By PO Oduor
This week, The Standard writer, poet and short story writer Peter Oduor is our guest writer, he waxes poetic on the women we love but most of the time, we keep losing them…
The wrong man is speaking here today, if you may, lend him an ear for a moment or so then we can all salute the women we loved and those we lost.
Passing, paced up, fleeing, and flying; that is what life is to us. Women come into the lives of men and bring along with them love or some other feeling I do not really know about and before you know what hit you, they are gone like January showers, leaving you cold and shivering. Some pass you standing there like you are a bad signpost and go on with their journey.
Shall I confess a few things, not secrets so don’t get all edgy, shall I confess a few things, on behalf of fellow men, so ladies if you are listening, this is for you; love can meet men on the road and say it is love and men will still not know, treating you well is something we really honor, we mostly think about it, not do it. Forever for you and me-us -can be as abrupt as a falling dry tree branch, not your ever after. And sometimes when we say we forgot, we actually forgot, such instances though are very few. Flowers grow in the gardens but sweet words we can speak. Sometimes.
We have rumbled before women and knelt before others, we have gallantly triumphed over women and been dragged on the ground by others, we have spoken till words that came out seemed not ours but from another man in us, to be listened to and dismissed with a shoulder shrug, we have been listened to with effects we knew not words could bring.
To the women who took their lives and thought they could share it with us, my head is bowed and I am kneeling, touching your feet (don’t let that get into your head), to the women who felt their life was too private to share with us my head is bowed, but I am standing touching your head (don’t let that get you on your feet).And to the women who have little substance and feel themselves self full, fuller than a mad man’s bag, hear me –oh- sweet one , that you look thus.
Look up a little bit, ye women who took us in when we looked sham and wham bam and put some life into our wilting souls, covered us with warmth of soft fluffy feathers, relaxed our muscles and gave us renewed hope every time we fell, maybe we never said it to you but here now I speak; you are like none on earth, so wonderful God should make you an angel, so beautiful you can not fit human description , so wild a flower that sings wild, blissful sweet tunes that you alone an compose.
But now you are gone and that way it has to stay. But one last thing…
When you meet me on the streets today, do not look at me with piercing eyes that want to know what I am going through. When you smile at me along the way, do not warm my heart with your sunny mien that knows not what darkness I am going through. When you talk to me today, do not let your words tumble out of your mouth like big yellow oranges rushing from a fallen basket, words that have energy about them, energy that shadows me. When you touch me today, do it not like yesterday when your fingers would slide over mine and rest in knowing comfort of the warmth and softness of my palm, do it in the manner of a guest, a visitor, quick and brisk, save me the agony of feeling your touch. When you embrace me today, in a warm hug ;do it not like the old times when you would slide into my arm the way a key slides into a well oiled lock, do not hold me tight for you will leave your sweet fragrance on my shirt and turn my head into a building on fire, do not, my dear, bring your cheeks so close to my ear, oh dear, for I will hear our silent whispers of our now unspoken lovely past and that will ache my heart to no end. Mercy me, my once and once only, when you lean your head close to my nose yet you know too well what the smell of your hair does to me, how breathing will become to me a task and my mind a flight will take. When you meet me today, dear lovely, meet me like we are ships on the mad raging waters of the ocean, wave at me if you may, honk if you can but please make it brief and painless.
Give me room to forget about you, and pretend not, that you have forgotten about me.
Cheers to the women we loved and those we lost.
PS: You can catch more of this poetry on http://peteroduor.wordpress.com/2011/01/21/metamorphosis-the-art-of/