When years of love fade with failing seasons
I shall remember times that tickle crevices
on a moment’s journey
before this story departs
and settles on dust
I shall write a love poem
of that combs quills
and dazes beam
hedging a staggering emotion
that questions existence
so whilst it lasts
I shall journey to the great beyond
where silent fathers hum to a script
and I shall sit in eagerness
awaiting heaven’s signal
but if none of these happens
this shall be my love-anthem
Where are those songs that rang murky when I first met him?
Where are those fluid melodies that nectared through my ears
and cheerfully opened my every pore with his little little fingering tapping?
Where are those repeating days that closed my eyes and squeezed my soul to eat and savor the bulky bliss of his lips thawing every lip of me?
Where are those moments and nights when he dripped his rough softness in me and me all about him
and soaking every beat of the rhythms that our rubbing bodies played, and widening and widening our pores to drinking the mead of the black hole of our seeming ever-revolving souls?
Where are those tears, those watery claps from my obese heart that cooled and teased my trembling cheeks?
But, oh, see those seeming cooling and warmth and those tickles of moisture! All were mockeries and
deceptions!
All those songs and melodies, those dreamy days, those moments and nights ― those rushes of blood biting redemption is all dusts and ashes
Dusts and ashes like the faces and whispers and the memories of he who has ghosted my soul and still wounds the ghost
But the clot in the womb would throw the poison away
Now this child, this cheek-soft daughter, this smiling pound of memories, this innocent and staring two O’s
blunts and deadens all the daggers
Now it is Sunday morning
But the stomach knows no Sabbath to halt the aching
and, Oh my child, my cheek-soft and nothing-stomached daughter
Sorry you are pass milking, and I, pass those Bethlehem and Canaan breasts
And, you, ancient soul, may bite my teat again if I give you these Gomorrah breasts again
Oh my cheek-soft and pitiful faces darling
We always ask, but we never receive
except for eyes which shame, and cheeks which crack to mock, and loins and tongues
which seek me another doom and after-tastes of the memories about your father
Sunday morning
And our ears and all are charged with the songs and the voices of the church
Sunday morning
And the hymns of the church come to tease our vengeful stomachs
Can we too enter those chapels and seek for food
for loving that does not ash or turns dust
for hearts that would tremble like our tired knees
to mingle and humor me with you my darling ―the filling of your belly and all
with those bites and chewings and down-washings
that grow and flower and fruit smiles and giggles and speeches and good worrying?
Can we too enter those chapels? ― No!
Because I remember the same town that shame and mock and sneeze us off their paths
Are the same enchanting songs and voices of the church ―
Sunday morning
And as you sleep on, my sweet cheek-soft darling ―as you sleep on
I too am rehearsing those songs and melodies and rhythms that still sing and mime and ring my present
I too am rehearsing those daring charms that chain and undream the weaker souls
I too am rehearsing those motions that hold the mead cup of life and crashing it to the memory of sour scars
Sunday morning
And when you wake up, my sweet cheek-soft and nothing-stomached darling ―when you wake up
We shall drink from the chief fountains of the dreams you wail for
Sunday morning
And when you wake up, and when you up, and when you wake up ―
We wake up till eternity and a leap night!
Songs will be whistled along
when the rains paint your name
as they trickle down the roof
hiccup-
The poet is a market
and his pride is the people
When he leaves the stage,
he shall nail you as a memory
to the crevices of his being
His life is a symphony composed on violin
and you are his pitch,
a taste like aging wine
5. Aisha Nelson : She is one of my favorites in this generation. Her pieces are intellectually stimulating. She does not spoon-feed her readers. In a unique way , she draws readers along a path that sets in finding self, theme et al. As a writer, she does not profess to know answers- she knows words to situations. Her words gel like a master hand on a piano and I love to hum to that song.
…at the scent of water
not water
not dew
at the scent of water
let the frayed stump spew green
let the foul egg vomit a being
let that which was birthed to die
find life
let that which died before birth
know life
at the scent of water
not dew
not water
(credit: The Kalahari Review)
Aisha will need to get out there and show the world her ingenuity.
6. Dela Kobla Nyamuame( www.efodela.blogspot.com) : Efo is a voice of conscience. He has an impeccable diction that buys for him a seat at the feet of heavens. The first time I read his piece, I knew ” I had seen the future”. I reproduce his first poem I ever read and yes, I still remember how it felt.
We left our brother in the open to decay
As white ants ate their way through his house
It’s not like he stood there and he didn’t try
But his exterminators were a divided house
They painted his life in a tragic comedy
And they cast a fool at him, the Pantomime Villain
And though he was our brother we called him enemy
And clapped as some alien played the Greek Hero
Our loud mouth brother was our own brother
Our pig headed brother was still our brother
Our misguided brother tried the only way he knew how
Our brother trusted us and we stood by and let him fall
Our brother did not learn from the mistakes of others
Our brother thought his brothers were unlike Joseph’s brothers
Our brother was an idiot to think blood was thicker than water
Maybe our brother is a mirror reflecting our soulless land
Our brother might have been an idiot to dare them
To build a house of wood next to white ant nests
But our brother was an even bigger idiot
To think his other brothers would help fight the pests
( Credit Poetry Foundation Ghana)
7. Novisi Dzitrie : There are times that people do not need more than one chance to show what they have inside. If my heart is big enough, then I will wish he never stops writing.
O! Jebu! climbed the mountain and stood atop, akimbo!
As if as if…
looked deep down the valley into the hole;
raising his head next to look up at the empty sky.
This system is sick…
O! Jebu! must face the tasks:
put things apart; make sense of the whole;
bring the pieces back together!
But where…
where do we place the noesis?
O! Jebu! stretched his right hand upwards…
The sky was nowhere within his reach!
So let us tell tales…
for the lack of knowledge
between the hole deep down the valley and the empty sky high above.
Let us say… they say…
They say Mawu used to live on the next floor upstairs!
And as it used to be… they say…
O! Jebu! could stand on his two feet and touch the sky
or when he felt like it, he could look out of his window
and give Mawu a wink or a wave of high five!
But it came to pass… the ancestors disobeyed Mawu!
Day after day
they lifted their heavy pestles skywards
and pounded the peace of Mawu
as they crushed yam, coco-yam, plantain and cassava into fufu.
So Mawu stormed out in anger
and removed the sky from within the reach of man!
And so O! Jebu! must now rent the services of an intercessor,
born of a virgin or of pure oracles,
if he ever wishes to speak to Mawu the omnipresent!
And yet little did Mawu the all-knowing know
O! Jebu! would soon fly aircrafts into his sky.
Mother of palmwine! Mawu Sodza!
The same God who remains the same, they say,
and yet changes regardless without prior notice.
Mother of palmwine! Mawu Sodza!
So let us tell another tale.
They say, again, so let us say:
Let us say Kweku Ananse the spider took the place of O Jebu
and presented himself before Death
in a puzzle of many a great complication.
So Death said to Ananse:
“Because you have eaten my food,
you must die…you will die! You and your family!”
But Ananse did not want to die. No!
Instead, Ananse pedaled his many legs
in one heart-throbbing attempt to flee…
So they say… and so let us say…
Let us say it is the reason why Ananse is seen caught in his own web
in corners or on ceilings of buildings in his attempt to flee…
Flee…flee from Death!
So we tell tales…
Tales to fill up the space, to make up for the lack of knowledge
between the hole deep down the valley and the empty sky high above;
strange-tales… fairy-tales…
Tales that make us cry maa maa! Or make us laugh kwa kwa kwa!
Tales of why the crab is headless,
Tales of why the moon dies,
… of why soldier-ants move in a file,
… of why indeed the monkey has a tail!
Postscript : Chances are that I will make 10 different lists when you give me 10 opportunities to write under the same title. What excites me is to see many youth take advantage of technology to showcase their arts. Somehow someday, you will be discovered and you will make a worthy read. Until then, I wish you luck in your walk. God bless you. * hugs*
The AFRICAN THOUGHT 