I Don’t Know What To Name This Poem, But I Want To Call It A Faint Synecdoche Of A Horror Story Authored By Stephen King or God.
Every time my pen kisses the pages of my book to write, I try to fetch from the hooks of the many sad songs//swirling in the mouth of a songbird. An attempt at telling you life is a beautiful homestead//tiled with forgotten dreams—the door’s handle, long suffering. I wonder if our forefathers created God when they reclined from the pain of existence & needed succor. I pocket life’s misery like a jewel & my father’s name becomes a chant for soldiers at war. This poem is about casting God & my mother in the same tragedy & making her the hero. Or it’s to let you know, dear reader, that the good things of life & humans are on the same field, knitted apart like bantu knots on a black woman’s head. Since poetry is about how much can be revealed with metaphors, what do I have to tell? I have learned that the verses of a cock’s crow—if anyone understood, is history being chanted. Or perhaps—man is a weird admixture of divine, flesh & critter. I once read a poem bereft of a title—the poet wanted to illustrate his metaphors as sheep without shepherd that landed good fate —i don’t want to do this & I don’t know what to name this poem, but i want to call it a faint synecdoche of a horror story, authored by Stephen king or God.
Paul Chuks is a songwriter, poet, and storyteller. He is of Igbo descent and resides in Nigeria. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, Heavy Feather Review, Trampset, TheAfricaReport, & elsewhere. He is a reader at Palette Poetry, Mud Season Review, and The Forge. When he’s not reading or writing, he’s analyzing hip-hop verses or moving his body rhythmically to the songs raving on his roof.
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