A century and half will never make my earthenware gleam, even
if it be scoured and forgotten at the bottom of a stream.
I am earthenware born daughter of the house taken wife of the
man created mother of nations, a burden too big to bear just
like this earthenware I balance on my head.
This young maiden blossoming in the rays of youth my teeth
chalk-white my breasts, mangoes, ready to be plucked in season,
red and ripe.
Passing by on my way from the stream in skillful balancing acts,
the men sniff after the scents of my akwete cloth, like he-goats
in heat desire dripping from their eyes to form pools at my
feet. They say to me: “Nne come and greet me.” Virile men they
are, they wish to prove that virility.
I am earthenware balanced on braided hair with care so sought
after when first molded with the potters skillful kneading
fingers, an artwork catching the eye, first to be pointed at on
a market day abandoned when cracked and broken, my contents
spilling over.
(Excerpted from “Without a Name” a collection of poems by Val
.K., coming soon.)
Val .K. is a poet, and a nature lover. A collection of his poems
“Without a Name” will soon be published by AuthorHouse, U.S.A.
For personal contact, send mails to:
[email protected]