THE POEM I SHALL NEVER WRITE
A terrible itch disturbs my fingers
My soul is set again for another
Spontaneous volcanic eruption of words
There is a poem brewing in my heart
It is a poem that defiles form
It cannot be captured with words
Yet it is there
For I can see it with my mind eyes
Inikpi, my muse, do grant me the words
To say that which my heart knows
For I fear this is a poem I shall never write.
The poem is about you, dear one
The best words of poetry
Are too menial to capture your face
Shall I compare your eyes to the moon
Or your lips to the hibiscus?
Can your transluscent hair compare with sun rays
Or the glitters of your teeth to that of stars?
No! These things are too crude
And too far above are you.
I cannot immortalise you in a base form.
It is a surety
I shall never write this poem.
What poem can tell of your voice
Orpheus would be jealous to hear you speak
And Apollo would die should you sing
Your coal skin betters that of the black cobra
And your touch offers more tenderness
Than that of a mother upon a child
What healing fingers!
Touch me and let me be another Lazarus!
No anklet could have blended
So well to the body of an Arabian princess
The way royal beads adorn your hair, hands and legs
If language fails to describe you
What then can?
There is a poem ringing in my heart like a tintinabulum
It is a poem about my dear one
Here is the paper
Here is the pen
My hand swings like a pendulum
But no words would appear
I am afraid . . .
This is a poem I shall never write.
© Ubaji Isiaka Abubakar Eazy