I’m steady yawning, day is dawning. A slum flower breaking out of the cracks appearing in the sun-kissed, blushing night. I’m stirring from forgettable dreams of this ghetto arse Earth. My cheeks are lit by scattered twilight as I rise to the melody of Septembers swan-song shaking the sleep away and slow dancing me into its day. Up in the sky — across this map of the Universe, now, only two stars linger, hanging onto the night as the day gently envelopes them and they fade into its light.
I close my eyes and feel my heart racing. I’m a picture of serenity but I’m trembling inside, struggling with thoughts of how to pay rent and survive, aching to thrive, wondering what becomes of a pocket full of wishes and misadventures and what will finally crumble the hard bones that have held up an unremarkable life.
Suddenly, I remember those that came before me. A long line of great poets who exalted higher love to live and endure through every age of revolution. From every season, from the peaks and the valleys, they’re whispering in unison like songbirds to me — ‘shut up and write’. I open my eyes to find my hands clenched tight, holding onto another fistful of dreams and the taste of redemption on my tongue and smoke and bone dust in my lungs.
I drink in the moments of these days and let September take a bow for not becoming just another heartbreak. Throughout the incoming season of darkness, when I feel light years away from a long line of great poets, I’ll let wonder and the scent of nostalgia and the songbirds — lift and lead me back to the essence of you.
Authors note: Thank you loads for reading. This poem was sparked by the quote ‘You come from a long line of great poets, some of the greatest poets since Homer. One of them said, The very time I thought I was lost, My dungeon shook and my chains fell off’ from James Baldwin in his book The Fire Next Time — and conceptualised from the darling that has been September 2021.
