The Eye of Poetry - Lilian A. Aujo

Poetry is the school I will never graduate from

because no matter how hard – I try

I will never tell it all – the secret way of its patterns

And how the same letters form different syllables to form different words,

And how they fall – in front or behind one another, and if re-arranged would create a whole different story...

It is how emotions run

High – Low – Calm – Serene

Vivacious, like the sun at noon, surreal like the fantasy it promises

You never know when poetry goes subtle or quiet. How even when there,

It grows deep like a river that bleeds

when the dry earth has sucked out her waters... poetry...

It is the bird song I cannot articulate

The trickle of the tap in a porcelain sink

The whoosh of the wind that makes my skin stand on end

That thing that knocks the breath out of my lungs

The music in you, unsung, yet so fervent you tingle within

The notes in the air unwritten on sheets. Tangible, intangible, whatever you please

It is useless to try to fathom how,

Without seeming to say much, it says so much,

How it clings to you like the little hand of a small child begging you to stay

Or, like the sticky filmy strands of the spider whose web you never see – but,

You walk right into anyway...

It is the sweet tangle between fantasy and realism

And metaphysics and apathy and breath and death

But do not worry if the opposites don’t quite match or get criss-crossed right:

The rhythms do not always match...

see, there in disorder exists the same beauty eminent in order,

I have come to learn,

That free verse, sonnet, haiku, list, and lyrical when tweaked just right

Are like a violin in the hands of a skilled violinist: so many songs from the tip of one bow

I live, breathe, dream poetry, in syllables so sweet they tantalise my mind

Tie and untie my tongue so I have no choice but try to tell of its complexity,

Of all the stories that are spun like the silky strands of Ananse’s tales

And the flighty cunning of a hare’s escapades...

I laugh so hard tears kiss the corners of my eyes,

I learn lessons that might have remained unlearnt had they been in plain black or white

See, the twists are new with every turn

Like a child’s wheel let loose and thrashing through bushes

Like heavy raindrops never knowing their mark –

Like the water in a lake that flows in itself and never knows where it ends and or where it begins... yes it is that meld...

...the sublime, the divine... that you never touch

Yet you know how it feels...

It is the beauty you want to explain but words are always inept to describe

It is poetry... existent in as many exquisite and intrinsic patterns

As there are on a peacock’s tail:

While she sits, her iridescent plumage dazzles us,

And when she fans her tail, we see her eye...

Hypnotically beautiful...spiralling into the magical chasm of poetry...

Do you see the eye of poetry?

---

Lilian Akampurira Aujo (21st century) Uganda

Source: Suubi, African Writers Trust and British Council, 2013