Michael Buhagiar Poems

In psychiatry term in medical school
There were some who genuinely loved the schizophrenics
In their condition of perpetually living the Fool
Which Freud nor drugs nor volts could fix.
...

He glanced at the first bright sliver to glow
Which many would harvest and worship alone,
And yawned, thinking only of how she would grow
To the diva as Woman entrancing the throne.
...

Towers, turrets, high walls all made
Of sand gold-gleaming in noonday rays…
He would send his son with bucket and spade
To build and build under stringent gaze.
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It starts with a seed, whose segments gather
A trust protecting the wealth of their ancestry
With promise of flowers and a soaring majesty
And fruits to ravish you, like any other;
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A solitary cannon to the sunset points.
Idle gunners talk and smoke
And hook their heels in the sandstone’s joints
In a world the gaping centuries cloak.
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A huge propeller, shed like Palinurus,
Overlies a ridge or river-bed
Whose dusty fissures fill the canvas,
On its triad of rusty blades the faded
...

A more langorous moon is dreaming this night:
Like a beauty on several cushions reposing
Who caresses with a hand discreet and light
The contour of her breasts before the closing
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The gentle rain these sad gardens drink
To the harbour beyond goes home again,
As street lamps and orange foglights prink
The gentle rain.
...

A light breeze rustles the leaves; so calm
They sit perched along the weathered arm
Ruffling downs, or suddenly they stab
At some enemy marching sharply within.
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Is still alive at fifty: clean of heroin,
Yet acid back then helped scour the eye
Of scum that sees two lovers sin:
The one hell-black, the other sky.
...