Robin S Ngangom Poems

I remember only the detritus of schools
which taught fear,
where only nuns seemed to believe
in the power of the written word and punishment.
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My native soil was created from tiny sparks
that clung to grandmother’s earthen pot
which conjured savoury dishes
I’ve been looking for
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The ignominy of geometry,
the inability to evade angles and parallels.
Living, we have to suffer that mortification
which robs the sacrifice of joy
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I’ve forgotten acts of kindness or to wish
people happiness if they can find it anywhere. I
would, if I could, help the bereaved furtively after
the mourners have eaten and left.
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A sleepless night, a lovelorn night, and
poetry arrived silent, to console
my wounded being.
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Hill, you and I have seen
only upheaval since our birth.
When I was torn from the universal womb
I echoed your silent cry.
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The kite transforming into smoke lacing
The chinars is not a symbol.
The rose has migrated from the garden of paradise.
Freedom will never come
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Having lost my independence
How could I celebrate it
Though I've sewn flags on cockeyed schooldays?
Margins are superfluous in the big centre's book
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We believe we own them but
In the evening of a street not a soul will be found.
Only a few stars shuffling in the oily sky and
Orange trees for neighbours.
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A writer can survive without a car
but a window with his palm
feeling the breath of a street
or a garden, a few weeping pens
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