I Bail the Cat from Rabidity and other poems.
Art by Uriel Soberanes on Unsplash.
I BAIL THE CAT FROM RABIDITY.
My people have extended
the hand of their evening
meal into the yawning mouth
of a rabid cat— this is how
a child’s liberty is thrown
into a gourd, of what use
Is the hand that cannot
fetch the littlest of autarky?
My people are no longer
running in circles, their legs
are too tired to carry their
skulls. This is not a trance,
it is a circus of statues—
the sun and rain offer us
nothing but torture. Can’t
you see how much rust
we’ve hugged over the
Years? Our scalps house
their whit of deceit. This
Solidarity of bondage is
going to last eons—
& no Judas’ kiss will break
it into specks. Here, the
light at the end of the tunnel
leads to another tunnel
with no light. It is not a
despair, it is not a despair,
it is not a despair poem,
I have a line of hope tucked
somewhere. It is not a poem
of despair, show it to the rabid
cat and its offspring, you see?
There is a freedom here.
Photo by Alexander Fastovets on Unsplash.
CANDLE.
I hold my country on
my praying tongue,
but the love she has
for me is the love of
a red candle. watch
how my blood boils
every night. watch
the wick melts into
nothingness— no
traces of existence
unless there’s a scar
or a searing burn.
The celestial man
Is not a liar— I am
a sacrifice afterall.
of what use is my
stubborn remnant
that refuses to be-
friend nothingness—
don’t I end up in the
belly of a dirty river?
Do we free candle
by setting it on fire?
Motherland! I need
me some affection
of dove, you die for
me, I die for you. I
live for you, you live
for me. There is a precious
two coloured curtain
in this house of greed—
burning me is no freedom.
From Олег Мороз on Unsplash.
PRAYER AGAINST BULLET.
This poem is a kenosis
From a Nigerian whose
window isn’t safe from
the angry mouth of a gun.
They say you do not twist
your neck in the four walls
of your home, this is a slip
of statement, an irony
replacing the badge
of a schizophrenic force
of a nation. Home is an
a n a c o n d a, so the fear
of constriction lifts our heels
into the air. The paths outside
home thirst for blood,
so they become bed of
bullet shells. Dear God,
do not forgive those who
give guns to the men whose
mouths hold different brand
of sachet gin. Amen?
Art by Ashkan Forouzani on Unsplash.
MORIBUND.
After Rasaq Malik
Anytime I close my eyes to
escape gory scenes of my
dying country is when my
brain practices the art of vision;
I see a convocation of hands
summoning downpour from the
eyes of mothers whose husbands
found their bodies in the searing
inferno of a burning home. They
say this place is a home, but is home
really a home when an unkindness of
ravens hovers its roof? If this is truly
a home, why do we have to purchase
my brother’s liberty with Naira reeking
of blood and sweat? Why do I have to
answer the cries of the sea seeking
for dwellers? Why do I have to journey,
as far as light, to countries where my tongue
becomes a rusty knob that cannot open
doors of goodwill, countries where i have
to be reminded of my skin color, of my war
torn home, where bullets sing lullaby
to the ears of children whose dreams
have become husk struggling in the flame
spiraling in the sky. It aches to see,
from the dark corner of my room,
a country sleeping in the slipping
passage sipping ruins. Why do I
have to write about chaos with no
peace in sight? Why do I have to
close my windows, sleep with my
heart in my mouth, hoping that my
door isn’t the next one to be rattled
by bullets, hoping my window isn’t
burgled for the second time?
Here, the only thing that runs with
you when chaos peeps through the
atmosphere, is your shadow, and
you do not even notice it until a bullet
kisses your shin, and you have to
drag your legs before you land with
a thud like a bag of beans slipping
helplessly out of a truck struck by explosion.
Dear God, nothing has changed.
Everything is as stagnant as a peat-bog.
How many times do I have to write poetry
about a home held by moribund poles?
