THE REAL STRUGGLE

Some doubt
That politics will not close
The cracks in society
That medicine will not heal
The bleeding soul
That intellect cannot remind
Intuition of Paradise

So they spend their lives
Listening to their head
And ignoring their heart –
They grow the mind
Then leave it behind
When they depart, listening for
An inner voice grown uneasily silent.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije. 

HURT

When will he stop
Persecuting that guitar
His voice is hoarse
It hurts me

It digs a hole in my armour
Roughly
And scoops me out
Hoarsely

I wish I could remember him
In my dream tonight
When silence is wall
Enclosing me, she’s gone

His voice is gruff
A street musician
Enjoying his moment on stage
Roughly.

– Che Chidi Cjukwumerije.

TENDER SPOTS

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.

YOUR HONEY TONGUE

I love you when you speak
The language of peoples gone;
Your mind, if you don’t mind, is antique;
Your honey tongue is on the run,
Breathlessly chasing a people’s dream
Gently up the stream.

You were my lover in hot dark nights
And you just couldn’t keep still;
Your tongue was restless as those kites
That circle and circle the forbidden hill,
And you taught me the language that lovers speak
When the spirit is willing and the flesh is weak.

Coo like a dove, my sweet love,
The sounds that you make are never enough.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

I HEARD A SOFT CRY IN THE NIGHT

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.