Helen, Not of Troy by Esiaba Irobi

Helen, Not of Troy
    (For Helen) 
 

When we met, suddenly, in the School Office,

that evening, after winning the research fellowships,

our over-activated brains fizzling with dreams

and illusions of becoming great scholars,

you were dressed in shorts and black stockings,

a white blouse, rings on your fingers, but no lipstick on,

how could we have known that as we jaw-jawed

about teaching in Russia and holidays in Hungary,

 

Nigeria or Ghana, that I was undressing you mentally,

inch by inch, from crown to toe, peeling your dress

with my mind, your skin, with my tongue, and with my

teeth, the buttons of your blouse? I imagined,

with a palpitating heart, and as things popped out

or simply exploded, how we could start our mornings,

if we lived together: Bakhtin as foreplay, Althusser

as main course, and Derrida as dessert.

Recalling your picture on the glassed board,

in the corridor, your lipstick bold and strong, your excited

mouth nearly open, the genital echo of your red lips

beckoning like Susannah Moore's platform shoes - as

Germaine Greer, gifted scholar of sexual semiotics, read

it from a Barthesian perspective. I felt spring stirring

in my groin. Am I coming on too strong?

 

Mesmerised and bewitched by that fresh painting

on my mind, by the oil's resinous and intoxicating scent

on the cream-coloured canvas, I followed you like a fool,

down Rodney Street, turned right at the post office

down Bold Street then turned away into Pilgrim Street,

as you asked me, rather foolishly, I now think:

'Have you been walking just to have some fresh air?'

 

Now, Helen, you know why I walked, keeping up

the elliptic conversation, thinking of your clever

intellect and the ripe mango hidden somewhere

between your thighs waiting to be squeezed

and tongued by my sunlight.

 

Some day, Helen, if you are

lucky, you will see my tiger

tiger burning brightly into Troy

and you will giggle with joy.

 

Esiaba Irobi - a poet, playwright, actor and scholar was born in the Republic of Biafra on October 1, 1960, and lived in in exile in Nigeria, Britain, United States and Germany where he passed away on May 3, 2010. He studied at the Universities of Nigeria, Sheffield and Leeds, and held a B.A. in English/Drama, M.A. Comparative Literature, M.A. Film/Theatre, and PhD in Theatre Studies. In 1992 his play, Cemetery Road won the prestigious World Drama Trust Award. His books include Nwokedi, The Colour of Rusting Gold, Cotyledons, Hangmen Also Die, and Why I don't Like Philip Larkin and Other Poems. He leaves behind a wife, Uloaku and a son, Nnamdi.