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MY POETRY HOME — trespassers welcome
(For the infant Daniel Yeboah Herigstad of Norway) Written on the road to Kaiama from Ilorin — Nigeria.
(Monday, November 19, 2001) Such a warm and secure abode
you are enjoying here:
its biometrically layered padding
is blissfully shock-absorbent,
thanks to some self-adjusting,
pneumatic fluid mechanics.
(And) even though rather dark and
craftily walled-in, yet its
easy elasticity gives comfort to
your fast-growing form.
It is a disjunctive story from my side.
I am a wandering loner, distraught and fleeing,
yet knowing not where I am headed;
but nonetheless following any road anyway
and hoping to eventually get there somehow.
This sorry condition renders me, I suppose,
not any better off than my Great Cousins of old
who learned to eat manna from heaven –
I mean those starving Jews whom Moishe led in
extreme desert wastelands for ages in search of
an unfound Promised Land.
I came from earth, Sir: from what someone
had called Dorisland, the jewel of our
solar system then, the only orb where
life found a land of milk and honey in surfeit.
But I'm sorry to report to you, young Sir,
that 'tis all but a different story altogether now.
Planet earth has mutated from Dorisland to
no man's kitchen – all we've got now is
a messy cauldron seething forth with some
oddities of cultus disparitas that
occasionally spurt out and come to you whole,
or in doughy plashes full of all the miasma of
religious ingredients that make up
the foul community soup.
(And) we now have too many a
self-appointed cook spoiling the broth
real bad; including many a cut-throat
anarchist who would neither live to grow old
nor let his neighbours read their mails
without threats of lethal anthrax spores.
The planet also harbours many a grey-haired
superpatriot who set themselves apart under
their own national flags and sneer at
other nations: paranoid schizophrenics with
apocalyptic phantasies and delusions of
grandeur who send men in jungle fatigues
to distant climes at heavy expense
to slaughter hapless civilians with whom
they have no quarrel.
Earth is, my dear mister, now a tale of
love long forgotten; a divided clan wherein
(paraphrasing Clerk): breath burns (much) more
sulphurate and blood so readily calcifies into
handy boulders for brother to hurl against
brother without any inkling of remorse.
I intend not to alarm you, dear Master Daniel;
though some rather unsavoury tidings
I have come to report today.
But having made my report to you in truth,
I beg to take my leave right away;
and I will suggest that you should rather
stay put in here and resist all
natural labours to expel you from this
secure uterine abode of yours;
for I'm afraid the outside world to which
you shall be exposed is not half as
kindly disposed as this nascent
phase of your life.
But in the event that many sterile hands
in white gloves must incise through flesh
with lancets so as to force you out, then
you shall surely be seeing me and your
overjoyed father falling over each other
to welcome you to a brave new world that
we have somehow managed to create,
far away from the colloquial amplitudes of
man's pristine ethnocentricities.
Till then, thanx for hosting me so glamorously
in your mama's permissive womb – ta ta.
© 2001, M-Auwal Gene III. All Rights Reserved
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