I'M At It Again Poem by Victor Okey Nwatu

It’s been long: three months, or maybe more
Since I had dropped any form of poetic lines.
Vicissitudes has tossed at me some cold slur
Constrained my poetic side to the sidelines.

That’s no excuse of any sort
I’ve not been … scratching balls
Idleness had never being my loved sport
Neither had I been pushing rigid walls.

It could have been one thing, laziness:
That dreaded act of being a sloth.
‘Cos being creative ceased to be my business.
It’s like my flow, I have dammed forth.

Being the best at penning rhymes, I ceased to be
Seemed to lose all that remained of my fecundity
Was never like the familiar good old me
The one that ruled my game with Kobe-like dexterity.

That ruled for three months and equal days
As I rolled like a gas-less, broken truck
Tried to explain it away in different ways;
As being caused by the proverbial “writer’s block”

But I was fooling myself, and I knew it.
This coal city’s finest is way better than that.
And my cerebral being knows and believes it.
So, I sought to end that: to write something phat.

And the impetus wasn’t far from sight
As the forefinger was close to the index
The trip to DFW was that needed might.
To give my creative muscle the power to flex.

There were the long days of getting set;
of getting things done to prevent any delays;
of getting as confused as it could get
running around in circles in all, and every ways.

That was assuaged by the one-and-only boss, Doug
By the two free days that he did give
Though another ‘good old’ wanted to pull the plug;
But there was a last-gasp benevolent act – a reprieve.

Then came the day we both waited for, a Tuesday.
A day for the invasion of Normandy,1944-wise.
It was wet, wetter than many a day.
Though the wetness wasn’t much of an extra price.

The errors at the aeroport are well remembered.
Showed us how untravelled we have recently become.
Our joy it seemed to have, so-to-speak, dismembered
But the dreaded one, it didn’t really become.

The flight was as long as long could ever be
Broken, thankfully, by the much-loved FRA stop over.
Was a reprieve like a hot tea on cold day to me
Rescued my inner balance from tipping over.

The second part was equally boring, equally long;
Filed with boredom till the point of saturation.
But it wasn’t completely bad all along;
‘cos we arrived at our targeted destination.

The airport formalities, I won’t speak of; why?
‘cos it’s not important, not necessary.
Neither would I narrate how we got by,
With our luggage, documents and the “accessory”.

Won’t end this annoying limerick of some sort;
Without talking of DFW even just a hint.
About it’s cool weather that elicited a sport,
While I save the rest for the second stint.

Have I really written anything not miserable?
The slightest idea, I don’t have.
But at least these lines are tape-measurable.
So if quality is lacking let the length serve.

Yeah, I did it. I’m at it again.
Just penned this to break my poetic silence.
But the sequel won’t cause my rep this kind of pain,
‘cos I would attack it with a ferocious brilliance.


(June 2011)