Euphony Of Myself Poem by Joseph 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.