A few birds still twitter
Even when the woods are cold
And when a gentle wind blows
And the autumn leaves russle
Hush hush
Around my ears
Then my years drop away again
Back to the beginning
And rush ahead once more to the end.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
It is her voice that buckles my knees
When she breaks and says please
I break and say please
This is the power of a woman
I can match her strength
But her power makes me powerless.
She might not know everything about me
But she knows the thing about me
That weakens and conquers and strengthens and completes me
This is the power of a woman
It is the power of insight
Because she came from inside.
Learn well this lesson:
Strength is what you have inside you
Power is what you have inside another person
Even when that person is stronger than you.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
He was a messenger from far away
This thought that I secretly caught
And wonderful tidings he brought my way
Of all the secret things I still ought
Nay, must, do, must do
To you, my dear, to you.
But this he whispered first of all
That I must meet another stranger first
And secretly yield to his inner call
He lives in me, my root intuition’s thirst
For my secret powers become free
Only after I first become me.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
White night
Day bright
Moonsnowlight
Warm, moist and tight
She-sigh, she-bite
She might
Howl again tonight.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
I’ve never dated a writer
I wonder what it’s like
To both be awake, thinking
And writing in the night.
Will we share each other’s thoughts
Or keep our thoughts to ourselves?
Will we rejoice together
Or envy each other’s success?
Who will draw from whom
When both are needy?
Who will be the calming pole
When the writer gets crazy?
Who will write the greater poem
Into the book of life?
Greater than words on paper
And conquer inner strife.
Read my palm, it’s full of lines
Do not read between the lines
Between the lines are just packs of lies
Cleverly waiting to bait a writer’s eyes.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Stories.
Like the one about the sad horse
Who came upon a silver lake
And assuaged her thirst.
Tomorrow she will wake up
To suddenly find that
She has begun to sprout wings…
Yet she will not turn into an eagle
But will remain a horse
Even after her wings have matured
Because sometimes
Horses are permitted to own their own wings
If they will fly up to there
As hoped
And not just fly down to there
As feared…
I believe
In horses with wings…
In fairies that, unobserved, observe us…
In animals than can read the thoughts of humans…
In babies that knew their own names
Even before they were born…
In love that does not die
Stories.
Like the one about
Two children who climbed
An old tree
And, when they came down,
Had already become adults again.
Tomorrow they will
Become children for a second time
The children they were
First meant to be
Stories. Stories. Stories.
I believe in miracles
I believe I can fly
I believe in you, Baby
Love is a miracle of life
Stories.
Like the Oracle
That predicted its own demise
But did not live
To see whether its prediction came true or not…
Stories.
Like the three sisters
Who did not know they were sisters
Until after they had all fallen in love
With the same man…
Stories. Stories.
Like the creation of the world
The adventures of the roving stars
The mysteries in the bowels of the earth –
Like the tired old widow who
Came upon a wishing-well and
After gratefully satiating her thirst
Flipped a coin
And wished the wishing-well well..
Stories.
Like the refugee
Who asked for just a little water and bread
And got it not
Yet could not figure out how to hate…
Stories.
Mysteries.
Oracles.
Miracles.
Everybody
Has a history
But some histories
Are outside everybody
If you were to behold a miracle
Now
Would you recognise it as one?
Probably not.
Miracles
Follow me
From life to life
Place to place
Face to face
There is a Green Hill
Far far away in unsullied fields
Where there be no Death
Once upon a time
Love
There is a miracle called love.
Amen.
Thirty days to Christmas
And here I am
Writing poems
And thinking just of you, my dear.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
I am the one who left the herd
Who defied the labels outcast and nerd
Who made roses out of turd
Who broke his word to keep his word
Who seeks the unknown, victory assured
Who sang the strange song your spirit heard
I am the one, he, the strange bird.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
There I saw a lion
With the eyes of a rose
Calmly it watched me
As I froze
It approached me, circled me
And seemed undecided
It scared me and thrilled me
And I was divided
Should I draw a knife
And the lion oppose
Or should I yield my heart
To the rose?
Then it turned around
And it was a woman
Knowingly she smiled
And looked only human.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Do you hear that wailing?
Somebody is dead next door
Someone is left behind and weeping
Behind heaven’s closed door
Another earthlife is ended forevermore
Quietly I watch the lights of the siren
As they grow brighter in the distance
Soon they cover up my neighbour’s silent scream
Then all grows quiet for one instance
Death welcomes every circumstance
I know that couple next door
They never failed to say hello
Now one of them I will hear nevermore
But whenever I see the other’s sorrow
I will smile and say, gently, hello.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Life can be a study in irony
The more people I know
The fewer friends I have
And when the night loves me
It fills me cruelly with loneliness
For it wakes me up in the dark quiet hours
But makes no effort to satisfy me
And the more I get the things I desire
The more I realise that what I really desire
Is something that already I have.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Che Chidi Chukwumerije 