The title of his book is eponymous
And so was the title of his father’s
Own book and his father’s father’s
Own book, stretching to the back
Frame of their family book club.
A family haunted by shadows of
Ineluctable sarcasm, each member
Waned early, greyed early by way
Of early emulous propensities.
Death fired stealthily at them
By way of frayed nerves, corsaged
On the thresholds of their rumpled tunics.
No one knew the cause of their deaths.
Cirrhosis of the arts, perhaps. Or better
Still, tumour of the printed word.
But they died actually – father, son
And father, in that order.
Withered rose petals formed the crux
Of their wreaths - thorny crowns
Borrowing from the ecce homo of
A sedated painter.
Their tombstones at a decrepit necropolis,
On the fetid rump of the village,
Lie on fallen, half-sepultured pulpits,
Carved in stones of putrid sands.
The epitaph on each head, eponymous,
Brief and straight to a deadening point.
Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Inheritance by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Music is a miracle..., PARTHA SARATHI PAUL
- Irresistible Sweetness, kayanja isaac
- Not a journey by train, Stephen Brian Brady
- आंखौ दाबावदे सना, Bahadur Basumatary
- No Choice, Elia Michael
- Bury My Unwillingness, Margaret Alice Second
- An advice, Somanathan Iyer
- Too long, too short, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- Its been four months now, Vangile Mtyali
- Word of Poetry, Vangile Mtyali