The Names - Billy Collins
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ameh, as it happened,
Then Bello and Celestine,
Damashi and Exra, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fila inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gabriel and Hussain, Ibrahim and John.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kano and Lee,
Mohammed, Nwaonuan, and Ojochide.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Pat and Quarter in the twigs of an ash,
Rabiu, Saidu, Tanko, and Usman,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Victoria and Williams,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Yinusa and Zaidu, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
Names in the original poem were replaced by names of the Nyaya victims. May their soul Rest In Peace.
Photo by www.informationng.com
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ameh, as it happened,
Then Bello and Celestine,
Damashi and Exra, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fila inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gabriel and Hussain, Ibrahim and John.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kano and Lee,
Mohammed, Nwaonuan, and Ojochide.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Pat and Quarter in the twigs of an ash,
Rabiu, Saidu, Tanko, and Usman,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Victoria and Williams,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Yinusa and Zaidu, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
Names in the original poem were replaced by names of the Nyaya victims. May their soul Rest In Peace.
Photo by www.informationng.com
0 comments:
Post a Comment