Euphony of Myself by Oladehinde Ibikunle

The eulogy of my spirit

Which is the euphony of myself, 

My soul rises from His temple

Bearing a big lamp

Bows in worship of poetry.

I am that undaunted pen

That writes on an uneven tablet

Some rhetoric pentametres.

I am the poet of ludicrous limericks, 

I am the poet of witty didactics.

I write of carnality, I write of spirituality 

Of loathing and of loving.

I am the vibrant writer for the bored, 

I am the philosophical poet of the day

Writing melancholies of life's ephemiralty.

I am the bare footed bard

I am the mortal poet

With an indefatigable heart

Toiling an inexorable path

To the starry sky.

I write verses of elegaic dirge, 

I write odes to new moppet.

I am for the dead - I am for the living

The Sun has furiously frown'd at me-

At same me, the Sun has sedately smiled.

I am the worthless bagatelle; 

I am the rejected lad

I am the celebrated bard.

I thought of pleasures of Heaven

I thought of pains of Hell

If they were real, I would make one; 

But if not, I would make none.

I have felt the chagrin of failure

As much as the prestige of success, 

I moan'd and winced in distress

And I have rejoiced in great euphoria.

I am the rejected - I am the celebrated

I have recieved unmentionable hatred

As much as immeasureable love.

Thus, ask you me: 

Whence are all these, 

Whither are all these? 

I have not the answer

For I, myself, do not know.

But go you thither

To that soul of mine

That worships His god of poetry.

When I sleep

It is but poetry, 

When I am sad, let me write

For I will be happy.

When I am happy, let me write

For it will make me pensive.

Poetry is the path I tread

My head is full of it

My heart is brim'd of it

My whole soul is in it.

From poetry I am drunk

It controls my thought

It controls my life

Let my mouth be mute

My fingers and pen will never be mute.

An urgly physiognomy I possess

But my fingers are most beautiful

And for these reasons, a poet I be

I have no god, no love, no hobby

Poetry is my all.

I ate in the dish of poetry

Witty are mine own words, 

I drank from the eternal cup

Of water poison'd of poetry

I have been cursed of poetry

In it I live

And in it shall I die! 

Or let me die now

And wrap me with poems

And bare me to the cemetary

A coffin of poet, a grave of poet

I will be glad I die in poetry.