Poem

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.

The Ring’s Vow

~ Iyan Igma

When last we were naked together,
I wished that you might stay
In my ravenous arms forever.
But duty called, and you were away.

I never got to hold you and
Enjoy the exuberant kiss
That only lovers understand
When they are wearied by bliss.

The moment is gone, as are you,
And now there’s none to warm my bed,
To cuddle with the whole night through.
O, that I’d been a nun instead!

For these emotions will linger,
Although they cannot be fulfilled,
Like the ring’s vow on my finger,
Since we were engaged, and you’re killed.

Oh, had we not been so hasty
To give our maidenheads away,
And had love not been so tasty,
I’d not be tortured today!

For there are bonds, my dead young man,
That will chain down the living’s soul.
You became part of who I am,
And without you I can’t be whole.

Sure, I could lie with other men,
But I can never lie with you.
I would remember us again.
But in death I can lie with you.

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.

Lake of Love’s Brimstone

~ Iyan Igma

I already know I’m worthless,
Do you have to rub it in?
Sé que soy el gran fracaso,
And I wish I had never been.

Damn the mams that gave me suck,
And damn the womb that gave me life.
Damn all my useless intellect,
And bless this liberating knife!

Damn my frailties and emotions,
And damn the truth that’s worse than fear:
You could never bear to love me,
But somehow you could hold me near.

Bless the bosom, lips, and thighs of
The heartless woman I loved true.
Although you’re guilty of my death,
I could ne’er make myself damn you.

Ye blesséd Sons of Perdition
Cast to hell from heaven above,
Rejoice ye know not the lake of
Fire and brimstone of mortal love!

Five and Twenty

~ Iyan Igma

A. E. Housman warned me
But could not prepare me for you.
How could I heed the sagacious,
When you’re too good to be true?

Here now I’m five and twenty,
Having once been twenty-two,
Despaired from giving my heart in vain,
And hopelessly smitten with you.

And now my heart is bleeding,
And this fantasy can’t be true.
I don’t think my age would matter,
Thirty-five or sixty-two,

My heart would be laid open
Hoping for mercy from you.
I’ve no “pounds and crowns and guineas,“
Only love can I give to you.

How could you be satisfied
Just to be cherished a lifetime through?
I wish I had more to offer,
Like I wish to remain with you.

You’re marvelous and irresistible,
The most amazing woman I e’er knew!
And though I know it’s hopeless,
I know that I’m in love with you.

Hear now my sighs a-plenty,
But take me in your arms anew.
I can hurt and bleed tomorrow,
But for now let me treasure you. . .

I’ve loved these wondrous weeks—
A spring flower that early grew
Ere the last frost of the season.
Eternally I will miss you.

How can I e’er love again
Without recalling loving you?
And so it will ne’er be bittersweet
But sour to live without you.
How shall I feel completed
Having lost heart and soul to you?

Obelisk at Babel

~ Iyan Igma

How innocuous we thought it
When so long ago we did start
To build our love a monument
With brick and mortar of the heart.

The hotter that burned our passion,
The faster the obelisk soared;
Seemed Mercury the bricks fashioned
While Hephaestus’s furnace roared.

And soon we overtook Babel,
And, oh, how mighty was our fall!
Lo, now we are dispersed rabble
With no comprehension at all.

How sweet was our soul’s communion;
A light and beauty that did lend
Happiness to oblivion.
Love’s language lost, blown on the wind.