Fragments of Matter and Other Poems

By Anthony Ogbonnaya Chukwu

Fragment of Matter

Fragment of matter at 
the mercy of the gloom into which
I have been cast,

sailing to what prefaced the silent
structures of the beginning
to be found this time in
silence or a kind of sound
from a violin and the sort of 
pipe 

that the Munich's Boehm
authored for grand processions
on the flanks of the major highways
in the city of bones, and monks, and incense,

with a fantastic background like something
from a bird away from trouble, 
away from home full of trouble,
now at rest as a pilgrim
meant to sing a song

meant to do nothing except 
to sing a song, because there is no more 
whirlwind here—that threat of toppling 
the resolutions of the heart
that binds the inner and outer realities.

Look back then, wow will never
fail to drop in the air
to fly into the arctic void where all these marvels
shall be fully represented to influence

the competing ends that we may
never know, or hear, or see
as they rise to occupy a space
that will terrify them.

At A Time Like This

At a time like this when 
a heap of hollow stares in respiring faces, 
l get a stony grace from a lockdown 
that does not care about the brand 
of the sun that clears my 
horizons—great privilege I have 
to endure.

With this armour—what 
else should 
this be called?—I will survive the pestilence 
from the paradise that lies 
in the power of the wicked one, 
to fatten—I am very sure— 
for the worms. 
What remains is shadow—so sad 
l ever have been! 

To understand the least 
that I mean, the damned output 
integrates with 
the night that allows no eyes 
to see its shapes, its contents 
venomous as the Blue-Ringed Octopus
of the extreme depths of the entity 
lying also in the power 
of the wicked one. 

Powerful Oddity

It uttered a loud cry: powerful
oddity looking at me, looking
at the world, numbering its ribs,
laying claims. And what corner of the world
had peace when

it was strutting, and it seemed, 
from the rough Revelations?

Red, and not changing, or willing 
to stop, that the world
which was mine was no longer mine 
due to the waves,
vibrations, unearthly silence, and plaints. 
From the
window, I saw the undertakers hurrying to
the graves, that I had to surrender 
myself to 
everything hard that I could 

remember,
laying heart on them—just like someone 
drowning. 
You should know what death does
to peace of mind when it is strutting by.

But it was really not passing. It had captured
time, and began to rule the world through
overwhelming silence, lies,
and misunderstanding,

but at the end, you are here.
Praise my heart! Honour its name
from ages to ages, from edges to edges.

Hard Time’s Pointer

Hard time's pointer as 
a triumphant behaviour across
the storms.

A loud cry. A sudden stop.
A loud cry for a permanent stop
as the smoke rises
to broaden the way
in the cores of the difficulties.

Will there be stumps,
a heavy padlock
on the huge gate of freedom

as this movement
to possess the bouleversements
never to be held on their horns
by the guests

now touches this end with
the clear promising land
without backbones,

dog's satisfiers
rented to rot,
never to be taken away
until the blasts,
and horns.

A Chance to Create a March

         
A chance to create a march
along the road not taken
by many

lays down a period of devotion
to what matters most
to the time.

Ah! hundreds of Thomas á Kempis
ever and ever ready by the side to imitate 
the complex aid of time

with clear facial expressions
and cleanliness of heart
revered so much by the distant desert Fathers—

principals fatter than
the stately loggias in front 
of the raying 
centre of the Sun and astronomy.

Why would the world not going to be 
ceremonial within itself, 
with bands as loud and fantastic 
as what Hector Berloz made with his brain,

or a gentle flavour drummed 
seriously
by the side of ceremonial horses and men,
along the road, or within a circle

to commemorate the birth of joy,
the resolves to move on in spite of thunder
or hash sounds and situations.

Do bring many cymbals and many 
brass drums and trumpets
with a lot of mad musicians to play along—

orchestra, the gathering of 
the selected few going to make 
this time turn and stand, taking note of 

the wow 
that will not allow swollen matters 
to remain in the heart 
weighing
like a massive rock 
in the depth of the sea.

Verification

   Verification of the apex 
of freedom at which     
uncertainties are quite noticeable 
as they cry to be or to 
be left alone; 

          scanning the inner realities 
of the shaken hub 
     where the hive takes orders—
apex of freedom, 
this apex of freedom, this broken point, 
this heart of 
the cradle conceived for verification. 

             When a point of contact 
like this is seized 
      by the splendour that seemed 
to be drowned in 
the purple mechanisations, 
it is will—this, what else?
—that must take     
serious steps backward for anamnesis 
of what is 
and what will be. 

           Armed with this bright 
light for the eyes of its brain, 
    who will doubt 
that a Nile will not flow from 
the antique beginning
to give hope to its 
shimmering sands left since 

             the emergence of all things in 
the mercy of 
the oddities in the Sun and dust 
and the whirlwinds 
that go like visitants in full 
force 
seeking a soul to hold?

Anthony Ogbonnaya Chukwu has published MEMPHIS, a collection of poems, with Wipf and Stock Publishers, Oregon, plus individual works published in different anthologies.