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Anazodo Okwudili Poem
In that old dorm,
Mates were like they in bleak hostility.
At home we tried lies for fatter baggage
And we were happier when we'd got
Infrated purses. But no much
Was so much for starving bowels;
And limbs too lean, needing rations
For smith men.
Lean hands and feet were the magicians' reed
And food they said needed go there
But there were no food, except a mixture
Of beans and ...
Certainly a mixture, but not a soul
Could tell for certain what.
And we held by the passion of parched tongues,
And no water to aid a mole share
would rather let the unknown be.
But such a ration!
And one could help oneself in some way.
I tried the brain that came
Since lies I'd learnt
Of plates wandering on their own.
I would have one wandering, while
The other I hold stilled -
An inch... and more from my crow's feet.
A moment came, and wandering
I took to myself, toiling
Or appearing to since success
In this game required a show of skill.
Searching out a grey plate
Among grey tables was a task
And more when at first sight
I must pretend not to have seen it.
But I did stop at length,
Swearing, cursing!
"Who did bring my plate here?"
No answers, except eyes blinking ruefully;
And much a gain, I had to go now.
If joy was that which crept into
My tiny heart, a part at the rear
Was timed to have it short.
And the po-faced lad was beginning
To snarl, saying he knew
This game of double ration
I shouldn't, he warned
Try his table another time.
Copyright © Anazodo Okwudili | Year Posted 2006
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Details |
Anazodo Okwudili Poem
Sure it was a wave
Ended in a scratch
Across my temple. And much
I could do to tell this maiden
It wasn't her I dared my precious
Moment to laud. And she walked by
Frowning, since perhaps she knew a scratch-
And if one should follow up a wave,
She could tell that difference
Between a squint and a dim.
She's beginning to swagger
And this grin of impersonality
Has creased her cheeks;
To tell me perhaps of this blow
And she would let it again
If not warned, I tried to fool around more.
But this was she at the pew
Who before the form'
Was read by the bearded Vicar
Always turned to seek my hand for peace
And when the pew was worn
She took to a porch where I found out
A salaam to the altar was better
And how better without her,
I did not see. And I took my time
To let her see it could without me be hell
Then I closed my palms over my mouth
And gently let moisture
For my palms mustn't remain roughened;
And hers I knew a supple mass
Would want one good enough for a tarry.
A tarry certainly for the smile that came;
And these palms- not involved with bricks
Had to the owner held out chance.
A chance, thought I and a smile
Sometime at the roads
But see her whose smile would here
Matter most, swaggering away,
Hurting numberless feelings
Yet I know she would think of peace
With shakes and hugs
If only the Vicar were here
Copyright © Anazodo Okwudili | Year Posted 2006
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