This Night That Knows No Sleep

When Mary lost her virginity,

Jesus’ cry woke the night

And sleep fled the night’s eyes.

The Magi followed stars that

Suffered silence as
Gifts rocked the manger of the babe—Jesus.

From then till now, nights in Kingston

Are like days that defy meditations—

To feel the void and calmness that keep the night.

Yet, night is awake as the day.

But, who would blame the night?

Does it own itself?

Its owner is God who came as man

And killed its sleep before mortals—

God is both night and day—and I, a peripatetic poet whose

Solitude is lost to night’s mystery of wakefulness.

This night that knows no sleep,

Is yours the sleep that makes death an eternal journey?

This night that knows no sleep,

Is yours the sleep that soothes a fetus?

This night that knows no sleep,

Is your spit in the bite of tsetse flies?

This night that knows no sleep,

Is your sleep the song that scents the throne of God?

There’s no night in London and The City of Light—

As both night and its sleep are in God’s briefcase.

© Echezonachukwu Nduka 2014

Image: Echezonachukwu Nduka

Photo Credit : Michael Yipake Bansey

Self

do not go into the business

of asking, ‘how do i look?’

your dress, though gorgeous in

the sight of a foe feigning friendship,

may be shabby in the

sight of those folks drunk with

that wine that is poetry.

their eyes have seen worse images

and spirits as words on pages.

do not look in the

mirror to check what you wear,

how nice it fits, how stretched they appear,

how the colors blend or how necks would

break as you walk the busy streets;

look in the mirror to see your eyes

looking back at you,

your nose smelling your true self

and your ears hearing your mind’s whispers.

take heed to the whispers of your heart.

too many false selves hide in the noise

in the streets, the loud lounge music and that tot of liquor.

bind them if you please, and cast them to the devil’s dungeon-crawl

there’s a better place to be than hell.

do not look in the mirror

to check what you wear,

look in the mirror to find your true self

hidden in that whisper that is you

and no one  else

© Echezonachukwu Nduka 2014.

Zakk's Lager

*

Friday night’s gig soured his taste

for apple juices and filled his

glass with cold Carlsberg.

The twenty-fourth glass crowned him

king of all kubulors.

**

The beat drops again and he

stands to dance.

Three steps forward and five

steps backwards; Isn’t alcohol

a veteran dance tutor?

He leads the way and off

they go. Pryzm must have more kubulors!

***

Zakk’s gait is the evidence of drunken

eyes. But who calls the kubulor king drunk?

Isn’t that apocalyptic madness?

In the Kubuloric law of governance

and code of conduct; section one

sub-section c: drunkenness is clarity.

© Echezonachukwu Nduka 2014

Image source: (Beer Toast; www.thrillist.com)

Beadwork

i

from the hills of udi

to the creeks of nembe;

beads knew and named her footfalls.

running a test, four cracked

under the sole of her solleret

and she saw more symbols.

ii

that noon when heat rose

with a crescendo

i watched her wimple wane in folds

soliloquies stole her silence.

she dropped black beads

and counted:

one

two

three

four.

‘return’, four of you

‘return’, she  muttered

and like a poem, set the beads in fits.

iii

four black homeward birds

dropped from the sky and rain

fell amidst sunshine.

© Echezonachukwu Nduka 2014

(Image source: www.lushlampwork.com)