Dramatic Verse

At Yuletide

~ Iyan Igma

I sit inside my own grave.
It’s dark and damp because
My tears fall like snowflakes for
The pain of what isn’t but was.

Festivities ring out below me,
And shoppers dream of silver bells,
And children dream of presents,
Except the ne’erdowells

Like me who have destroyed life
Choice by choice by friend by friend
And have no family to welcome home
Or visit at the year’s dark end.

Salty rain occludes my vision
As “Little Drummer Boy”
Turns into a “White Christmas,”
Followed by “Hark,” “Silent,” “Joy.”

But listen as I might I hear
No joy, silent or otherwise.
All the traditions and songs
Of youth have been but lies.

My family doesn’t want me,
And I’ve no money to see them.
The only things they’d talk about
Are men and why I’m so slim.

“You need to eat more, honey,
The wind could blow you away.”
“Are you seeing anyone new now?
Old maids have no wedding day.”

I’m not anorexic. Why should I eat?
I don’t have enough will to live;
I only nibble enough to survive.
But I’d laugh out something glib

To pretend I hadn’t felt the barb.
And let’s not talk about men;
They all take advantage of me.
I don’t want their sympathy again.

They mock me with their kids
That act so proper and prim.
My brother has a perfect her;
My sister has an upstanding him.

They just want to discomfit me,
But I’ll never let it show.
Their happiness makes me distraught,
So I seek out any beau.

There’s no sex this Christmas;
I couldn’t bear another tryst.
Each time I get hurt worse;
It only hurts once to slit your wrist.

Then, there’s no more pain,
No more heartache and loneliness.
Hell can’t be worse than now
In my socio-emotional abyss.

In fact, it could only be better,
For I’ll end my body’s pain.
I won’t have to live tomorrow;
From fret and worry I’ll abstain.

I’ll need not make more decisions;
I’ll never be hurt by another friend,
Mocked by family, ignored by God,
Or betray my gifts to heartless men.

Not even my mother loves me;
There’s no point in going on.
She should know my pain and call,
But love is muted on the phone.

Let’s have a drink to me tonight,
Perpetually on the naughty list.
Should I choose now the jugular
Or slit useless, petite wrists?

The bathtub. It will drain the blood,
So it’s easier to be rid of me.
That’s all anyone’s ever wanted,
Though I was too hopeless to see.

I brandish the knife curiously—
It’s the present that will unwrap me.
To think we die by such simple means,
When living is a vast complexity!

I can scarcely see my skin
For the salt that stings my eyes.
‘Have some resolve you stupid girl;
Hack away, and silence your cries.

It won’t do to whimper for
For there is nothing for you here.
Why won’t you act? The knife’s so
Close! Don’t be paralyzed by fear.

Do you really want to continue
Being mocked, abused, and ignored?
Each day kills you mercilessly,
Never wiping your blood from its sword.

How many reminders do you need?
No one loves you; Mom will not call.
This isn’t like all the times before,
When you thought, but that was all.

Christmas time calls for red and green;
Your blood and envy paint it true.
Now go ahead, you foolish girl,
I have no more use for you!’

Long slits deep go up my arm;
Pain cries to my head to cease.
My plasma warms the water;
The casket will grant me peace.

There are no tears to mourn me here,
Only gushing tears in my flesh.
It reminds me, oddly, of infantile days,
Of my mother’s soothing caress.

How long have I been here now?
The water’s grown chill; so have I.
I wish I could hear my mother’s voice
Once more before I shortly die.

It’s a struggle now, but I somehow
Manage to drag myself from the tub.
My naked, bleeding body crawls across
The Linoleum floor I used to scrub.

There’s no vitality left in me;
I collapse from hands and knees.
I cannot make myself go,
Despite my curses and pleas.

‘Goodbye, mom,’ I think softly,
Since whispers are now beyond me.
I hope somehow she can hear me,
Know I love her, and be glad I’m free.

I lie here face down as I ebb,
Drawn like the low tide by the moon.
Something prickles at my memory,
And I’m trying to place the tune.

“I’ll be home for Christmas?”
Wryly I think that I’ll be gone.
What is that faint ringing noise?
Is it the last time I’ll hear the phone?

I wonder who it could be?
Just leave a message; I won’t reply,
For I’m drifting off to ether,
And my spirit the stars will pass by.

“Honey, this is your mother calling,”
Those words by tinny noise relayed
Have given me a spark of energy;
Maybe death can be delayed.

I inch ahead with bloodstain smears.
“It’s Christmas Eve. I worry about you.
Call me when you get this message.
Merry Christmas. I love and miss you.”

Her words died out as did my strength,
Finding me ‘neath the Christmas Tree.
Its lights are dark just like my joy.
My veins and stockings are empty.

A yuletide wreath of blood surrounds me;
Sight’s dim; I hear music for the last time.
“So have yourself a Merry Little Christmas,”
And drink to me and “auld lang syne.”

Sop of Saving Bread

~ Iyan Igma

Here, have the last morsel of bread.
You can gnaw on my corpse after.
And when you do, try not to think
Of the one who gave you laughter.

Don’t think of the hugs and kisses,
And whatever you do, don’t cry.
My love is unconditional;
For you, my child, I gladly die.

You must live; you have much to learn
And fantastic sights to witness.
You’ll make it through. Soon rain must come,
And earth will be healed of sickness,

Of the cold but snowless winter
And the drought that thawed in spring’s lieu.
Of the crops that failed all year long,
While our animals perished, too.

My life’s full, though not my belly;
My gaunt body’s ready for rest.
It’s peaceful, slipping to heaven
As my heart stills in my chest.

But you must live to understand
The true happiness of the grown,
And thus understand my last acts
By having children of your own.

Don’t weep; I will watch over you,
And I’ll comfort you in your dreams.
You’ll never be alone here, child,
Even if that is how it seems.”

I Walk These Lonely Hills

~ Iyan Igma

I walk these lonely hills for you
Like a ship adrift at sea,
Wishing you’d come to take the helm
And rescue myself from me.

Bonaparte on Saint Helena
Knew not of my captivity,
Reclusive, exiled from power,
Parted from you, ma sweet cherie.

The leaves have grown, the trees have, too;
My anxiety ever grows
Like blossoms trapped under snow drifts
With tears freezing as they transpose.

Chirping birds call for you in spring,
And we both wait out your reply
So intent we barely notice
That the strong young have learned to fly.

I see the sun seeking by day,
And the moon mourns with me each night.
Often the spirits of the dead
Watch me with pity at twilight.

Years ago now we were to meet
To elope from this dense wildwood.
I wait. Love and hope never die;
If they were true they never could.

That night the storms blew around thick
Like a mine collapsing on me.
Surely the storm kept you away.
Why haven’t you yet come for me?

The wildwood is still undisturbed
Like the love that I have for you,
Though many moons have seen me wait
Unphased by the cold, heat, and dew.

I’ll wait for you, until I die,
And then should you come, love’d heal me,
Unlike the bones of some poor man
Whose love visits him faithfully

On the self-same day that we should
Have had our anniversary.
Her finger’s bare. She kneels. She cries.
Would you cry those same tears for me?

She found him years after I did;
He lies defunct in the ravine.
He must have taken a faux-pas
And stepped right into the unseen.

The more she comes, the more fancy
Starts to run away with my mind.
For though she’s old and weary now,
She looks more like you all the time.

Across the Thatch

~ Iyan Igma

Please reach ye here within my breast;
Thrust your hand ‘neath ribs and membranes,
And find the beat within my chest
Attached to arteries and veins.

You must feel how it pines for you;
Take it in one unholy snatch.
Look here, it beats constant and true,
And my blood spurts across the thatch.

I pledged to give my heart to you;
Please, squeeze it now with all your might
Till cardiac muscle seeps through
Your fist’s crevices with delight.

See now, it is like warm play dough;
It’s stopped bleeding, beating, feeling.
You’ve lost interest in me, ergo
My sight and blood are congealing.

Apple Scented Death

~ Iyan Igma

What strange visions my dreams present me!
The sins committed at her behests
Should fill me with fear and mortal guilt,
Though my friar would say I was possessed.

She awakens me in this lucid dream,
Though it just might be reality,
Completely in rapturous control
As if ’twere normal to straddle me.

Such fragrance her hair and body have,
Flowing and soft to intimate touch,
Usurp me. Her blackened figure shows.
My vitality ebbs with each clutch

She takes and drifts to euphoria.
Though virile, I pander to her wants.
Each night she returns and drains me more,
But I love her lips and iv’ry taunts.

She fills me with passions I find wild,
Causing flames to race and fire to beat.
I feel her, the unfinished sculpture
Whose backside’s void, though her front side’s sweet.

What else could this beauty want from me?
I’ll give her energy and quick breath.
Her eyes glow as she leans in quite pleased
As I welcome apple-scented death.

Sailor Boy

~ Iyan Igma

Sailor boy, you’ve come back to port
After journeying far away.
Why is it you won’t look at me?
Is there nothing you’d like to say?

Why haven’t you taken me in
Your arms or made a bride of me?
I guess it’s true that sailor boys
Have no heart save for ship and sea.

Are there no stories you would tell
Of bounding mains and foreign shores,
Of hurricanes ventured bravely,
How mates snore and the captain bores?

Why haven’t you shared more with me?
I’ve loved you since I was four.
I wish you’d stand and hold me, but
You don’t have land legs anymore.

You’ll take your final voyage soon
And be taken away from me
By the dame that wooed and killed you,
Buried with your mistress—the sea.

The Relic of His Love

~ Iyan Igma

His scent had faded from the shirt
Like the perfect trust kids place in
Parents and the beauty of dawn
Consumed by harsh, sunlit din.

I’ve lost the relic of his love,
The musk that let’s me dream he’s here.
So I go to his apartment,
Hoping wildly his voice to hear.

I go onto his bed to lie;
His smell hasn’t begun to ebb.
I hold his pillow tight and think
Of my love tangled in life’s web.

Maybe when he returns and rests,
Some lingering traces of me
Will make him think of weeks alone
Without my zealous company.

Perhaps a little whiff will make
Him crave not the flesh but the heart
And soul which love him so, like his
Musk teases me when we’re apart.

The Lady of Cofitachequi

~ Iyan Igma

Mountains and rivers have I crossed,
But gold only once did I see.
How passing fair the vision of
The Lady of Cofitachequi!

She gave me her own strand of pearls;
I wish she’d given me her heart,
With the affection of her limbs
And the comfort that they’d impart.

I knew I could never win her,
So I tried to force her to go
So she could be my chieftainess,
But she escaped this Hidalgo.

Her cunning stays with me in dream,
I see her carried by her men.
Each time I see a native’s face,
I can but think of her again.

Battles roiled in blood have raged on;
Though wounded I could never die,
Not because I am a sun god,
But because of my love whereby

I have been healed of all my wounds,
Since I’m determined to return
To her in Cofitachequi,
Though she might have me killed or burned.

There’s a fever that’s taken me,
Which history will not retell
Since it’s the ague of the heartsick.
To be a Conquistador’s hell.

Moscoso, say you’ve buried me
In the river while it’s still night.
I’m dead to the expedition;
When I find her, I’ll be all right.

I need not follow my carnage
Since its course winds about too much
And would delay far too greatly
The reception of her sweet touch.

I must only follow the sun
Until at last my heart is home.
Not even death can stop me now.
Take command, Moscoso; I’m gone.

This Rag

~ Iyan Igma

I clutch this rag close to my heart,
For the memories it imparts
Are what make life dear to me,
While filling it with misery.
This rag is all I’ve left of you;
You’re both covered in mildew.
Mold covers you, it, my soul.
Death I cannot decontrol.
The grime and squalor here
To my view scarcely appear,
Since no reality’s as severe
As consuming loneliness austere.
Home is where the heart is–left,
And I’m homeless and bereft.
I wander through the blind streets
And not a human do I meet,
For demons wear egoic masks.
Sympathy’s too much to give or ask.
Snowflake’s plagues fall everywhere,
But a little piece of threadbare
Wool gives off more lasting heat
Than the cardboard o’er my feet
And the newspaper on the bench
And me. Fate is a heartless wench
That takes what it wants and leaves,
Clueless of the ones who grieve.
Without you all my treasure’s gone.
Why work? Why live? No God. Alone.

Shadowbathing in the Breeze

~ Iyan Igma

This mesa is mine to guard over
Despite all those the vortex might bring
In the hidden hollow they meet for worship
I chuckle each solstice, fall, and spring

For the hapless davians celebrate
A most spiritual intimacy
Opening themselves to be despoiled
In ways surpassing spirituality

The ecstasy of ravishing them
The frenzy burning through to flesh
The spasm, frothing, flagellation
The shrieks exploding from their chest

They are mine and love me
And so I permit the harlots to stay
But every so often a tender skeptic
Chances to come my way

Out in the night where you can see for miles,
Brittle grass festooned with agave clumps,
I set to follow them closely
Staring till they can’t deny chill bumps.

In panic I see them look around
But adjusted eyes cannot perceive
Superiors of the sort I am
Their minds invent horrors to believe

Animals stalking in the bushes
Or a psychopath poised to attack
Though I am stealthy following them,
Their heads keep swiveling back.

Fear, I can taste it delicious now,
For they know they’re being chased
Advancing, I dig my fingernails deep
Into their neck, they freeze in place

Shivering as a disembodied hand
Traces the curvature of their face
And their breath becomes visible.
I release them from this place

And follow them to their humble room,
A few manage to start to pray
Then, they notice how pitch the room has grown,
And I laugh their cares away.

I advance, my darkness more supreme
Than the night I’m basking in
Mortified stares and weeping eyes,
Then, they’re paralyzed victims

I sprawl across them, absorb their fear,
Soak into their body inch by inch
I pretended to wrestle for control,
And they’re too rigid to flinch

Trapped behind two startled eyes
And a brain about to stroke
I let the unbelieving wretches lie
Captive, oppressed, unable to choke

And I feel the fear rushing in
I sponge up their anxious brains
And just as soon as they think they’ll die
I leave them wondering if I’ll return again

All night they wait in sleepless horror
Eyes drawn through the window to the trees
Where the darkness warms my soulless ser
Shadowbathing in the breeze