Kelvin Kellman – Three Poems
A snaking path amidst a thicket steers the
Way. He is the oracle, mouthpiece of distant
Gods on earth; grand representation of all
Bygone ancestors, seer of the vague beyond.
Man-on-red, Chalk lord and blood sprinkler.
A piercing cry and august dance bid you welcome.
‘Woman, your troubles though unbending are not
Beyond cure.’ He would summon spirits, gods and
Daemons− only you must offer crucial libation. He reels
Out Items needful. Have spirits now mouths to munch?
You might have discerned the curious gaze,
As he fastened famished ruddy eyes, in locked
Fervent ferocity like cutting laser beams, but
For your manifold woes that blinded you to the
Central theme of the list: soup ingredients−
To whet the flame of his long deserted stove,
Furnishing fat feasts for many afternoons.
Howbeit, let not your tallow glow reach its submit,
Because soon you’d blaze the bush path running,
Frantic like bushfire in harmattan, your miseries
Climaxing on your very head; a kite caught in a
Thunderstorm. ‘The gods never sleep,’ says he.
‘They’re on your case as we speak. Remember
The night is darkest before dawn. Shortly your
Feet would trudge my doorstep singing.’ Then he
Orchestrates to fleece you over again− to keep vile
Spirits at bay. O wretch! Only you can pilot your stead.
You who have hands and will, have with open eyes
Trusted your fortune into another’s. Alas, I grieve swell,
Because even heaven will not play nurse to your tears.
Maiden From Heaven
Alas I’m transfixed,
Beholding this incarnate of a seraph face-to-face,
Numbed to the marrow in a flash of breathless longing,
And in an instant, tangled between right and wrong, the world as I know is departed;
Ablaze with mysterious inferno.
What daughter of earth,
Of the mythical fairies that plough infernal oceans deep,
Come besides the bewitching luminesce of your splendour, germ of my winter solstice?
What son beget by man is enduring to
The changing wonders of your familiar alchemy?
Melting each passing under the vigour of your crescent leer,
My head beneath fever fits of irate confusions.
I anticipate your kindness…
Lift me to partake of the sap of your supple chest,
Enwrapping these arms behind your ample form,
Breathing every living moment in your soothing clasp,
In those tender bosom, and ever on your lips.
In your fellowship
I’m again a tot,
In a schoolyard of endless clatter,
With open arms, open cards,
At distal end from myriad afflictions,
Savouring the magic in your smiles,
Thawing my tragic nights…
These feet will engage distant flight
At the whisper of your thoughts;
Even at the birth of its wave,
Before the start of your tongue.
For all is many, all is varied:
All’s a pool of ripples profound and fading.
But with you, I’m never unsure.
Your incarnate presence and
Steady solace in my deepest despair
Is like the brio of the fields in the wake of dawn’s dew.
And whilst this sail− like every –is fickle
AWOL not in the squalls I pray,
Else I’d heed my call into eternal light.
For with you,
I am ten legions in one.
Author’s Statement on Beauty
Beauty is that tangible manifestation that syncs with our innermost ideal. This expounds why it is different for everybody, and why it comes in myriad shapes and hues, myriad tones and rhythm. Beauty is a primary kernel of being; it is that faith that pulses us towards the soulful alchemy of tomorrow’s melody.
Kelvin Kellman writes from Nigeria. He’s been published in magazines and journals like The Stockholm Review, Lawino, Kalahari Review, Sentinel, Sankofa and elsewhere.