I wrote a poem about how weak I am
The world paid no attention
I left for the river to have it escort my sorrow
Then downstream I realized that my strength was on the land
But I was already to far away to return
So I made land out of water
By sacrificing my being as a deterrent of currents
So I could survive the world’s complexities.
I wrote poems about love
And sometimes in the filthy unrequition
A kind of magic potion that ensured that I had to fight
Even in instances crystal love graced my realms
But I am a book without covers
So I went to the book-binders and they advised
That I could use my immediate skin as the cover
For time would avail its healing touch as long as I lived.
I wrote a poem my friend
Exulting the reality that I wasn’t done with poetry
To live simply and in silence as I can
In the middle of throes, truncheon and chance
All I ever wanted was to be a bottomless ocean
To accommodate all the love I could
But I realized that love comes from within
As shared happiness is an etched pain in disguise.
I wrote a poem
Of solitude, beauty and for the people I love
As my magnum opus to let my name be remembered
But I had too much of these
That came out of the experience of tears
As all I wanted was to be with those who understood
The language of an impalpable awareness of self
And to live as moderately as I can so I could attain peace.
I kept writing on love and romance
All its fire, bullets, gasoline and trigger
I wanted it as much as I could get
And in all its impurities and imperfections
To stand out against devaluation once I attained it
The beauty of love would delicately warm my soul
And that I am loved in return is an accomplishment of the soul
For what is life if we can’t share it with another?
I have now understood that all these make me
The poet’s work is all in us
I envy the religion of the river
Its decree to flow, the faith of purpose and the volatility
But if I may proclaim; poems are the activities of life
In all consolation, motivation and satisfaction
I am aware of the barricades of life and love
And there is a poem of de-tour that lives inside me.
© Eddy Ongili 2015