A community wizened witnessed it all —
Death of a writer,
On a vast, naked stretch with images of
Debris and ingrained mortality.
My pillow was wet on that terrible night
And on my neck of sleep
Hung weariness of an abraded hour
Our streams developed bitumen
Our systems yielded to the force of bilharzias
Our air one space of ground muck
We became implements of labour
As the crucifixion of the innocent raged on.

II
Bathed in oil-water,
She grew hair all over her diminutive body
And this grew cereals
Which spread their hands wide open,
Asking the sun’s blessings.
I speak of the birthplace of the writer.
She had her feet on oily mud
Which reflected gold;
Prim was her person
And her bed was fluffy . . .
In due season, she wields power
Among the plants of the earth
And the milk of her breasts never dries up
Even in her grandmother days . . .
Beautiful beaded virgin
With lips dripping with oil,
Your delicate brow-furs wipe out
This sky-grime on the ridge-line of
Bright morning . . .
How do you reach out to the
Sacred points of your many festivals?

III
O corrosive liquid of permeating water,
Laying soils desolate
And evicting snakes from burrows they themselves
Usurped —

O blood of sensitive martyrdom,
Such a blinding smell!
Wafting anti-arachnid breeze.

Poems do not read loud when a poet is killed
Neither do stanzas wink —
Blood-stained words blubber.

Blood of annihilated poets costs more than the
Blubber from elements
Of silenced waters.
I shan’t hesitate to lower the volume of the
Radio at that hour because the buzz of pips
Harasses me.

IV
Radio hour was pensive and full of dust.
Waves, distilled in altercations, were flung across
Mud walls, earful, and a foray among pupils was unleashed . . .
A distinguished writer dies . . .
A breathless, ruthless despot,
At the eleventh hour, clutched at his liver.

V
Underbelly of the earth trembles.
Dim lights frighten the courage of moles
And the abundance of humus aligns with the brownness
Of half-brewed coffee.

I lamented over a catatonic ceremony
Of cremated fossils and half-scented soils,
And yelled within doors and cracked ribs
Of demented lions to brake the jinx of unscented oil.

Part of the drunken ceremony was the assembly of
Yellow palm fronds —scattered in their neat arrangement;
Silhouettes of floating feathers redolent of disaster
Haunted those who screamed loudest when storms
Ravaged the brutal frontiers of desecrated lands.
The radio spoke of nothing else except a friend’s
Betrayal.
Fear not, said a voice.
Stand firm on your ground,
For your rival in battle is dead drunk
He saunters about on weak, trembling limbs
And does not hold well his weapon;
His breath is flush with the emotion of stale wine;
His battle-medicine is impotent and has shed its
Power and savour before the glaring sun.
Rush upon him now and disarm him.
Place in his shaky hands the withered leaves of figs.
Rush, rush!
Before darkness sets in.
He is drunk.