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Broken Confession: A pilgrimage to Michael Minassian’s ‘Lover’s Lament’

 
“I am possessed by
your nouns and verbs,
your personal pronouns,
your stories,
your catalogues
of truths and lies.”
-Michael Minassian, THE LOVER’S LAMENT

 

“I was unconscious”
How do you know?
“I have no recollection”
Perhaps I slept

I remember things:
When my body sleeps
When the alarm rings
My woken soul weeps

Will you partake
when I wake,
in rituals preserved
which memory served?

I did well
I can tell,
to regain
the mundane

Is the brain a lump
that conjures up and dump
false realities so insane
with all horrors they contain?

What truths did I find
when a zombie mind
climbs an ego driven wagon;
or a self marauding dragon?

Some days are baked
some souls are caged
their closed eyes forsake
Life’s coarsed handshake.

If I am alive
did I arrive
here by choice
given a voice?

The truth I berate
of unconscious fate
will eventually define
a me, closer to the divine

We had a history
from another life
an ancient victory
in a forgotten strife

Do not fear demise
in the end everyone dies
do not forget the ties
do not believe the lies

 

Umar Saleh Gwani is an information and Communications Technologies Consultant and solution provider to a wide range of clients over Satellite, mobile and microwave spectra, these under NextOne ICT, of which he is founder and CEO. He is involved in charities, book clubs, software developers groups, environmental advocacy, and of course poetry and prose writing. He enjoys outdoor sports activities, photography and sustainable development work at community and programme development levels. He is married with kids and currently lives in Bauchi, Nigeria.

 

Editor’s Note: Praxis Magazine Online would like to thank Michael Minassian, author of Around The Bend, a Praxis Magazine Online digital chapbook, for allowing us to reprint THE LOVER’S LAMENT here for the enjoyment of our readers. (The poem originally appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review in 2017.)

 

THE LOVER’S LAMENT

 

I dream of you:
I am obsessed
with your snowy
volcanic
voluptuousness.

I am possessed by your
your nouns and verbs,
your personal pronouns,
your stories,
your catalogues
of truths and lies.

I tear at my hair
rub my eyes with my fists
taste salt, snot, and blood;

if I were not alone,
I would walk off a cliff
smashing the earth

until it split
like the bloody lip
of an unrepentant companion.

– Michael Minassian, 2017

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