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Eyitemi Egwuenu


Eyitemi Egwuenu

Egwuenu trained as a Medical Doctor. His poetry has been featured in A Melody of Stones: An Anthology of New Nigeria Writing 2003 (A Publication of Pen Nigeria Centre) as well as in The Dublin Quarterly (International Literary Review). His short story has also appeared on and The Brimming Chalice is his collection of poetry.



 The Call


Blind as a phacolith;
Among the throng,
I wander.

Blunt hearts dipped in dullness,
Seined in Sameness

Walking the maze – no thread,
No clue, no trails to the totem pole –
The Vision.

Blind as a phacolith,
Here amongst the horde
To ingest our mutual puke;
To live the lives of leaves –
To faint, to fail, so frail,
To die.

Coasting along,
A dull herd, dumb to the call
Of the near-distant Voice;
Lacewings, leaned to char –
Smokewisps – flame’s breath to the heights.

Numb to all Visions;
The dross-worn drivel dribbling to ripples
To tend a torpid soul.

Feel the limp, heavy on my heart;
None hears the call, none –
That they themselves may mourn,
May mingle
Tears – threads of brine.

None hears the call, none –
To bow before – fall on a naked sword
And be reborn.

None hears the call, none –
The wind sighs – the tale on a breath dovetails
In mortise of my unrest.

Ram my heart through the rampart –
This horde of Sameness;

Root my radicles
In guts of humus
To unfurl shy plumules;
Leaf-limbs questing
For pure light in
Clear drops of rain.

The axis of life – the
Ankh calls;
A lean tuft of green
In deaths of brown.





I have walked
This way before, where silence
Treads loudly – milestones cloaked
In dust
Raised by a horde of feet.

I have pressed ears
To the earth to hear
The footfall of ants – in vain.

I have walked this way,
Each turn brings another –
Steeps my heart in general songs –
This maze that swings my feet
From same to the Same.

Feelers in the dark
Search for the passage to the light –
Diffusions like tentacles reach
For dead ends –
As the hourglass sand-runs
The flow of the days.

I walk this way still –
Where twigs
Snap like taut minds –
Reveal an urn of
Charred dreams.

The moon weeps for me – her beams
Fall impotent on my shores;
My lame feet
Can not rise to wash
Its dust in her silvery tide
Like stones, washed-white
By chimes of a waterfall.

Lame feet
Can not rise to approach
The lyre of silver strings;
To brim the ear with melody-lisps
Reeled from the lips of the Wind.


If the Wind is not ribbed
How shall I hear?
As bared longings gnaw
At the riddle of the Sphinx.

Here I sit
At Equinox – the air gorged
With fetid gyrations of decay –
The darkness smoothens my ruffled fur
But the Ankh,
Hovers before me – The call
Of Light.

So, the Circle yearns
To ride the crest of the Cross
When the mirrored stare
Of a cock-lain-egg, sat on
By a toad yields
The dust-to-dust.

Here I sit
At Equinox – lone pulsations
Of a waning gibbous –

Here I sit
To piece the broken Rosetta –
Stony fragments like a plectrum,
To thumb the Wind.

If the Wind is not ribbed
How shall I hear? –
The tenor of the streams lollop
That leads to the sun-curtained cave
Behind the Waterfall –
Beyond the sentinel arc –
Seven hues,
In the ascending spray.





Thunderclouds in amber-bowls
Of lightning –
Presages of the weeping sky.

Fleets of rain-drops
Rain arrows at the womb
Of earth;

Let the seeds break
In cracks of life;
Let the green
Cloak this naked brown;
Let time be sown,
Hid in pods of the Dream;

Let the pods break –
Let it break,
In the dawn – this rebirth,
This meeting of the Spirit
With the primal breath.

O Spirit, wing my thoughts –
This flutter of the Dream
Towards the Light.





A wind-tossed leaf
With a Voice –
Soft fluff, on the ripples
Of a breath, flows
To the end of an echo.

Lone leaf, learning
The lore
Of the wilderness;
Lone pilgrim
Of the Wild.





Spirit, wing my thoughts;
Plume it
With tongues of far-seeing eyes.

Part the veil;
This nimbus
That secrets the Light.

Part these hooded eyes;
Let this pilgrim read the rhythm
Beyond the horizon –
Beyond the quarrel
Of this Wilderness.

Vision, wing my heart –
Reel me in to the nest –
To the breast,
Of the eternal IS.

Let this path I tread,
Be trod
By the staff – the Voice of Sight.

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