There's A God Called Poetry

I hear him in unexpected places
I hear him in the thudding of the stiletto down the hall
In the noisy chatter of market women
And in the croaking of toads at night

I hear him in the boom of my father’s voice
(The voice he preserves for his reprimands)
I hear him in the calls of the groundnut seller
In the screeching of the tires on the pavement
I hear Him in the last cry of the slaughtered goat
In the sudden yelp of the sleeping child
Hear him when the mortar hits the pestle
In the whistles of the laborers

In the jingling of bicycle bells
And in the shrill niggling of my mother’s complaint
He is in the eyes of the poor beggar knocking at my windscreen
In the angry scorn of the lady
Bespattered with mud by a careless motorist
I see him in the shivering of the leaves
And in the unfurling of petals
I catch sight of him when my cat licks her paws       
In the swaying of the beaded waist of the dancer

He is in the shy twinkling of fireflies
In the missing tooth of my younger sister
In my dog scratching her ears
And in my grandmother picking her tooth

I feel him on my chapped lips on a harmattan morning
Feel him as the rain hits my face
In the scalding of my tongue when I taste hot food
In the hands of a lover at my waist
In the gentle kicking of the fetus

I hide from him
Yet He pursues
I hide my face between my legs
To escape him
Yet I smell him

There’s a God called Poetry
I smell him when I walk past the bakery
In the tickle of my armpit in a hot afternoon
In the wizened touch of my grandpa
In the twittering of a thousand birds
And in the rushing of a mighty wind


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