Have You Met My Poem? Poem by Echezonachukwu Nduka

If cats are said to have nine lives,
Lives of poems are above nine times ninety-nine.
If poems have no life, let me not be counted as a penman.

Poems are beyond metaphors, similes, alliterations,
Hyperboles and iambic pentameters;
They have lives and rule in their kingdoms.
Poems are spirits. Those they love they ordain,
Posses and make spirits too.

Have you met my poem?
My poem is a glass of wine with bubbles
Rising from its bottom and owning your
Tongue after each sip;
You keep the glass, not sure of its taste.
Soon after, you yearn for another sip.

She is the old woman you meet on a
Rainy day begging for alms,
As you stretch forth your hand to drop a coin;
She stretches hers and gifts you a bag of treasures.

Have you met my poem?
She is that remnant ash from a burnt
Library that converts a non-kindred spirit
To muse for pen warriors.
At noon, when the sun is awake
She wails: "Rub me! Rub me!
I am the ash of immortality! "

It is the tempest that hits sailors
When vodkas and rums dictate tunes
In their heads,
But is appeased by the flute melodies of one;
And afterwards, like abiku, the tempest returns
Again and again and again.

You, have you met my poem?
It is the smile on the lips of a fair lady
You meet at the cinema;
You make haste to say hello
But the smile turns to frown, and then tears.

My poem is like the wings of a bird in flight.
They summon space and drop their feathers at will;
Yet they reach for the skies and perch on the trees
They choose.

Have you met my poem?
It is the fountain that springs up
In the midst of deserts,
Giving succor to wounded souls,
Strength to the weary, sight to the blind
And sleep to the sleepless eye.

It is the rage that burns the tongues of
Foul scepters, setting thrones on fire.
It is the voice of a lad wailing in the streets;
Calling for justice but gets none.
My poem is a slice from the loaf of wealth.

Have you not met my poem?
As you amble along the banks of Niger,
It is the calmness that rests on the face of the river.
It is the rainbow that bows at the sight of sea creatures.

It is the drumbeat that cues wriggling waists
Of maidens to rhythms;
My poem is the cowry of the seer.
It falls to the ground and tomorrow shows her belly today.
So, have you met my poem?