A Poet, His Muse And His Poems Poem by Anyanya Bassey

A Poet, His Muse And His Poems



Do not pretend to understand
The light-skinned lady I'm wedded to

She rarely stays as good wives should

Though with grace she hugs my frame
Her thighs are kept from me at will
And if I crave for such a thrill
She screams of rape and battery
A poet quite understands this bit?

When emissaries of pen set sail at night
I linger to love my lady-in-lore

She lets the mattress hug my form
Taking 'selfies' in formless voids
While I so clueless without her light
Wallow in want of words to wield

How can I beget a lettered child
Without the pleasure of romantic squeals
Without a womb to pour my ink?

Without the climax of words at heart
Our sheets have grown too pure, too white
Bed mate, bed's made, come, lie with me
The world can listen as we moan
In darkened days or moon-lit nights
Put your hands to my firm waist
Tickle the laughter out of my spine

Hold me here, let's make us kids
To bear my name when I am gone
No torrent of waves can wash it off
The mark made by 'us' interlocked
- a poet, his muse and his poems.

Friday, November 21, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: art
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