I
A
poet may curse thousand tongue
on
a collection of species who mock Homer
with
their roots, muse and chants of thousand years.
Yet,
in the silence of elliptical musings,
and
unrivalled casuistry that chimes the Capitalists.
Chaucer,
Pope, Eliot lay in linear acceptance
-
of a ritual order,
before
the vacuum of parallel rhetoric,
relic
of tunes and clairvoyant voices.
But
he clamps Goethe in fictional tongs,
swears
by the Truth of the Bible
and
peace of the Holy Quran.
Who
bargains a poem for a bottle of wine
to
behold themselves found in a cask of beer,
and
a hearth for cold nights of insomniac muse –
innuendoes
caressing a body falling apart?
A
poet may rise like fire
from
the fecund slums of Ibadan,
the
red earth of the Congo,
and
coal-tarred dialects of East Africa
into
monuments like five-star hotels in Frankfurt
before
we listen to the repose of water
and
the voice that seeps into the heart of mountains.
No comments:
Post a Comment