Both light and shadow
are the dance of Love.

Love has no cause;
it is the astrolabe of God’s secrets.

Lover and Loving are inseparable
and timeless.



Although I may try to describe Love
when I experience it I am speechless.

Although I may try to write about Love
I am rendered helpless;
my pen breaks and the paper slips away
at the ineffable place
where Lover, Loving and Loved are one.



Every moment is made glorious
by the light of Love.

My legacy --
What will it be?
Flowers in spring,
The cuckoo in summer,
And the crimson maples
Of autumn...

Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

In my travels I spent time with a great yogi.
Once he said to me.

“Become so still you hear the blood flowing
through your veins.”

One night as I sat in quiet,
I seemed on the verge of entering a world inside so vast
I know it is the source of
all of
us.

We met
           under a shower
of bird-notes.
           Fifty years passed,
love's moment
           in a world in
servitude to time.
           She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
           closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.
           'Come,' said death,
choosing her as his
            partner for
the last dance, And she,
            who in life
had done everything
            with a bird's grace,
opened her bill now
            for the shedding
of one sigh no
            heavier than a feather.

I remember the history well:
The soldiers and politicians emerged
With briefcases and guns
And celebrations on city nights.

They scoured the mess
Reviewed our history
Saw the executions at dawn
Then signed with secret policemen

And decided something
Had to be done.

They scoured the mess
Resurrected old blue-prints
Of vicious times
Tracked the shapes of sinking cities

And learned at last
That nothing can be avoided
And so avoided everything.
I remember the history well.

                                                                 2
We emerged from our ******* mounds
Discovered a view of the sky
As the air danced in heat.

Through the view of the city
In flames, we rewound times
Of executions at beaches.
Salt streamed down our brows.

Everywhere stagger victims of rigged elections
Monolithic accidents on hungry roads
The infinite web of ethnic politics
Power-dreams of fevered winds.

The nation was a map stitched
From the grabbing of future flesh
And became a rush through
Historical slime

                                                                 3
We emerged on edge
Of time future
With bright fumes
From burning towers.

The fumes lit political rallies.
We started a war
Ended it
And dreamed about our chance.

Fat fish eat little fish
Big ones arrange executions
And armed robberies.
Our ******* shapes us all.

I remember the history well.
The tiger’s snarl is bought
In currencies of silence.
Eggs grow large:

A monstrous face is hatched.
On the edge of time future
I am a boy
With running sores

Of remember history
Watching the stitches widen
Waiting for the volcano’s laughter
In the fevered winds

Hearing the gnash
Of those who will join us
At the mighty gateways
With new blue-prints

With dew as seal
And fire as constant
And a trail through time past
To us

Who remember the history well.
We weave words on red
And sing on the edge of blue.
And with our nerves primed

We shall spin silk from *******
And frame time with our resolve.
__
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml

[𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎]

𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗,
𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗?

𝙸'𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏
𝙰 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚞𝚗𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗.



[𝙸]
𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗,
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚝
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎
𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗.

... 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝙸 𝚊𝚖.


[𝙸𝙸]
𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗,
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝.
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

... 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗.



[𝙸𝙸𝙸]
𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗,
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎.
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚍
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗
𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜.

... 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜.



[𝙸𝚅]
𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗,
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎.
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜
𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎.

... 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑.



[𝚅]
𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗,
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕.
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝
𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕.

... 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍.



[𝚅𝙸]
𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗,
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐.
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗
𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐,
𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐.

... 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕.



[𝚅𝙸𝙸]
𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗,
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚕𝚎
𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 -
(𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.)


... 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗.



[𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎]

𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗,
𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚠?

𝙸'𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍
𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.


[𝙵𝚒𝚗]


- 𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝙻𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝  

       𝟶𝟾/𝟶𝟾/𝟸𝟹

some want it, I don't want it, I
want to do whatever it is I do
and just do it.
I don't want to look into the
adulating eye,
shake the sweating
palm.
I think that whatever I do
is my business.
I do it because if I don't
I'm finished.
I'm selfish:
I do it for myself
to save what is left of
myself.
and when I am
approached as
hero or
half-god or
guru
I refuse to accept
that.
I don't want their
congratulations,
their worship,
their companionship.

I may have half-a-
million readers,
a million,
two million.
I don't care.
I write the word
how I have to
write it.

and, in the
beginning,
when there were no
readers
I wrote the word
as I needed to write the
word
and if all
the half-million,
the million,
the two million,
disappear
I will continue to
write the
word
as I always have.

the reader is an
afterthought,
the placenta,
an accident,
and any writer who
believes otherwise
is a bigger fool than
his
following.

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

"Hank!"

Hank won't
answer.

it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.