NOSTALGIA’S DONE

Just now I saw a morning star, luminous in the sky high up above me. And then suddenly I see it no more. Blue-grey clouds are journeying past in silent, ominous solemnity. Morning has dawned. The birds, they are a-singing. Early people are writing their feet into the road… and I am sitting outside, writing poetry and pretending it is prose.

Perhaps by the time I am through, and raise my head anew, the clouds would have gone completely by, and my star will be visible to me again. But if not, yet still I carry within me the picture of my morning star, as luminous in my heart as it was luminous in the sky.

I suppose this is what they call Nostalgia.

Now, see: the sun is rising, and the light is come again. Star, sun and light. And there is spirit inside of me – spirit and love.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

THE BLOG GOES ON

Well, dear year, you’ve come and you’ve gone, like a fleeting lover. And you’ve left behind a treasure chest of memories, clothed sometimes in layers of prose and poetry, full of promise, ribboned with a thin string of mystery.

And I’ve loved every bit of you, my maturing lovely blog. What new thoughts shall we share this year? Will the hopes be new or old? For hope, yes, hope, is wine.

I am a million unspoken intuitions and more. There is always so much to share, so much more – and so many perceptions to bear witness to.

Can a stream, running, come to rest, and still be a stream? Not in reality and not in dream. And so we’ll keep on blogging, with hearts of poetry and minds of prose – literature is our calendar, with which we mark and document our passage through time, counting one day at a time.

This year too I hope to share something everyday – maybe a classic poem, maybe a short story, maybe something else… the blog goes on.

Happy New Year.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

HIDE AND SEEK

Prose is a form of hiding
Within a forest of words
Poetry it is that betrays
The wounds behind the words

Prose says a lot of things
In order not to say one thing
Poetry says one little thing
In which is contained everything.

Where does pain come from?
Does it, like the wind
Arise when hot air rises
And the cold creeps in within?

Where does time go
While we’re waiting for it?
Where do you find hope
When you’ve lost it?

There is a flame
It is your spirit, it burns
It touches upon a point
That yearns and yearns and yearns….

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.