich the back door blind and bolted shut,
And the front door locked for good.

I shall lie folded like a saint,
Lapped in a scented linen sheet,
On a bedstead striped with bright-blue paint,
Narrow and cold and neat.

The midnight will be glassy black
Behind the panes, which wind about
To set his mouth against a crack
And blow the candle out.

The House of Bush by Carol Muske Dukes

This is the house of madnesss is the man who sits in the house of madness.
This is the time of the man named Bush who sits in the house of madness.
This is a time-bomb ticking away in the time of the man named Bush who
sits in the house of madness.This is the child strapped to the bomb ticking away the time of the man
named Bush who sits in the house of madness.
This is the ravaged land of the child strapped to the bomb ticking away
the time of the man named Bush who sits in the house of madness.

These are the years and the cries of loss, the starving poor,
the reeling stocks, the chanting young, the face of the child
strapped to the bomb ticking away the time of the man named Bush
who sits in the house of madness.

These are the oil wells pumping dry, the corporate lies, the Enron ties,
the reeling stocks, the jobless lines, the face of the child strapped to
the bomb ticking away by a cyclone fence with a nickel bag in Our Hometown
in the time of the man named Bush who sits in the house of madness.

These are the oil wells across the sea, the dictator’s deal, the
torturer’s cage, the affairs of state in the ravaged land of the child
strapped to the bomb ticking away in the time of the man named Bush who
sits alone in the all-White House of madness.

Trees by Joyce Kilmer

(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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