Grand Pa's Face

The talkative scars on Grand pa's face
rap on even in the night
when blankets become seductresses
and my ears write letters of fatigue.

When he gives his broken smile,
the noise makes my eyes sweat
without a soul of handkerchief
to wipe off the watery waste of agony.

I wonder if he had looked handsome,
before the boom-boom called him
to jump into unpeaceful uniforms,
before enemy knives carved new mouths
on his cheek and forehead,
I wonder if he would look more whole,
if his legs had not run out of their hinges
when pow-pow came for them.


What makes a man?
is it not arms, legs and a palatable face
that will soothe palettes on tables
of female endearment?

Do you know what his face thinks?
His face talks of how war makes men whole
and brands them with memories of God's love,
how war maps the path of the soul
to the gates of divine freedom.

I still look at him today,
wishing his wisdom was not warped
and twisted into tendrils that cage
the sanity of man in cells
built with memories of carnal carnage
and lust-fuelled butchery
in human abattoirs of child-like rage.

Reviews

[TL Boehm]

Wow! the first two verses are especially powerful, such unique and strong imagery - an exceptional write.

[Leslie Philibert]

A poet I know well and admire. Another example of fine work from Africa.
(one small point, I think Grandpa reads better than Grand pa)