Hebat Ibu

Today, we’re challenged to write a poem about, or involving, a superhero, taking our inspiration from these four poems in which Lucille Clifton addresses Clark Kent/Superman.

I’d already decided on the subject of my poem before I read Lucille’s “My Mama Moved Among the Days” which I took as part of the prompt, even though it was not – that’s the thing with Super Heros; they have powers we cannot understand.

….

At the back of her wardrobe hangs a cape.
Its silver gleam, a near perfect match for her now argent hair.
Once it was a blonde, beehive crown fixed in place by the power of Silvikrin.
With just one spray,
It would transform her mantle from wispy fleece,
To nuclear bomb-proof helmet.
A flamboyant headdress she would don on her patrols
Along the dangerous paths
That stretched across our galaxies.

They led from the safety of planet Makuahine,
To the dark lands of Schola,
Where the evil Lords of Mendacium reigned.
There, in the Court of Confabulationes,
They would weigh the souls of children,
With spittle for counterweights,
Before feeding the unworthy to rabid rat-snakes.

Beyond the realms of Schola, lay the Badlands,
The wastelands of Iratis and the plains of Domus Tapete.
They were dangerous places for the unguarded.
In the forests of Virilem hung the Voices of Failure.
These opaque souls would cling to vivid lifeforms,
Dragging their victims down,
To drown them in the stagnant Pools of Hopelessness.

But not hers.

These offspring were safely guarded.
Protected by the shield of Nanay,
They travelled light-footed,
Secure in the knowledge that by her side,
Swung the sheathed Sword of Ahm.
It’s gilt and pearl handle glistened in the light of many moons,
Its blade forged in the volcanoes of Abusu,
Sharpened by the twin wraiths of Dolus and Insidiae
It despatched demons to their doom
As quickly as Sherbert Dip dissolved on the tongue.

There is no retirement home for Superheroes.
They live long and prosper
In the memories of the Okaasan Brood.
They, who now watch the ravines on the faces of the Hebat Ibu,
Like the dried riverbeds of Mars,
Deepen with every passing day.
Each, a library of long-fought battles,
Some forgotten, some recalled,
All accounted for.
None refused, none turned from.

All hail Hebat Ibu.

….