Poetry & Prose : THE EYE IN THE WINDOW


If we linger just slightly longer on him
(or if he draws out a wallet)
He will emerge triumphantly
From the depths of his patchwork clothes,
And the grip of the giant spider surrounding his all
Like dire reminiscence.
He is the only mad African in this maelstrom;
He’s been turfed out, he’s shopping with his heart.

The silver Kenwood blender in the shop window
Has stopped him dead in his tracks. He’s poised like fire –
WANT (the sick cross) dances all over him like cymbals
But we know the solitude of madness won’t let him have it –
He will never cook with it;
His wife wouldn’t be there to kiss it with her fire.

We also know how well it would set off his ivory tower,
The glassed Le Corbusier that takes its cue from the
Elements – hence roofless on hot days.
Let’s face it, he is refined, despite the dis-grace:
His million stitches are of chiselled light, and
His twiddled goatee speaks of pent-up poetry…

Let’s call him a genius then,
Let’s swallow the bitter pill.

By Ishmael Fiifi Annobil (26/4/03 Regents Park, London 1.20 am)
Illustration by Ishmael Annobil

Graphic Design by Ishmael Annobil /  Web Development by Ruzanna Hovasapyan