Monday, 15 October 2012


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
other’s underwear’s

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

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thanks for coming to my blog page. Now, what do you think? Tell me, I'm listening...