Poems by Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st

Poems by  Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st


Becoming My Father

I have grown
Into a paint-stick
Of my poet father
Who never wrote
Any piece of poem
And fathered
My father
Became my son
A spat figure;
With identical legs,
And my son
Soon became me,
With identical hands
Drawing his father
With his legs.


The Black Bride

With the paint of a poet I paint you,
My black bride,
The epitome of beauty,
The black beauty
Of my black pride,
The pride of my black gold.

I have no paint
That masquerades like rainbows
Lending you man-made paintings,
I have a paint
That fixes your alluring blackness.

And I have a pitiful heart
For that red girl,
That girl that has taken to
The new unknown path
Aspiring to become ashes
Or a red rotten tomato.

Only you have remained
In the path of life,
The path dug by the ancestors
For your new active feet.

What else does that red girl,
That girl that aspires to become ashes
Instead of remaining the charcoal
To burn and give more life,
What else does that blood girl
Have that you lack,
Except the mixed
Rainbow colors newly fixed,
My blackness?

If I were a poet,
I should compare
Your bewitching beauty
To the appealing roses
Of the Solomon’s orchard.

I should liken your starry eyes
To the watchful heavenly eyes
Twinkling and blinking
In the black night.

I should resemble your black Afro
Erecting with comely elegance
To the long narrow neck
Of our Abino jar.

I would liken the paragon
Of your enthralling
Gleaming gold of teeth
To the classy perfect gold
Of Apar, Kolololo —

I could compare the paradigm
Of your delicate dimpled checks
To the valleys of Galilee,
Or Solomon’s swimming pool.

And what classic case
Would I compare your dazzling breasts
If not the earth breaking
Caps of the mushrooms
Pinpointing my innocent eyes?

And what prototype
Of bright comets
Could I compare your divine eyes
And Indian hip
I see you twist in the Orak dance?

If I were a poet,
With a political tongue,
I would compare you
To the coming election
I must win again,
By hook or crook.

Look, Acoli daughter,
You are the exquisite blue waters
Of the Australian oceans,
Extinguishing its conflagrations.

Your beauty fetching me
Like a magnet invites an iron,
And I am magnetized.

I am under the spell of your beauty,
The dark-skinned bride.
Yet when I am done
Wielding your grand skin,
That only an ideal woman has —

When I am done comparing you
To the graceful giraffe,
And the soft leaves of your skin
To the skin of grass-snake,
And the ebony eyes
To the sparkling Christmas tree —

When I am done painting you
Like a politician paints his tongue
And his tongue pours honeyed woodworms,
And your devastating beauty
To a sweet melody that haunts me

And your songs
To a soothing lullaby
To a broken big baby’s heart
Be warned, have heart.


My Beautiful One’s Room

I’m by far the most shabbiest gentleman
With the world’s most beautiful woman;
Welcome to her luxuriantly built house:
There is a week rotting dead little mouse,
The other day’s skunk leftovers in the saucepans,
The jealous chicken’s droppings on the floor,
On the windows are all the family pants,
Cups, plates and spoons welcome visitors by the door,
The dark-blue latrine troops buzz about the room,
Easing themselves germs on the uncovered food;
The baby’s other day fecal cloths still in water,
Rubbish under the door, and basins with the gutter,
The children’s good rags heaped on visitors’ chairs,
The dry children’s remains under the veranda,
And our unwashed underwears as wallpapers,
She’s my meticulous angel; her name is Miranda;
An outer clean cup with a messy inside,
And all the cold ashes do confess,
Like Adam and Eve, in no shame we confide,
I’m comfortably familiar with this tidy mess;
Isn’t this house hers, and she mine,
An identifical twin couple who never mind?

©Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st

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