MARTIN Espada welcomed me with a slap
On my left cheek, pulled my ear
& tossed me into the 'Academy of Poetry' where Gogol
An ancient ape, the Penisular’s poet Laureate
Sat me up and taught me:
Hukku yyakku, huhhu, huk
The ABC of poetry & the 7 articles of a poets’ faith
ADONIS handed me the keys to
The Penisular’s treasury.
He spoke through many voices:
The voice of Mihyar of Damascus
The voice of sand and salt
The voice of the blood of Adonis
The voice of the interrupting sky:
It lies inside You, within You, about You, outside You
It is a dense fog of darkness, It is the meaningless (ness) of life
DARWISH led me through the absence of presence
SIMIC bestowed me with love--a girly roach, my queen
The coquette, I Sing lyrics for every other night
I took her out on a date last evening
She wore a lipstick and micro-miniature high-heeled shoes
On her seven sexy legs
While I consumed hot chocolate and chips
She was sniffing the inside of a chickens’ breast.
She even ran down, ran up to the next table
For a reason I quite do not know.
The table was home, a dark corner,
The shadow of a tree, a thick flowerbed,
A large roomy wardrobe, for two septuagenarian lovers
Whose thighs & tongues were interlocked
& Hands busy dipping into each
BILLY Collins was the very last I met
He tired me to a chair and tortured
A confession out of me:
What is P?
When is P seen as P?
Who made P P?
Why is P considered to be P?
When I was leaving, he consoled me with a gift
An apple that astonishes: Good Poetry, he said, is a chick
A voluptuous curvy, sexy chick, with protruding breasts
A heavy backside, an enormous clit
And a never ending quest to go more and more
Her dude is a lanky thing
Equally endowed with a small tiny thing
Some call him a mad man drunk with lust
Some call him a little tipsy thing
Some call him a (teop) please, do not read backwards
You may find him at the beach lying naked
In the sand, lost in a conversation with
a bitch, that has just been (xxxxed) by 7 huge, well fed hounds
You may find him, sometimes, in rags, smoking a pipe
& scavenging through rubbish dumps
RUMI: I didn’t see him; I only saw something of him.
A silhouette, a transparent gel, a shining crystal,
probably a holy ghost. He gave a very heavy, simple thing
a ring of words. Wear this always on your heart he said:
A poet is nothing but a universal ambassador of love.
SIMIC issued a statement to all budding poets:
Creative insomnia should be a poet’s only shirt
I saw GINSBERG perched on a tree high on dope
Chanting: Holy Holy Holy Holy Holy
I asked him who is a poet & he said:
Holy Holy Holy Holy Holy
A poet is a holy fool
( To Dekker and Phumla; the Angel and the Sybil )
Sidi Abubakar is a Naval Officer and a Poet. His first collection of poems would be published soon, by Black Palm, an imprint of Parressia. You can read more of his poetry on Sentinel Magazine