My Favorite Poet

Doth it not thrill thee, Poet, Dead and dust though thy art, To feel how I press thy singing Close to my heart? As though they were dried palm leaves In Indian catalogue, your works I would press so close To my chest like man's third-leg Snuggling to the thigh. I count The beats straineously of the melody, The vibrations of your works strike Me to rhapsody. Who am I then? A little child by the stream Waiting for your sensual song, bird To bide me somnolent In a reveberating cacophony Redolent of the train swiftly buzzing by, The train that was you. I would often sit at the threshold and wait Till the moon grow to become sickle-thin And the monstrouos night has sucked away All the oil in my clay lamp. I still stay on Like a good sentry, my eyes rummage hungrily Through the pockets of a page, Where the blood of your ink was shed- For your sojourner I have become. We will go together In peregrination into the labyrinth Of all those pages from the cream, That was your brain. I will be the mute acolyte, Benignly I will wend, Stepping into the trail you left like Smoke unconcerned about direction, Its flow turbulent, not the lamina vein Of subtlety. Sometimes I feel cold, My garb, goose bumps, At the stark, sometimes shocking Reality of your judgements. You were and still is a victim of truth, And I gloat at your judgements jealously, Almost perfect. When not correct, you were Honest, at least. I would often dream Of you smoking your pipe; Your small, dainty frame silhouette nailed To the wall by the pyrexed testis Of electric bulb as Jesus to the cross. Then your pipe bleed forth smoke Like blood from fresh wound, seeping out Ceaselessly, ideas sream forth from your brain Like liquid from a boiling pot Frothing over. So I will proudly say I have Some portion of your blood in me To inspire my dazed memory On those dark gloomy days. for my uncle and late Nigerian Poet, Chris Okigbo. (c) Onyebuchi, 2011.