A Word is Born

The quil blots its ink and a word is born

Hot Ether

whose gorgeous aura burns lambent like ether set on fire

Girl in Mini-Skirt

because a nubile girl in mini-skirt just walked by;

Spirit Soaring

and the Spirit soars in seminal poetics;

Poet's Muse

as the Poet's mighty muse parts the skies;

Universe Rattled

then the Universe is rattled avant-garde;

Whispering Hands

as two anonymous hands whispered to a heart;

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MY POETRY HOME — trespassers welcome

tokunbo ajai To Tokunbo Ajai
Of NTA News & Current Affairs
Written at Home (GRA) Ilorin — Nigeria.
(Saturday, August 26th, 2000)
You would be amazed to know
how suddenly I had to make a
volte-face in life soon after
death's unwelcome ill-winds
blew across your path and swept you off,
ruining the grace which your winsome
appearance used to lend to the
austere boredom that the screen of my
black-and-white JVC TV could offer.

A late but elaborate supper I was
about to enjoy that night when the shock of it
hit me real awfully from the news at nine,
like a ton of hard-baked bricks carelessly
dropping from the skies.

Hence all the choice delicacies
had to be feasted upon by flies and
wriggled into by worms the following morning
because your last "good night",
as replayed several times on the screen,
really badly soured my appetite.

That last "good night" of yours meant that,
for ever and aye, we have been bereaved of
your worthy, charming, treasurable presence.

How cruel!

For the first time ever in my wild, upbeat life
I missed a groovy night party in town and
I slept in fits and seizures on the floor,
rapturous in cogitation amidst
sobs, hiccoughs and sighs.

Abike Dabiri was deadly grim and inert on News Line
the following Sunday, while Yusuf Addy only managed to
put on a show of manly ataraxia.

Cyril Stober was a ghost in grief, and even my
wilful cat felt the gloom in the air but
she went out and came home pregnant.

These days I fondly think of you at least
every 9:00 p.m. and I remain so (very) unstrung:
I expect me to die suddenly too!

Friends have said I won't die though, but I have
(already) written a poem for my epitaph anyway.

I have also lost faith in many of
the funs of youthful frisks now, and I've again
gotten hold of vestal Religion.

I even went to church on Sunday, then visited
the electronics stores on Monday so that
I may have the opportunity of seeing your
final interment in full colour on the screen of
the new colour TV I bought.

© 2000, M-Auwal Gene III. All Rights Reserved
Download or Open PDF Version

"Lilies that fester smell far worst than weeds."