Wednesday, May 4, 2011

I WILL NOT WRITE THE POEM

If a poem is crimson blood colour
Painted with the brush of death
On the innocent face of truth and valour
Then I will not write it.

If a poem is the parch land of hunger
Inflicted upon the stomach of Anger
Then I will not write it
And if a poem is the hot torrent of vengeance
That pours like some cold unforgiving semblance
I will not write it.

If a poem is a senator
Selling the soul of the sacred soil
On a platter of nickels and dimes 
Then I will not write it.

If a poem is the hammer of greed
Used to smash the skull of common treasury 
Or the broom of bad
Used to sweep the dust of good
Then I will not write it.

I will not write the poem.

But if a poem’s face is powdered with a pancake of freedom
And its torso rubbed with the cream of stardom
And its spirit blessed with the guts of Samson
To push down walls of infamy
And say no to the messed up hands of the Mickey Mouse ‘House’
Then I will write it.

I will gleefully write a poem if it is the dry rag
Used to collect the lost water of struggle
Into a basin of hope.

I will write a poem if it is the instrument that solders the broken iron of our lost glory.
I will write a poem if it is the breast from which Thirst can suck from.

And if I write a poem I will know that a poem is truly
That pot of delicious plenty
From which Hunger can feed fat.

(c) Okechukwu Nwafor
  
The above poem was published in Radical Rhythms edited by Mature Okoduwa and Okechukwu Nwafor (Lagos: Mahogany Books, 2010). Quote as such. 

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