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.
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 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.