soft

TENDER SPOTS

~ Che ~ 3 Comments

There is in me a very soft spot for naked tables and chairs, pens and empty sheets of paper, and a feeling that if I do not write the poem write now, it will never come again. It is a very special soft spot and very dear to me, sees me through lonely nights and empty restless days and times of unfocused focus and focused unfocus and is much better than many other a pleasure.

The heart is inside, the voice outside, and a strong voice without a heart is as baseless as the pointlessness of a voiceless heart, burning and knowing and mute. I have a very soft spot in me for that quick tender urge that would have me run again, a pen upon waiting sheets, a snow-lion stalking buried treasures, a singer learning and singing new songs, simultaneously.

Water is the king and when your heart runs like water, poetry becomes an uncheckable force – everywhere you hear it… everywhere you hear it. It follows you, it enters you, it captures you until you have mastered yourself in it, then it sets you free to roam again. Yes, this is my jungle.

I have in me a so soft spot for that glowing star, yonder flame that has decided to call me Home. Yes, Song, let it ring, and with my life I will follow, poet and musician and man. There was a beginning but, I vow, there shall be no end to eternal tenderness inside you and me.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

TANGERINE

~ Che ~ 4 Comments

Brief was our meet
Thick and soft, quick
The covers fell
And when it was over
There were no seeds left over
That fell

No strings
No roots
No fruits
Yet something holds me still there
They way you smiled and sadly whispered
So you’ve forgotten me now.

– CHE CHIDI CHUKWUMERIJE.

I HEARD A SOFT CRY IN THE NIGHT

~ Che ~ 2 Comments

I heard a soft cry in the night
And knew not where it came from
Through the open window
It floated in on a warm summer’s night

Just one cry, soft and intense
And short it shuddered the night
Like a single pulse of night’s heartbeat
Swallowed up in echoless suspense

I knew not if it was a cry of pain
A cry for help, of fear or of liberty
Or if it was a cry of crowned ecstasy
Of one in pleasure and passion lain

It spoke of terror and sang of delight
A mystery that revealed neither where nor why
All I knew was that it was the soft cry
Of some woman’s voice in the night.

– CHE CHIDI CHUKWUMERIJE.