Harry Garuba


Three Moods, One Sunday


dressed in white
she lingered by the doorway
hanging to the knob with a gentle sway
as the sun walked through the
doors of the east lighting up her eyes

dressed in white
her face flowered before my eye
a dress, a door, a knob, the sun

i watched this Sunday scene
the sun rising on my tongue
I mouth a simple chant

at the threshold of this verb
your soul will open like a flower


a day of dull showers
somnolent noon of rain
warmed by a lukewarm light

slowly, very slowly the weary hour stretch outside
lingering in dull puddles, brackish gutters,
this cadence rides you slowly
like a dream as you descend
into an oasis of vowels

every noun
pronouns her absence
and in the void of the vowel
the qualifiers become a cortege of sirens
a procession of broken-hearted verbs
brooding on this noon of her absence


grief grips us all
clouds wrangle in the skies
the rain weary of its showers
moans in the slums and
darkness feeds on every face

in the silence of the soul
echoes the voice of a lost dream

a wasted rain, a wasted land…

Death of a Poem

(For Sesan Ajayi)

there is a lie in every line that rhymes
a line in every rhyme that lies

to tell the tale of a boy who loved beauty
so much he could not take the warts
that punctured the rhyming lyrics of his life
the debris and the log that punctuated
the flow of the river and the grace of the seagull

he couldn’t take it here
and one cloudless day
sunshine pouring like crystal showers
his spirit soared above the skies
leaving behind the lies in the rhymes

This dull, dull craft of words
Can it capture the dark delight of his life?

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