Poems by Lucius Ndimele
Night returns to you
Night returns to you with a broken
Heart, strange ideas slither through you
Mind, stranger still, the silence that
permeates each hour with gloom and guilt.
Where now, under the antagonism of 2.am
Hides her, your muse and the music, your
mother’s soft voice on a long drawn breath
of this weather, for after fear comes fear.
Are you to lie fallow on this cataract?
Bask in the darkness in your river? Are you
to wander drunk beyond your senses,
Till you stumble and fall upon your ruins?
The night returns to you with a bandaged
soul, strange voices summon your universe,
stranger still, the little child, crawling into the
a restless sea with your moon
Where now in the ego of this storm hides
him, the dove with a twig in its sermon?
Are you to awaken at dawn on the grave of
your organ-pipes, and sitting on the settee
of your wits, strive to understand sunglow
all over again.
Aftermath, from each
Shard of shattered reflection
A bard sips a verse
When I returned, your mind was still
wandering in that empty page, you
muttered that there was someone in
there, that looked pretty well like me,
wore the same coat to church meetings
every Friday, laughed so much at
every sentence from they who fed his
mornings with fairly used sunrise,
wrote eulogies for every pretty lady that
fell in love with him in his dreams, those
nights he wished not to wither, so that it
will be stated on his gravestone, that he
once witnessed something beautiful aside
the blue of his tears. knew so little about
himself, other than each morning, he
woke with night still lingering in his mind,
I ignored you, removed the coat that know
me more than water, washed the sermon
off my thoughts, wondering how much of
me I came back, you said there must be
something magical one can conjure out of
darkness, and loneliness, I reminded you I
already exist. You say each hour, one molts
into memories, I remind you the bones are
a story on its own.
A shivering wind upsets
The embers, glowworms
The old hills remember our names,
Remember the courses running through
our palm, the prophecy flowing through
the courses, in our abandoned dreams,
wind glue dry bones together, a mind
stretches itself over a feminine weather.
A shy hour walks into the nudity of a soul,
as we are there about, in the mildness of
this eventide, tracing our ancestry to
And thereof after much acuity,
Wear this perkiest grin to our flowered
Gathering, where as to lay off as much
As to gain, our rivers and our pasts, we
Yearn this schism from our neurons
While this tapering thought, sitting on
The edge of something unreasonable,
Angles for laughter in the our deep.