To the Muse, My Wife
No matter how long you must have passed night after night
harrowing the skin of our acquired calm, remembering
all of our offspring one after another dropping dead –
a tale of the worthies long forsaken for worms.
Long over is their game of hide and seek with death –
a hyena we couldn't stop from hauling them all into the dark.
Now we welcome the memories of their screams and joys,
not in tune with the dragging of our everyday clichés.
I ain't ever impotent or you a frigid woman either.
Yes, I admit we are once again making love with abandon
but comes none of the hints of your pregnancy ever –
your womb to flower with the seed in my plough.
I wonder how many pages of lust we have to scrawl
before the sudden cry of a child storms into our life –
that old orchestra of our smiles to be warming up to see
the flying of cotton-balls burst out of tiny pillows.
It's long since anything lifted us off our treadmill;
indifference goes as far as to watching the drift of things.
How can we face such optimists telling us every time:
nothing of the way you lead your life is so crow-black –
that ominous metaphysics of hatred, or simply put:
that white as a blank page every artist muses on? Yet,
it's this human mind of ours always aspiring to have glitters
even of a promise made confounded of the ordinary.
Oh, memories no longer fuel our throbbing engines.
Yet, these retarded hearts of ours must live on with a grief
of childlessness whetting Destiny's inhuman appetites
and turning all our life's enchanted embers to ashes.
Poetry by Sofiul Azam
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Written on 2006-11-28 at 06:36
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