KABEDOOPONG PIDDO DDIBE’ST

 

 

This Is Not A Poem

 

This is not a poem:

It is a scar—

My own scar

Sutured with my own

Unraveling,

Threaded through

Your eye of storm—

Raw as birth.

 

This is not a poem,

And I—

I am not the poet.

You are the mirror

Stolen,

Still breathing in its silver.

Tonight I pour myself

Glassful—

A cathedral

Shattering in slow light—

Milkful, curdling

Into moths and salt.

 

This is not a poem:

I have swallowed

Its alphabet whole.

I am tired

Of transmuting bone

Into cathedral bells,

Of weaving hymns

From my own hollowing,

Of speaking in forked rivers—

I am tired.

 

I am tired

Of stalking your shadow

Through rooms of smoke,

My heartbeat the only

Percussion in this hunt.

The deer that bolts

Keeps the wolf

Sharpening its hunger —

I am tired.

 

I am tired

Of baptizing myself

In our wreckage,

Calling charred wood

A sacrament.

We were wildfire once—

Now I cradle embers

Like stillborn stars,

Scorching my palms

On cold fire—

I am tired.

 

I am tired

Of drinking sugared slogans

From Mvule Hills;

Of waiting for the Godots

Of those hopeful high hills,

Of their oppressive silence

While I wait, wailing…

 

I am tired

Of sitting on scrotums,

My own.

Of grinding scrotums,

My own,

Chasing the winds

Your skirt blew—

The dust raised.

 

If this were a poem,

It would be survivable;

It would be metaphor

After metaphor;

It would speak

Of the bush,

Not the bustling city

Where I sprawl bellywise.

It would speak

Of beautiful phrases

You don’t see here.

 

This is not a poem;

It is meaningless.

 

And maybe

When I die tomorrow,

Someone will shout,

“Here lies the poet!”

For only the dead

Are believed;

For only the dead

Are good.

Only when I am silent

Forever will you call me truthful—

Only then, a poet.

The living are good dead.

 

But till then—

 

This is not a poem,

And I—

I am not the poet.

I am the loud silence

After the pyre,

The blank page

Ash has blessed.

Never evermore

Will I be the quill

You dip in my own veins,

The ink you spill

To write yourself

Forgiven.

© Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe'st

 

KABEDOOPONG PIDDO DDIBE’ST

 

KABEDOOPONG PIDDO DDIBE’ST is a Ugandan poet, author, artist and literary editor whose work interrogates identity, power, and the human condition through raw, intimate, and often rich confrontational language. Born in Kitgum, Northern Uganda, he draws on his Acholi heritage and lived experience to craft poetry and prose that merge cultural memory with contemporary social critique. His work has appeared internationally in journals and anthologies, including The Critique Magazine (Uganda), Somnia Blue (Australia), Tuck Magazine (Germany), Setu Magazine (Switzerland), and Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada) and many more. Kabedoopong is the founder and editor-in-chief of The Blaque Mirror, an online magazine amplifying Black voices and fostering dialogue on culture, politics, and literature. His debut novel, A Wreath for Flies, now available in major bookshops in Kampala, explores corruption, injustice, education and resilience through the journey of its protagonist, reflecting his ongoing commitment to art that challenges, provokes, and bears witness.