Some things are never easy

October 29, 2008 by BATSIRAI E CHIGAMA ·
Filed under: Poetry 

Gone

I wake up with a start… my poem is gone

I grapple with under-blankets

Shake the spring bed

Sounds of strained wires

Irritate my half-slumbered mind

I search for a word

A title to begin with

I search for a rhyme

That like a drum beat

Spread its echoes in my dream

The sheets reek of broken dreams

Scattered from the pillows to my toes

Choking, strangling…

Have the stench of broken dreams

Battered my poem?

Chased him away to a “small house”

With a slim defined waste line: petite,

Soft hands and a D36?

I visualized him, my poem,

With the hands of a seamstress

Soft yet strong and tender

He could have mended my broken dreams

Sewn a patchwork neater than Shailja’s paisley

And within my calloused thoughts probing

Tenderly with words that vanquish specters

Under the bed, my hands reach

Frantic…nothing

My bladder says I should attend

To her first before no other

A funny thought crosses my mind

Maybe I drank my poem away

With one too many ciders dry;

That I could find him in the chamber

I squat over.

The ugly warts on my behind

Suddenly open their eyes

Extend their antenna-like fingers

They search, dig into broken down urea

NOTHING!

‘My poem’, I half-whisper

As if he could hear me

‘My poem”, I half-shout exasperated

By vague thoughts teasing

At the periphery of my bed

Refusing to illuminate my slumber

Refusing to bleed off my pen

Stuck between my mind and my hand

An unformed dream,

Sometimes it is that hard

To carve thoughts into words.

© Batsirai Easther Chigama

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