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ARTS AND CULTURE

The homeless fugitives from the east

  • 10 July 2017
 Selected poems

 

 

Three Poems

1. Sunday II

            I ran my father's kiss     into a bible thrice

& prayed it turned blood to bubblegums

        sliced my skin            to avocado halves

        & a miracle turned a frying pan inside out

on a candle                    I rebore in chumming

          of lathers            candy and apples

Jesus wash his wound  in lime water

                                  while I draw ghost at night & break songs from a cherry seed

 

2. (S)he

From an acoustic you pluck an apple

Ultra whiffs waft red bleating into spheres

he wash a strand in teasmoke & weed

Behind a mural she is a nude  drawing of orange water

your feet unlocks & flares waltz while whirling into creamlight

 

3. Fun era

A day in the absence        of transparent leathers      — a funeral café or birth —         there was wine,

to many songs,        spilled gin & long spiral smoke in dispersal in a red room.

gleaming heavy humans choke the house — these passive bees

my best me in air       entered them       in the kitchen       & ran back to me

I sew mallows     from pig skin     arrange them on grandma's bed     like fine plaited whorls.

Did not wish to be found tucked in a beautiful blue and white morning

the outline of my bone transparent in sin —

Covexes apt to break under a thread of  blue light

I was in a wine tumbler glassy, ice in my ears churning in orchestra                   and my intestine                   spilled itself                   in an unsteady stream                   stirring in acid

— Victor Ugwu

 

 

The homeless fugitives from the east

We remember that sad morning,

when the bombs exploded,

when the cold air, suddenly became too hot,

when the flock became wild,

how they ran into the wild.

look! see! The vineyard is still on fire!

look! see! The market stalls is still on fire!

 

We slowly limped,

towards the west we head,

to where the air is still cold,

to where the field is still green,

towards the West,

to where came the bombs, we head.

 

Day and night, with,

blood and tears, with,

hope and patience, we limped,

towards the West we head,

to where came the bombs.

 

We have escaped,

the burning flames in the East,

we have trend,

the thorny paths,

 

We have crossed,

the Rocky Mountains,

we have sailed,

the Sea on makeshift boats.

 

At last! The border we see,

towards the West we approach,

to where came the bombs.

 

At the gate of the West we stood,

we request entry,

we request a stay, at least for a