Sunday, January 22, 2017

under the mango tree the poet

under the mango tree the poet sat
determined to be inspired to write
to say something;
outside the shade
five boys there are
mirthful at their play they are;
not too high up a bough
the mango fruit hangs confidently
it's dark green and though robust and plump
it's still not half a fist;
the boys found rocks
upwards they hurled them towards the mango fruit
but they're poor marksmen
the rocks just kissed thin leaves and brown branches;
the mango fruit just laughed inwardly
the boys got tired and cursed their fate
under their breaths;
under the mango tree the poet sat
and wrote ---
O mango fruit, time will come when you will be
fist-sized and golden and ready
and will fall towards the earth 
as is ordained
the boys might not be here nor I
to witness this unfolding
but, Time will come.

by the Rules, we all must abide,
the Universe is perfect by Itself.

Sunday, January 01, 2017

they say it takes a poet

it has been so long since the last time I was able to post a blog entry.   

it really comes.  this seemingly dry spell, or rather, this lazy, uninspired period.  I cannot deny it. yes, the mind is able to meander and so many thoughts and feelings had marched in succession.  

indeed! a parade of insights and realizations that were wanting to be put into words and somehow be shared.  but sadly, the mind could not will the pen to write, to leave curlicues of words, to smear the white, blank sheet of paper and fill it up with ideas, hopefully to communicate, to reach somebody, to attempt to be at one in spirit ...

and happily, the mind again is able to will the fingers to hop excitedly over the letters of the keyboard, ten blithe, bony tap dancers forming words, phrases, sentences.  birthing the germs of thought in the mind, giving them form and body that others may see them and have the chance to think about them as well, perhaps to disagree or agree, to contradict or acquiesce, but, above all to be able to share in what the mind experienced and realized.

this was a very old poem i wrote that i feel somehow expresses the idea how there are times we are afraid to share an experience, an insight, a realization ----

they say it takes a poet
to see such beauty from a stone
for
although the sea has polished off
it's barren face
it casts no reflection of the Sun;

they say it takes a poet
to hear sweet music from a brook
as it squirms and circles round
while it flows
and wrinkles like a pauper's cloak;

the thing is we are all poets
but this we do ignore
for we are all afraid to see
that we are a wrinkled brook
and we have our own unpolished stones.

Tuesday, June 07, 2016

poetry in motion

he dabbled in poetry.  they were amateurish, sort of, and his verses were simple but they connect and they communicate and amuse which is what poems are supposed to do.  most of his verses were about himself and his craft and about the persons he gets to tangle with. or, box with.

for, he was a boxer.

and he gets to be inside the boxing "ring" which is of course a squared arena fenced  in with ropes where he and his opponent hit each other with gloved fists until the better man triumphs.

before him, the sport of boxing was mostly about physical power and sheer violence.  boxing was most times two gladiators with tensed muscles and strained physiques raining devastating blows at each other, toe-to-toe, till one body succumbs to the fatigue, the hurt, and the humiliation of defeat.

he changed all that.

for he was a poet.  a poet in motion.  as one of his verses declared, he

stung like a bee,
floated like a butterfly ... 

atop the square ring, he danced; he showed spectators that boxers are not all brawn, but, they have brains as well; that boxing can be a "thinking" sport, that physical power and sheer violence can be overwhelmed by strategy and planning, by grace in movement, by poetry in motion.     

he always declared he is The Greatest. his boxing feats in world heavyweight division will attest to this.  yet, many say that his greatness even lies outside the boxing world.  he has become an icon, especially for the colored man, for he has shown that one can rise beyond the pigmentation of one's skin, if one can will himself to do so.  as he did.

he is gone now. he died June 3.

Muhammad Ali.  

so long .. tonight i will relive the pinpoint jabs, 
the Ali shuffle, 
the gladiator's smile, 
the rope-a-dope,

the poet in motion ...