For you, on your birthday
A dozen pens
And a thousand pages
Words still elude
Refusing to allow the rendition
Properly of my disarray composition
In a sense perfect enough
To paint a befitting picture…
It is as if the envious gods
Are conspiring against this venture
Or maybe Aphrodite herself
Wouldn’t allow another to be so dotted
Perhaps their apostle, Donne
Is bent on singing for you too
From the happy folio of Master Shakespeare.
Whatever it is
Stubbornly I forge ahead
Like a love struck stubborn stud,
Which in a way I am,
No way am I going to leave your tribute
To those their loyalty remains an unknown factor
So I must forge on.
I must write my love a song
Nightingale’s voice cannot do justice to
Fela’s drummers can’t render adequate support
Not for the inadequacy of effort
But for the lack of proportionate wit.
And where shall I perform
This never heard before wonder?
The Globe Theater is not grand enough
Its splendor Staple center would demean
And its status scared by the lowly Maracana.
The stars and moon be damned
If they as slightly dare to complain
How can they expect this masterpiece
To be created for them?
So, I ask them:
Can they rival your purity of soul? No.
Or your brightness of light? No.
Or your sparkling of radiance? No.
Or your precision of grace? No
Can they not see the glowing Sun
pay homage to your uniqueness?
That Lorikeet who dared question
My choice of recipient
Has been warned never to repeat such nonsense
As the Zebra who doubted the superiority
Of your exquisite exterior magnificence;
Could he not see yours is of finer make?
I swear, I will turn Atlantic to ink
And exhaust the Amazon trees for paper
I will invite insomnia and do an Hazare
Until the perfect words roll on sheets
I will not relent a bit, the world be deuced.
Today is your day, my love
And I must sing for you tonight
Directly I will render the magnum opus
From my heart to yours without medium
This universe has never witnessed
Two systems in greater sync.
Penned: 2:00am August 5, 2012 Presented: August 7, 2012