Home Articles / Poems THE LAST MAN BOOKER



If they ask you, tell them…

If they ask you

the Finkler question

just as you walk down Wolf hall,

tell them;

tell them it’s the year of the gathering,

and we must return from sea

to get our own inheritance of loss.

Tell them we live a life of pi

and only hope

on the gods of small things

to give the last orders.

If they say

the depths of our minds

are way too shallow,

stressing the need

for precise axioms and definitions

to capture the ghost of departed quantities,

 then tell them;

tell them we solve the differential of our existence

by counting small stones,

and need not their almighty formula

to solve the equation of our utter confusion.

Tell them we can fix our stochastic systems,

and can find the roots of our own identity.

If they say

we must go offshore

sailing on Schindler’s ark;

tell them;

tell them we are staying on

though we’ve heard of the siege of Krishnapur.

Say we know there is a rate of change

and can tell the circle is bound in continuity.

Tell them that amid life’s heat and dust,

we have learnt to play the conservationist.

And if they ask

why all the patriotism?

then tell them;

tell them

for too long we have plied the ghost road

where the phantom of Paddy Clarke silently screams.

Tell them we’ve been caressed daily by hunger

on this famished road plied by old devils and bone people;

savoring the remains of the day.

Yes tell them,

tell them we are satisfied with dearth and death

in our possession;

for we are midnight’s children,

observing the rites of passage.

Oh tell them,

tell them we are poised

to cover the erotic distance between dreams and reality

when speed and time share a sweet romance.

Oh tell them,

tell them we are natives of trouble

just seeking a good name for bad sleep.



Source: http://loudthotzpoetry.blogspot.com.ng/

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