رؤى بني مصطفى

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker slapped the back of my head and made me stand in the corner for not knowing the difference

,People have been trying to kill me since I was born a man tells his son, trying to explain .the wisdom of learning a second tongue It’s an old story from the previous century

I read of a man who stood to speak At the funeral of a friend He referred to the dates on the tombstone From the beginning...to the end

Little maidens, when you look ,On this little story-book Reading with attentive eye ,Its enticing history

Life has dark secrets; and the hearts are few –That treasure not some sorrow from the world ,A sorrow silent, gloomy, and unknown .Yet colouring the future from the past

I do not know if the world has lied I have lied I do not know if the world has conspired against love I have conspired against love

The dog trots freely in the street and sees reality and the things he sees are bigger than himself

To fling my arms wide ,In some place of the sun To whirl and to dance

Democracy will not come Today, this year Nor ever .Through compromise and fear

Praise the restless beds Praise the beds that do not adjust that won't lift the head to feed or lower for shots

Beanville. Tea party. Five black cats & a white boy. Chitlin ,circuit. Gravy-colored suits

.We’re having a Halloween party at school !I’m dressed up like Dracula. Man, I look cool .I dyed my hair black, and I cut off my bangs .I’m wearing a cape and some fake plastic fangs

,They are the raw, monotonous skies The faded placards and iron rails .Passed by in narrow streets of rain Theirs are the indistinct thin cries

?Who would be a turtle who could help it ,A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet she can ill afford the chances she must take .in rowing toward the grasses that she eats

.I hadn’t met his kind before ,His misericord face – really like a joke on his father – blurred ;as if from years of polish

The whiskey stink of rot has settled in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises .when I touch the dying tomato plants

Driving from my parent’s home to Cochin last Friday ,morning, I saw my mother ,beside me

But, when time pulls lives apart Hold your own When everything is fluid, nothing can be known with any certainty Hold your own

Oh button, don’t go thinking we loved pianos .more than elephants, air conditioning more than air We loved honey, just loved it, and went into stores .to smell the sweet perfume of unworn leather shoes

,I’m standing here inside my skin which will do for a Human Remains Pouch .for the moment. Look down there (up here) Quickly. Slowly. This is my front room

I will go with my Father a-ploughing  ,To the Green Field by the sea  And the rooks and corbies and seagulls  .Will come flocking after me 

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach  .Appearing, show’d the ruddy morn’s approach  ,Now Betty from her master’s bed had flown  .And softly stole to discompose her own 

.Take back your suit It came when I was weary and distraught ?With hunger. Could I guess the fruit you brought  ,I ate in mere desire of any food

I cast a backward look—how changed !The scenes of other days I walk, a wearied man, estranged .From youth’s delightful ways

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy ,To those who woo her with too slavish knees ,But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy ;And dotes the more upon a heart at ease

:A thing of beauty is a joy for ever Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth ;And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things

,Little think’st thou, poor flower ,Whom I’ve watch’d six or seven days And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour ,Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise

All Kings, and all their favourites All glory’ of honors, beauties, wits ,The Sun it selfe, which makes times, as they passe Is elder by a yeare, now, than it was

,Sweetest love, I do not go ,For weariness of thee Nor in hope the world can show ;A fitter love for me