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The Lost Collection of an Invisible Man
Nick Makoha's poetic eye bulges out of this debut collection and refuses to be blinked away. The images line up like skittles but fall with the grace of leaves. Extract:
from The Light The city clings like skin to the back of me,/
like summer sweat, my oils mixing/ with the humidity of the night./
Sleep the language I am speaking,/ every move mimicking death./
My body leaves a signature/ in the sheets. I rise; my feet touch the carpet’s canvas/
cooling me slightly. The window spilling moonlight/ into the room. Artificial light born from the TV mimics/
the light of the sky. Voices like my vision, blurred./ My hands snakes to the remote to mute the sound/
that brought me to sleep and in this moment awakens me.
from The Light The city clings like skin to the back of me,/
like summer sweat, my oils mixing/ with the humidity of the night./
Sleep the language I am speaking,/ every move mimicking death./
My body leaves a signature/ in the sheets. I rise; my feet touch the carpet’s canvas/
cooling me slightly. The window spilling moonlight/ into the room. Artificial light born from the TV mimics/
the light of the sky. Voices like my vision, blurred./ My hands snakes to the remote to mute the sound/
that brought me to sleep and in this moment awakens me.
- GenresPoetry
35 pages, Paperback
First published July 30, 2005
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
March 24, 2018
Interesting themes... A kind of style and expression that provokes thoughtfulness, asks you to sit a while and savour it, to listen."Not this morning," I'll say. "Sorry. There are things I need to go and do now." I'll come back and reread it, someday, hopefully. Perhaps by then I will have forgotten the tears that were in my eyes every time he mentions silences and scars; I'll have something new to drag my thoughts away from the page.
This is a collection that makes you aware of its empty space, its fracturedness. Don't get lost in it. I feel that these are poems that want to be listened to; give them time or else they'll wash over you like a shower in spring.
P.S. I hate the way reading poetry affects the way I write things afterwards. Oh la folie de l'homme.
This is a collection that makes you aware of its empty space, its fracturedness. Don't get lost in it. I feel that these are poems that want to be listened to; give them time or else they'll wash over you like a shower in spring.
P.S. I hate the way reading poetry affects the way I write things afterwards. Oh la folie de l'homme.
Displaying 1 of 1 review