My Body, My Kingdom
How many times does a poet die,
before his life closes like a grave?
If he has written five hundred poems,
he must have died five hundred times;
each poem constitutes the end of life,
the secretion to empty what stores within
and subtract from what lies without.
Like the butterfly dancing in the hot sun,
thinking that it’s manifesting glory,
the poet’s life ebbs before his eyes
each time he produces a masterpiece.
Let him not glory in his ability
to make life better or society improve;
let him not rejoice in his busy body,
which withers per line, not per year;
the deed occurs on the day of his claim,
he is the controller of his body and mind.
Everything is hubris, and nothing cool
when the substance is out of his grasp,
but if he were lucid and humble enough
he would know when the momentum ceases.
Oh, do not claim that his body is a kingdom,
and that the poet has limitless resources;
when all he possesses is the talent of words,
and a latent ghost of vociferousness
that rises when he is upset, sorry, inspired.
If he fritters it away on a blank sheet,
then the poet has nothing else to live for.
Author: Jonathan Chibuike Ukah
Photo: Dominik Scythe on Unsplash
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