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| by Psalmuel Benjamin |
Here I Am– Riding My Pen Back to the Tail of Times—Revisiting Those Days That Were Older Than I.
Time/ here/ is a mirror/– ricocheting to my ripe
face/ the comfort I pied my tender skin upon/ while
I glued on grandma's back/ like the shell of a snail/–
A mat of rumbled righteousness.
A boy/ strapped within wrappers/ where witches/
wouldn't wink wickedness like a grenade/ into/ I
Drove myself into shuteye/ and saw bright darkness/
I lived in a vault of flesh/ as a morsel/ nothing more
spelt bliss like the giant fingers that kept shaping me/
But I didn't know.
I didn't know/ that life is a book/ its pages are the size
Of the sky/ your sweat is your ink & you are a pen/ I
Didn't know/ that we/ all/ are writers/ writers of
Every stones of reality that bruise us/ and every bee
that stings/ every drip of honey & every drop of leaf
In this round forest.
I used to be a treasure in her bosom/ with a veil of
Vague vision/ time/ here/ is a mirror/– showing a
Portrait of me/ jejune in June/– campering at glitters
Of giftings and balloons/ blowing out my worries
With the dancing fire above the candles/ twenty kids–
Hoping to hop for twenty years.
Wonders here and there/ how human heaves humans/
How Earth eats/ how days drive in and out/ how a
Boy/ too/ is a pen/ a poet/ a prophet/ writing himself
Into a fulfilling prophecy.
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