to the world of penpushers
pushing out cabal words of the mind.
Give me your blessings, oh!
Pa Gabriel Imomotimi Okara, for
I have made orison to the Creator,
without any further procrastination.
May I never feel fatigue,
In this battle my being has sent me,
may I come home an askari, like you,
winning all the dreams, all the muss,
all the songs, all the battles, all the screech
in the pronunciation of cabalistic
terrestrially wars of littérateurs.
You have seen it all, Pa Okara!
Apart from these shameful parts of descent
(Littérateurs have no landscape).
I am a son, brother, creative initiate
clambering and raising hands and voice
for the blessings of the time’s
epitome of phoenix.
The pregnant woman has born,
the Friar has gone for baptism,
the holy names have been named,
but blessings and mysteries
the Creator knows.
The Friar called the holy names,
but could not know
the suiting name for a poet.
Can a son bless the father? If “yes”
then take the rituals I have learnt
to carry out better: You are protected
from all spells and evil
casting spells on innocent immortals.
The fruit you planted called poesy
has grown a tree not ageing as you’re ageing;
it has grown wide like the Iroko;
from the four cardinals any enthusiast
could see its fruit blazing like Lucifer.
I am a glutton in this vineyard!
May your blessings to me
enlighten my eyes with true light,
so I may see beyond my eyes could see;
so I may think beyond my head could think;
so I and my weakness will never
prevail over my poesy warring being;
so my hidden holy name will be pronounced;
so I may live beyond my temporal being;
so that people will study me in different traditions.
People buy article in the mull;
People go to church for faith;
People go to school for certificate;
But all these things
Are handiworks of knowledge,
And knowledge is as gray,
or as coeval as the globe.
I can see the
Wand of Poesy in your hand,
But this mystery
Is a knowledge
I crave with indulgence.
Bless me, oh! Pa Gabriel Okara.
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