In two hours, I shall be done with my call. / The evening will greet me goodbye and go / with the sun, down the horizon, / dissolving into night. / Night will settle onto my skin—my skin, / which is now a fresh dewy green, / will one day turn pale and grey and fall to kiss the ground. / And all will grow and change. / All will grow and change but time. / And all will leave it, too.

“One” is the ever-flowing, ever-moving nature of Time. As opposed to the common perspective of Time slipping away from us, we do the slipping— we slip away from Time. Time feels the length of our slimy bodies slipping from its skin. Our moments detaching. We are the ones who define the moment— the moment comprising our lives and experiences. We mould it.

The poet begins the poem with the poetic persona living in a moment defined by waiting. In this waiting, the poetic persona seeks to while away Time. But indeed, it is in the attempt to count the seconds leading up to the next that the poetic persona realize that s/he whiles away.

It is in this realization that the next moment arrives, and in the deliberation of this realization that the moment gradually slips into another. The call ends. Night falls. One experience comes, then goes. Parts of life fade into memories. Time lingers.

The poet expresses our movement through Time through the substitution of virgules for rows of lines. Each verse between slashes constitutes a moment, each moment moving into the next in linearity as opposed to being brought back into the comfort of the poem’s body. This linear movement continues, providing temporary security, with each moment shielded by each slash, until the end where there is no slash to shield our final passage.

Though perceived by the light and darkness of each day and the rising and setting of the sun, Time moves in ones, ones, ones. It circles in ones and no further. But we? We are the dreadful movement we fear, the fearful passing of the present. We are counted in base 10, our bodies changing, moving, defining.

When we eventually slip away, Time lingers as though it had not experienced us. We take our prints, our evidence of existence. Like selfish brats, we gather all that we are and quietly—very quietly— slide away from the body of Time into the unknown vastness. We strip Time of the adornments of our lives. We leave.

I attempt to escape the strong hold
of the woman shoveling the ground. 
I am her farmland,
untilled, unyielding,
so she scrapes, scrapes, scrapes,

creating a cacophony of clashes 
between the shovel and ground.  

With heavy feet, she holds down
my feet. She punctures my mouth
with the blade of shovel. 
My wounded mouth tastes
her heaviness,
her rusty weariness.

Fragments of me fly a moment 
then perch on her clothes woven
with strands of sweat,
and trail down her firm bruised arms.
The wind dances with parts of me,
and as she breaks this hard ground into
brittleness,
she gathers lines of sand
and creates a woman like her.

Inspired by:

‘The Peasant Woman Digging’ (Vincent Van Gogh, 1885)

are days you hold someone;
they are days you hold no one.
They are days you smile brighter than the sun,
and days you are boxed amidst gloomy clouds.
They are days that leap you over heights greater than mountains,
and days that push you down dramatically—you might fall flat.
They are days you breathe the cheerful air;
they are days you have no breath at all.

.

My aunt’s waist beads make seke seke sounds

as she walks, swaying her hips

—Titilope Odeyinka, “When it Comes to Men”

seke seke, the music of an african waist,

the jingle of ancestral charms on you—

swayer, controller,

your body rings warnings to unwelcome hands

your waist is a magnet to drums that beat for you.

you are like your mother—

she also did seke seke in her youth, when

her waists wore the faces of deities;

that was what captured your father who

was another woman’s husband.

It’s been a while. I haven't been active here due to my inconsistency caused primarily by overwhelm, writer’s block, and procrastination. There’s an incomplete draft lying confused in my files. I don’t know when it will see the light of day. I figured that if I kept "working on it," I would end up not publishing any writing this week or the week after. So even as my fingers move frantically on the keyboard, trying to conjure words from my foggy thoughts, I am hoping that this writing comes to light. If you’re reading this, it finally has, and I’m glad.

Okay, so that was a brief exposition on why I haven’t been writing. In the coming weeks, I will be introducing several poems I read during my “unplanned hiatus." These are poems whose words and techniques have challenged my writing, soothed me, and left me speechless. It is very amusing how words can put one at a loss for words due to how beautifully and precisely it is crafted. A poem that succeeds at doing this is Michael Bazzett's God, which is written after Ada Limon’s Miracle Fish, another beautifully-written poem. Though Michael Bazzett’s God is a response to the first line of Miracle Fish, it confidently stands, taking up space in its own right.

What strikes me about this poem is how the poet blends long and short sentences. There's even a word that stands complete: “Winces.” This enables the reader to ask why the poet didn't choose “He winces” or something similar. What effect was the poet striving for with the use of just one word? We could also ask the same for why some poets use phrases rather than sentences, and how such a choice impacts our reading and experience of the poem. The blend of long and short sentences not only creates some sort of justification but is oil to the movement of the tongue.

Another thing I enjoyed was the poem’s brevity. Though this contemporary sonnet forsakes the restrictions of end rhymes and iambic pentameter, the brevity seems to be, more or less, a restriction itself for a poem this heavy. And that is what I find very admirable about this poem: the fact that it carries so much in a body so little, it feels like it might break.

Favorite Line

“...All that aching naked hope.”

When I read this line, the placement and effect of the words hit me. I tried to see if the impact would be the same if it were arranged this way: “All that naked aching hope.” And while the consonant /k/ sound remains placed together, would this have had the same effect as the first?

It so happens that there are ways words are placed that have more power than when placed otherwise. Consider this a good reason to always read your poems aloud (I'm reminding myself when I write this).

I also admire how the line is an apt and precise explanation of the direct comparison between tinfoil and lost prayers in respect to taste.

Poetic Elements

• Rhyme: Free verse rhymes—internally. This keeps the musicality that poetry is associated with. Internal rhymes in the poem include the repetition of the /k/ sound in “...all that aching naked hope” and the /s/ sound in “...sit in silence.”

• Meter and Rhythm: The poem has no clear meter, and so, no regular rhythm.

• Diction: The poet’s choice of words is simple, easily understandable, yet large.

• Theme: Several themes revolve around the poem. There's the theme of belief that a god exists in the dark, and that of prayers that are lost. This juxtaposition of God and unanswered prayers is somewhat ironic.

I think my reading experience is summed up particularly in the last sentence of the last line (which is what makes it my favorite line). For me, the poem is calm yet burdened. Yet I know that is not enough words to fully describe the poem’s being.

Experiences differ based on the reader. This doesn't mean that the poem has no meaning or essence, nor does it imply that the meaning of a poem is ambiguous (though it could be ambiguous). Instead, it creates a distinction between meaning and experience in the sense that, regardless of different experiences, the meaning still stands. It explains why your experience of a text at first reading differs from your experience at the second, third, or fourth reading. And this is applicable to all literature. Meaning stands; experience changes. One’s life experience in general affects how they see a work of art, but does not change the meaning of that work. So, perhaps in the near future, I might see this poem a lot differently.

Until next week.

Why? Why does the softest glass
break the hardest?
What must I do to shield me 
from the hardness of this
tenderness, this
brittleness,
of this entity I tread upon,
this
swallowing, overwhelming, overflowing life
bearing countless drops
of fragile moments—
pieces that change form
spontaneously, like the flow of water,
mirroring the fullness of heart,
or the grief of loss,
when, sometimes, both dance in chilling embrace?

When your brain is muddled and fails to pull its strings to create a structured and coherent thought on a particular subject you intend to write, then you should write on the foolishness of the brain.

The brain is foolish at times, performing badly at thinking straight. It speaks incoherently, mixing words and phrases without clarity, so much that you cannot throw a pin to an idea that dashes through your head, and hit it. The idea is somewhat abstract, almost non-existent, yet present. You know its context but cannot articulate it, simply because your brain has accepted to know but refused to speak.

The brain is selfish. It knows its power to break, strengthen, and tuck the world in and out, yet chooses to withhold it. The brain prefers to reserve such knowledge for itself, basking in its seismic creation — what we call mind-blowing.

When the brain meets the fearful, when we invite the brain to witness the mystery and complexity of self and the natural world, it is humbled by the overflowing, the overwhelming, that it clears the fog off its eyes and reveals its true self: language. At that moment, the brain becomes language, expressing itself infinitely in poetry, prose, and other word experiments.

Language (brain) sees and absorbs. It formulates ideas based on what it swallows, and pours unkempt, unpolished thoughts through word of mouth or finger. Afterward, it begins to trim split ends, and structure connected thoughts into paragraphs or lines, however the case may be. And words may take the form of paintings and sketches, so long as it speaks. Look at that! Didn't we start with how foolish the brain is?

Whatever is foolish and selfish can produce magic through its unrefined form. After all, if we were to look at raw materials in their unrefined state, are they any different from a muddled brain?

Welcome to Weekend's Poets.

During the week, I perused my subscribers’ list, and read subscribers' newsletters. It was a journey of some sort, only that I didn't start from the beginning of the list, but the end, then traveled aimlessly, from the middle, towards the beginning, and the end again. Along the way, I stumbled upon Margo's “A Girl on a Bike” whose poetic persona was on a journey, and because I was on one myself, I thought I'd move along, and along the way, I fell in love with it. This essay seeks to dissect, scan, and express what in this piece gave rise to this love.

It must've been its simplicity that caught me. The simple language flowing from line to line, the simple life of a girl and bike against the backdrop of neighbors in a neighborhood, mornings and evenings, hills and streets. All this simplicity, only to end abruptly, leaving one inquisitive.

There are literary devices that bring this poem to life. Failure to identify and appreciate them is a failure to fully grasp and appreciate the life, context, strength, and beauty of this poem.

The Beginning

The journey of this poem is set with enthusiasm—the enthusiasm of a girl eager to ride a bike. The poem weaves in poetic devices that accentuate this joy. Let us look at the second stanza which makes use of imagery and abstraction in juxtaposition.

Images: girl, bike

Abstractions: mornings, days, evenings.

There is a way these images and abstractions are placed that enunciate and drive the poem’s subject matter. The images are concrete representations that our eyes can access; the abstractions bear witness to the existence of these images.

These abstractions are described as misty, sunny, and windy, and interact with the neighborhood where the poem is set, along with the actions that give life to the background: wavings and ridings.

One can infer that this piece is a living poem. You know, the journey of the girl on the bike is supposed to have no destination. It is recurring, and we are moving, riding against the backdrop of a simple town, day by day.

The End?

The end of the poem is some sort of cliffhanger. It's like I'm riding along with the girl on the bike, waving along, until we reach a cliff, and I see her no more.

The biker is absent; the bike is present. But there's a change. The last three lines, “Flat tires / Rusty chains / Never to be ridden again” tell us that the once frisky bike has not only lost its rider but its charm. These lines tickle our curiosity about what happened to the girl on the bike. Did she give up biking? Why? Did the troubles of the world forcefully pull her out of her simple, content life, so that she forgot to go back to her source of peace? Does the oldness and weariness of the bike point to the fact that the rider must have grown old and weary?

A Metaphor of Life, Journey, and Freedom.

I like to think of the bike as a metaphor of life, journey, and freedom. The freedom of bliss. The freedom a girl has when there are no pressures on her neck. The freedom that comes with living eagerly. Through the bike, the girl gets to travel around, even if her travel is a movement around her neighborhood. Through the bike, the girl can live in the moment, dream, and be.

The poem is a representation of life. In its brief yet remarkable lines, it bears a record of the images and abstractions that interact and wrap themselves around us, that bear witness to our existence. In a world where we move too fast without knowledge of our end, where we collectively pressure ourselves without regard for rest, where we are in a race against time, and where we fear we will become useless, it is important to note that there is nothing more beautiful, more fulfilling in taking the time to stop in our busy tracks and observe and appreciate the stillness of the world enveloping us. Only eager eyes care to watch the gentle mystery of the world unfold. I think this is what exists in younger ones: eager eyes. I think it is what the poetic persona of this piece once possessed — the carefreeness to watch the world unfold around her while she journeyed around it on a bike.

But all that changed. “No one knows when that changed” (line 15). The last stanza lets us know that the bike is still eager for a ride, still waiting for its rider. Though its tires and chains grow old and weary, I like to think it would still ride if the rider comes someday. I think the girl is now a woman, somewhere in the world, no longer living in her old neighborhood. I think the woman is tired and old. The pressures of the world have weakened her eagerness. Sometimes, she thinks of when she was a girl, a girl on a bike. She thinks of her bike. She wonders how it's doing, if it's got a new rider now. She wonders if the mornings, evenings, and neighbors, miss her so. She wonders, maybe someday, if life will permit her, even if the eager eyes of a girl have been replaced with the tired eyes of a woman, she will return to her neighborhood. Her eyes may no longer shine with glee at the sight of the bike. But comfort, yes. Comfort. She will give the rusty bike a pat with her wrinkled and weary hands, mount it, and ride again.

The first assertion of this poem is that the dead shall return. It is a fact, not a plea, not a possibility. The poem tells us that the dead shall come in our dreams and/or reality. It simply maintains a paradoxical stance that the dead do not die. They leave this body and become some other form, perhaps, the form of a bird “ knocking, knocking against the glass, seeking a way in” (line 4), or the form of wind.

Dead /ded/ noun. An entity that relinquishes a human form.

The poem asserts that the dead do not leave you. If this comforts you or creates an eerie atmosphere, confront the poem. Question it. Break it. Dissect it. Tell it to be straightforward and make sense. Though, I wonder if, at all, a poem is written to make sense.

But this I know: the dead is the spirit of this wretched tree that watches me from outside my window, with brown leaves wallowing in self-pity; the dead is the entity that gives hope to its root. The dead is in the morning song of the birds. The dead is the unfamiliar scent that meets my tongue in the air. The dead is the strange, familiar voice that calls my name.

There is this superstition that is peculiar to my community. I think it might be a wide African belief, but I am not sure. I have particularly witnessed this belief among the Igbo people. They say something about the dead calling you.

My people say that the dead will masquerade their voice in the wind, taking the voice of a living person you know, perhaps a parent, and will call your name. It is a faraway-sounding call. But my people will tell you not to answer such a call. My people will tell you that if you answer, you are likely to go and join the dead before your time. My people will tell you that when you hear that strange yet familiar voice, you must walk your legs to the living person who bears that voice, and ask if they called you. More likely than not, the living person did not call you. Then, tell the person to call your name, and answer the person's call. The main purpose of all these is this: in all you do, do not answer the call of the dead.

But why do we fear the ones who were once with us? Is it because they take a form different from what we loved about them? Do we fear the uncertainty of where they are? Where is your dead? Does your dead watch you when you sleep? Yes, the dead shall return. Whether they shall return to comfort or taunt you depends on the dead’s intent. Whether they are the ones unwilling to let you go, or you are the one clutching to their cloak; whether they walk in your shadow and take charge of all that you are; whether it is their death that changes you, or the dead that change you, I do not know. But the poem asserts, in all matter-of-fact stances ever known: The dead shall return.

What will you do when your dead returns?

Words your thoughts write
are etched daily on my undying skin.
When the morning wakes, new thoughts are inscribed.
I caress them while inhaling hard coffee—
thoughts that tickle my rough being.
Some mornings, I bathe in your tears.

At crickety nights,
I reach your presence as you word
familiar writings that come anew each day.

And I wonder why I can't write back.

When you draw lines on paper, you say,
“Here's the beginning. Here's the end.”
When you write, you chide,
“Do not cross the margin.”
Very elementary.

When you draw lines repeatedly,
and someone ignores this rule,
and scribbles on your neatly-ruled margin,

draw a line on air,
and don't stop there,
strike their eye at the final stroke—

Yes, there are many words to convey how much I've missed writing here on Substack, but “I've missed here” is simply enough.

I ran away because I lost touch with this space. Writer's block was heavy on me, partly because I struggled for perfection. I found it hard to balance writing for school and writing for a literary audience. Heck, I couldn't even write for my pleasure. I wrote arduously and found the pieces labored and contrived.

But I found strength in the kind words of , a wonderful poet with whom I connected on Substack. His words and concern for my writing encouraged me to write continuously. I also appreciate my big sister whose words inspire my creative spirit.

Words are indeed therapeutic. And I am glad to have people who value the art of writing in my life. I appreciate you.

I will be playing with my space on Substack rather than sticking to a particular niche of reviewing poets’ works. Of course, I would still write reviews, but I intend to lean into my inconsistency and embrace it.

Today's Substack will be mixing schoolwork with personal writing.

I have been studying Phonetics and Phonology and couldn't stifle the brimming knowledge, so I finally did what I had locked for some time in the cage of procrastination. It is what I'll be sharing today—a phonemic transcription of a dear poem.

/ði aɪ ɪz ə haʊs ðæt riːdz ðə stɔːm/

/ði aɪ ɪz ə haʊs ðæt riːdz ðə stɔːm/
/ɪt wɒtʃəz ðə klaʊdz/
/ən prɪˈdɪkts ðə luːmɪŋ wɪndz/

/ən rediz ɪts wɔːmθ ɪnsaɪd/
/ən streŋθnz ɪts rɪˈzɒlv/

/ən stediz ɪts ɡeɪz fə ðə klaudz tɜːbjələns/

/səʊ kʌmz ðə stɔːm/
/ə wɪp ɪn hænd/
/ən wɪps/
/ən wɪps haːd/
/ən læʃəz æt ðɪ aɪ/
/ən jæŋks ɪts ruːf/
/ən sendz ðə səˈpɔːtɪŋ triːz ə pækɪŋ/
/ðæt ðeɪ teɪk tə ðeə hiːlz/
/riːtʃɪŋ fə ðɪ ɜːθs end/

/ði aiz ɡeɪz dʌz nɒt weɪvə/

/bʌt/
/wen ðə stɔːm ɡrəʊz hevi/
/ʌnˈrɪːdəbl/
/haʊlɪŋ ɡreɪvə hɪmz/
/ən ðɪ ai kən rɪˈzɪst nɒt ðə tempɪsts wɪp/

/lʊk ət ðə wɪndəʊz kɔːnɪə/
/wɒtʃ ɪt wiːp, wiːp/

                  
     - Pleasant Nneoma Stephen 

The Eye is a House that Reads the Storm

The eye is a house that reads the storm
It watches the clouds
and predicts the looming winds

And readies its warmth inside
and strengthens its resolve

and steadies its gaze for the cloud's turbulence

So comes the storm,
a whip in hand, 
and whips,
and whips hard
and lashes at the eye
and yanks its roof 
and sends the supporting trees a packing
that they take to their heels,
reaching for the earth’s end 

The eye’s gaze does not waver

But
when the storm grows heavy,
unreadable,
howling graver hymns,
and the eye can resist not the tempest’s whip,

look at the window's cornea;
watch it weep, weep
 
      
         - Pleasant Nneoma Stephen 

Thank you for reading.

I am cooking soup this weekend. Sweet, sweet soup. This soup has a signature smell in the air. I am trying to hold it with my nose, to make a name for this smell, to grasp the figure the steam arising from this pot of soup creates. I want this wet mist to find its way to my wet tongue and make a bed of it—to lie on it.

This soup is made with words running across lines, bearing experiences, and finding meaning. This soup is an appreciation of Hasse's “Family Time,” a poem whose profundity lingers in my mind.

As simple as the title is, the subject is much more complex and inextricably weaves the fears that might have settled in our hearts one way or the other. This fear asks the question: “What would happen to my family in times of war?”

Wars come with generational trauma. Writing this, I have no direct experience of war, which is a good thing, yes. Every human deserves to live in a peaceful environment without fear of loss. But I am aware of a civil war that took place in my country from 1967-1970, and of the dire effects that still live in the eyes of those who experienced it, and how that effect draws my blood. Although I have no direct experience of war, I often fear that war, in all its forms, might come after the proximity I share with my family, and shatter it. I think this is why “Family Time” resonates deeply with me.

Writers and poets alike document records of wars, using fictional or non-fictional characters. Wars that snatch the sacredness of life and love. Wars that question one's entitlement to peace. Wars that invade one's body.

Oh gosh! I spilled the coffee.

What a mess! What a mess.

And it looks just like an army,

on this sacred cotton map.

They need to stay away!

They can’t have it! They can’t have it.

Marching messengers of death.

This is sacred! This is sacred.

(Stanza 2, Family Time). Ensure to read the rest of the poem here to better grasp the context. Hasse sheds more light in the comment section.

Let us place the setting: It is a beautiful morning, perhaps, and this beautiful family is having breakfast. There's coffee to quench the thirst of fires—tongues, I mean; there's a brutal wound—sweet jam, I mean; there's freshly-baked flesh—bread, I mean. Living in the poetic persona’s consciousness are wounded bodies decorating the earth, helicopters flying above these bodies, and messengers of death—an army, I mean. They have all come to join the family merriment, and perhaps, take one or two with them—or so the poetic persona thinks.

Here, we expect dining merriment. But this is ruined by the poetic persona’s fear of the effects of war—the snatching away of the family she holds dear, hence the protective yet fearful stance, “They can't have it! They can't have it.”

They can't have this sacredness. They can't tear it down. Sacredness that soothes and wraps your body with the cold warmth of its skin, and plays silent music to make you fall asleep, to give you peace, to make you feel loved.

This reminds me of “The Dining Table” by Gbanabom Hallowell:

“Dinner tonight comes with

Gun wounds. Our desert

Tongues lick the vegetable

Blood – the pepper

Strong enough to push scorpions

Up our heads.”

(Stanza 1)

I want to place this poem in juxtaposition with Hasse's “Family Time” for the sake of emphasis.

In this African Poem, “The Dining Table,” the poet likens a gory war sight to a sumptuous meal on a dining table. Hasse's “Family Time” likewise likens a family dinner to a concept of war.

Now, the only difference is this: while an actual war takes place in “The Dining Table,” where the sweet chunks of meat are the decapitated flesh of people dispersed on the surface of the earth, and the red wine is the rusty-flavored, pungent taste of wasted blood that the Earth greedily swallows, Hasse's “Family Time” portrays a lovely family dinner that is interrupted by the fear of war. This paranoia changes all the sweetness of sitting around a table with one's loved ones. Jam resembles a brutal wound, and spilled coffee takes the form of an army of soldiers treading on a map, determined to destroy this family setting, this sacred gathering.

I believe “Family Time” compassionately emphasizes this fear and validates direct and indirect war experiences.

What I admire about this poem is how the poet, Hasse, links one's greatest fear to one's greatest love in such a way that one does not overpower but complements the other, and vice versa.

And in this—where our fears can simultaneously exist with our strength(love) without shame— is complete humanness.

You can find this profound poem here on “Hearts on the Line,” a Substack publication where the poet, Hasse, inquires about your greatest fear and love, to give a voice to the depths that reside and pulsate in your vessels.

And if you are willing to find that voice, endeavor to engage with this form where you can anonymously express your greatest fear and love. Poetry might not always give you an answer. But it always tries to give substance to this big, yet fragile life.

I am done cooking soup. This one, I hope, smells sacred.

I

Some days, I conceptualize God as a woman.

Some days, I conceptualize God as a man.

Then I stop, and think to myself,

"God ain't no woman or man. God is God."

And so, I conceptualize God as Everything and Beyond.

II

Some days, I look round and say, "Look at all that beauty! Purple sky and clouds like cotton candy. Every unique, complex, and wonderful tree, hill, bodily dusts, waters is situated perfectly. They all made with so much love.”

So, I say, “Whoever made all this beauty for our pleasure must be meticulous and sweet, must be one who got much love to give—so much love our senses cannot begin to comprehend.

Sometimes, I feel as though this 'entity' whispers to me as the wind blows past.

I don't catch what it says, but it sounds the loveliest word I ever heard.

Soothes my soul all over.

III

Some days, I’m cast into a body of water, nearly buried, barely floating, another body evading and consuming mine, stretching my vessels, squeezing its body in my insides, obstructing the breathing of my lungs, stifling my whimpers.

And I ask, “Are you there?”

No response.

“God…” I say amidst faint whimpers

Breeze. I'm cut up in the wind.

IV

One day, I be sitting down, doing nothing. I feel God looking at me.

I ask, "God, what you think of me?"

" Why, baby?" It ask.

"Peoples think 'lot of things 'bout me. Some make me sad, some make me smile, some make me feel so-so. When I was a child, I think you don't like me much."

" No, baby, no. I love you so much."

"Why?"

"Nothing."

"Really?" I ask. " I think that's stupid."

God begins, “Why you love that plant by your window so much? You tend to it every day. You hover ‘round it and smile when you tickle its leaves.”

“Oh,” I begin, a smile forming at a corner of my lip. “I love to see it be, you know. Warms my soul.”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

I ask no more.

V

One night, I'm a little child. I'm lying on bed, staring at the moon. I know God be looking at me.

"God," I say. "My Mama die."

I begin to cry.

God come closer and hold me close.

It don't say anything. It just hold me close and pat my head.

I sniff. "Sometimes, I think my Mama love me. Sometimes, I think she hate me."

"Mama always love you," God say.

"How you know? She tell you that?" I ask.

"Hmhm," God nod. "Mama tell me she always love you so."

My eyes water again. I cry so much more than before.

God hold me closer and pat my head.

I say to God, " Mama leave a small baby. No one to hold her tonight."

God say, "Not true, baby. I'm holding small baby. She sound asleep, probably think I'm Mama. She don't know what happened. She fine."

I know what God mean by holding small baby. God everywhere all the time.

I soon stop crying, and just look. God still here, holding me. Then I hear my Mama call my name. I get scared.

God hold me tighter. The wind bellow loudly. I hear God say something; It whisper that word to me. Soothes my soul all over.

I sleep like some baby.

As the hot breeze greets my doorstep with a burdened stench that places itself against my breath, I ruminate over the poem, “Fuel Palaver Don Turn Poem’ written by Isidinma Nnamdi Flowers. As you breathe the words of this commentary, endeavor to acquaint yourself with the lines of the poem here on Flowers Letters.

This piece is written in one of those hoarse yet melodious World Englishes that your whole mouth dances to, the West African Nigerian Pidgin English.

The poem, in an almost euphemistic and humorous manner, approaches a very serious topic—not to dismiss or minimize the critical issue of economic decadence in Nigeria, but to create warmth and resonance even in an unfavorable situation.

Here, I intend to draw and savor the warmth and profundity of the poem in contrast to the devastating and overwhelming national problem. Read the poem aloud. Hear the melody roll out your tongue. Sleek. Sophisticated. It beats like a grand performance of, well, a grand problem. (Think, Fela)

Oya, go down to the irregular rhythm. Shake your waist to the gangangan of the lines upon your body, like whips of T-pain’s koboko. You see, we don't need soldiers to print red stretch marks on our backs and knack koko on our heads.

And, I tell you, it won't hurt so much if you you let your body swallow and contain the scorches of the plasmatic whip. It won't hurt if you chest it. Oya, laugh. Don't tell yourself you are pretending. Say, “It is well.” Shake your head slowly, but not too much. See, it's not so bad! It's sweet like udala and dry gin. Don't scrunch your face at the stinging taste on your tongue.

But it is okay if you go home and yell at your children. You can squeeze your face when they inform you of a pending school project.

When the udala is too sweet, and your children are not enough vessels that swallow the retching of the acid that now burns your chest, find an excuse to fight on the street. Rain insults. Exchange punches. Say, “It is because this bastard stepped on my shoe!”

The people littered on the street like abandoned garbage will believe you, walahi. They will believe you because they, too, will do the same thing. They, too, are busy chesting the hotness of the hard sun. They, too, are busy pretending—though they will not admit it—that the udala tastes like watermelon.

There is much to admire about Isidinma’s poetic approach. The poet, sharing her thoughts on a common Nigerian issue, writes in a language the Nigerian people recognize and understand. The poet teaches the poem to speak in the collective voice of the Nigerian people, going against the “standard” language in which a poem should be written.

I consider this poem not only a resistance to standard, globally accepted language but also a resistance to government-related structures that adversely affect the standard of living in the country.

This is the second poem written in Nigerian Pidgin that I have read. And it emphasizes the need for poetry to represent the voice of the people in the language of the people.

The last two lines of this ogbonge poem whirl in mind: “You say a silent prayer / say make he return to normal.”

Though, the poetic persona refers to the infuriated driver, there’s a depth achieved that we mustn't overlook. In other words, a silent prayer, let this country return to normal.

Well, that is if there has ever been a normal. What does normal look like?

Normal: noun. (Nigerian meaning) The booming and boozing over the drunken sweat of zealous black bodies; it is the subsequent bloody overthrowing of the civilian government in the early hours of January 15, 1966.

2. It is a face born with angry lines like Bubu’s 1984 era of the War Against Indiscipline (WAI).

3. An unstable relationship where the government breaks and reunites over and over like the unsteadiness of teenage sweet lovers.

4. The endless gyrations on the fragile heads of citizens hitherto.

5. A continuous increase in the cost of basic necessities, only permitting a tiny drop in price, like restricted water.

Normal has always looked like this: angry, stricken, defeated.

What does normal look like?

Well, you tell me—after you finish trekking.

Brief Glossary

Oya: a Pidgin word, coined from the Yoruba dialect, used to signal readiness 

Gangangan: An onomatopoeia representing the beating of a drum

T-pain: A moniker for Bola Ahmed Tinubu, the current President of Nigeria. T-pain is a label used to criticize the president over the cost of living crisis. Not to be mistaken with the American artiste, T-pain 

Koboko:a whip/cane

Koko:a big bump on the head 

Chest it: To endure pain or discomfort 

Udala: (Igbo dialect) A sour-sweet African star apple. Also known as Agbalumo in the Yoruba dialect 

Walahi: An Arabic word for "I swear to God" 

Ogbonge: Amazing/Wonderful 

Bubu: A moniker for Muhammadu Buhari, Former president of Nigeria (2015-2023); former Head of State (1983-1985)

Now, go back and reread.

Today, I choose to openly express the vulnerability a poem in this space makes me feel. I am writing on a Saturday evening, and by the window, I listen to the murmurings of the wind and await the wetness of these grey clouds. Over and over, I read the last two stanzas of this deeply moving poem, “For You, my Friend” by Som.

As you read these words, my friend,

know this:

I have named absence

your sweet name.

As across my memories

you have blown and rained,

and steeped me in your skin,

your fragrance

You encountered her on the night a rock hung in your chest. She looked at you with warm eyes and, with arms like the coldness of the night, wrapped your frail spirit. For the first time, you touched Absence, a being who possessed and marinated your skin with the print of a loved one's fleshy scent.

Absence: a language without words. When you sought to speak, she buried herself in the middle of your throat and has hung there ever since.

Absence: is the night's whispering, the cricket's whining, the dim light’s flickering, the branches ruffling, the faint zoom of a far-away vehicle, the silent noise of the trees drenched in the cloud’s colorless coffee. You, in the midst of it all.

Absence: a soothing emptiness with warm eyes and a heavy heart. She is a body on your body, in your body, with your body.

Absence: you have seen her— and touched her. You have cuddled your frail form upon her weak bosom; you have trailed your hands upon her bruises. And ever since, you have become one with her.

Absence: existing, residing, present.

I admire this poem for it captures a lovely thought, which is much intensified in the last two stanzas. I love the concept of souls that are seemingly parted yet keenly interwoven like the tight weaves of the knots of a mat. I do not think the poem presents Absence as a being to dread or detest. For me, these stanzas offer Absence as a tender embrace, an exposed wound to be tasted and relished, with each line seeping into my vessels and molding my every being.

You will find this poem on “A Poem of Hope,” here on Substack, lying amid solemn greens and yellows, where the poet, Som, writes lines that navigate what it means to be bearable, touchable, liveable—able. Perhaps, when you find the whole of Absence, she will speak to you differently. You might find that you are not numb to her—she has absorbed you, and you simply cannot tell who you are without her.

Well…

Dark is drawing nigh, and Absence, without fail, is already peering through my window, eager to envelop me. I know this because the wisps of her heavy warmth gradually saturate my room.

Later, the window will shatter, and the wind will yank the roof. She will walk closer and closer and closer, a skin breadth close, and embosom me in a faint whisper:

“Kachifo.” Goodnight.

: Sweet Soup.

: What is inside?

: You.

Welcome to Weekend's Poets.

Today, I am cooking something that penetrates the nostrils, and finds its way to your tongue, then settles in your rumbling stomach. As I pen this piece, I pause a while to observe the bright morning with smiling clouds. These green leaves must have sent word to the production factory to stop the manufacture of chlorophyll—they have begun to age. And this aging complements the brightness of the day's smile.

Two weeks ago, I made a note seeking to connect with poets on Substack. I thank you for the engagement, for through it, I encountered poems offering different angles: poems that challenged my perspective, that shared juicy gossip, that played with heavy themes, that danced in my heart from the slumber of the night to the wake of the morning, that taught me, that walked with me, that locked eyes with me and left me not the same.

Today's Substack introduces the works of three poets whose themes, style, voice, and approach captivates me.

I present:

The musicality of Dick Whyte's “For Sidney Hunt”

Chineka's “In His Image,” exploring the heavy theme of the concept of a God.

Mo's “the dreaded question,” dwelling on the fear of inheriting bad blood

DICK WHYTE’S “FOR SIDNEY HUNT

Dick Whyte writes in honor of the avant-garde poet, Sidney Hunt, whose work highly impacted poetry but is less recognized. Whyte’s piece captures the experimental, unrestricted, and unconventional work and person of Sidney Hunt.

What intrigues me, however, is the reflection of musicality in language that knows no bounds. It tugs at the creative spirit’s inquisition of the relationship and essence of language and music.

I love this poem mostly for its musical quality. When I read it, I love how my being dances to the tune the lines play. I can picture corporeal sounds. Well, a poem is whatever you make it. So we begin:

nuuuuuuun

mmmmmmm

ooooooooo

la la la la la

ssssssssssssssi

laaaaaaaaan

sssssssssssssss

pop!

Now, if you read this excerpt in a rush, you will be denying yourself the privilege of taking in and swallowing the musical and queer effects of this piece.

To listen to and immerse oneself in its musicality, we shall read it line by line with an accompanying melody of whatever instrument the mind’s chord shall strike.

We begin with the voiced pulsating pitch of the first line,

“nuuuuuuun…”

And without pausing, onto the second line, we play a tense vibration as we ascend towards the summit of a mountain,

“mmmmmmm”

(It might help if you sound the lines and read the directions silently)

And, without pause, we finally push ourselves to the peak of the mountain, and what a wonderful view that we join the earth's singing:

“ooooooooo

la la la la la”

Perhaps, we miss a step and one foot leads the rest of the body off the mountain, and the sizzling air carries us, playing,

“ssssssssssssssi”

And, without pause, as we navigate a way to find our arms and legs in the velocity of the wind,

“laaaaaaaaan”

And as we try to find stability in this unexpected cacophony, we play,

“sssssssssssssss…”

And as we land head first, we strike,

“pop!”

Oh, but your head will not rupture. And the people, who watched your ridiculous attempt to become a bird, will marvel at your innovative art of flying, at the non-choreographed performance, at your carelessness with the wind, at your non-attempt to calculate the speed and balance needed to achieve a perfect feet-first landing.

But the next marvel won't be from them. It will be from you—for as you attempt to speak, gently patting your head for a job well done, the only sound you will be able to sing is:

“quaaaaaaaa?”

To appreciate the entirety of this arresting piece, you can read it on Forgotten Poets, a newsletter that diligently brings to the public lesser-known and recognized poets in the 1800s and 1900s whose works paved the way for the poetry we know today.

Dick Whyte writes poems in the honor of these poets. Whyte is a poet who plays with sounds and language in a manner that transcends grammatical restrictions and soothes the enthusiastic and musical babble of your creative spirit.

CHINEKA'S “IN HIS IMAGE”

Chineka's piece poses the question: What is your view on the concept of a god, and what is humanity's level of relationship and connection with this being?

This being, God, has different meanings to every one of us and serves us differently.

“In His Image” is open to several interpretations as art is highly subjective. I like to approach this poem metaphorically. And to do this, one must consider the attributes of the God in the poem.

The poem informs us that this God is a “self-hating being that creates children / In His image / That he can use and abuse / because He can't do it to himself” (lines 4-7)

I am much more interested in the last line of the poem:

“And if I were God, I wouldn’t allow anyone into heaven, let alone myself.”

These lines leave the reader with the digestion of the entire perspective of the poetic persona on this heavy subject that we tend to shy away from. It is a subject that we are sensitive about, that we are likely to groan about.

However, the poetic persona does not sugarcoat their outlook to please the reader. Truthfully, not every reader is expected to be pleased by a work of art. This piece does not bother to apply soft make-up or wear a pretty outfit. It would preferably look you in the eye, arms akimbo, feet firm on the ground, a cigar at one side of the mouth.

But a poem is what you make it. You will have to study this poetic image for a while, and then approach it with a depth of understanding.

I love this piece because it is rebellious, defiant, and unsubscribing to the normalized ideology of a reflection of a God. I can hear the piece question while puffing a big cloud of smoke that doesn't hinder your vision, “What's your god? And do you look like it?

Well, to know the God you reflect, you'll look at yourself first.

Chineka writes digital is 3000, where you can find the entirety of the poem. She writes hauntingly, without regard for what a poem is meant to be.

MO'S “THE DREADED QUESTION”

Mo's work is an introspective writing on the concept of oneself.

The piece begins with a question in line one, “What's your greatest fear?”

Before we delve any further, let us take a moment to ponder this question. Sometimes, we might not have a prepared answer for a question unexpectedly thrown at us. But poetry assists us in self-exploration. And although we might not find a perfect answer, we’d be likely to find a part of us we didn't know existed.

In answering the question, the poet persona goes on to tell “the dark, honest truth” (line 5)

“I'm fearful of the poison dripping through

And that I will become just like him”

(Lines 7-8)

Here, we shall ready our canvas, palette, and paintbrush. For each line, we shall create strokes upon strokes upon strokes until we unveil what this poison is.

I like to paint this poison as a gaze that speaks a thousand toxic words.

A hateful gaze?

A displeased gaze?

A you-look-so-much-like-me-it-disgusts-me gaze

And this gaze is so strong it seeps through your being. Your eyes are transfixed and unmoving as this gaze takes charge of your every vessel, and roots itself in your heart, and steadies itself in your breath, and pollutes your loving self.

Then you will go on your way, with that gaze that has masked the brightness of your eyes, and you will encounter someone who possesses the liveliness your eyes once tasted, and you will force their eyes to meet your gaze.

Then, you will possess them.

This poem deals with the difficult subject of shedding a contaminated body that has absorbed your being. It explores the fear of inheriting poisonous blood that has invaded you to the extent, according to line 19, “That it’s been permanently tattooed to the inside of my body”

To better grasp the voice of the piece, and to hear it speak to you the way it pleases, you can find it slouched against the wall, eyes closed, muttering a sort of prayer on Crowded Mind, a Substack newsletter that offers deep and emotive pieces bringing us closer to comprehending this human self.

Mo is a meditative and thoughtful writer offering you a calm and inward-looking ride to unearthing oneself.

I am done cooking soup. The taste is what you make of it.

Have you seen the air today? We had a few bottles of beer in the backyard and ate gibberish from our mouths. Time took to its heels, and before you know it, the sun took a haughty peek. So I went to make a meal. The dog left soup at my doorstep.

Boodalagoopgoopsoop soup is the sweet thing the dog serves at your doorstep. The day dances when we go to our jobs. I don't know why. I think it's because she killed the night before the earliest bird struggled out of bed.

We sing better than birds. Attend an animal party and you'll see.

Okay, I just needed to get that gibberish out. But I like it. 

I intended to share one of my vulnerable writings today. Perhaps, I will confidently do that someday.

Well…

Welcome to Weekend's Poets!

Writer's block for the second week and I'm learning to dwell in it without beating myself hard. When I experience writer's block, I tend to read more. I think it's a brief period in the creative process that allows me to greet writing a temporary bye and jump into a stream of countless minds. For a moment, I don't have to dwell in mine. I think it is beautiful looking at it that way.

Perhaps, writer's block is your creative spirit telling you “Girl, I need a recharge!”

(As I write, my mind deviates to the use of Iambic Pentameter in Shakespearean plays. My mind is suddenly struck with the Trochaic Pentameter of the witches' “Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble” in Macbeth. Trochees, when read, sound like chants and incantations. Like a sorcerer making magic. Like a very sinister presence. My mind thinks of Edgar Allan Poe)

Today, I would like you to meet Ukamaka Olisakwe's “Slut.”

You can find the piece here on Rattle.

I cannot stress how much I love this woman. I recently read one of her prose works and it’s still grooving in my head.

As expected, Olisakwe began bluntly, with sharp, piercing words, no sugar-coating:

‘Grandmother said there is a slut trapped in every woman, a wild taboo that must never be set free.’

Slut: a wild sweetness, too sourly sweet that when it walks past us, we make contorting faces and squeeze the eyes and nose as though we tasted lemon and lime.

Slut is the wild thing Earth took time to create. It's a meal dancing on the charcoal stove that your mouth will not experience; you will relish it from the air’s nostrils.

Slut is the wildness that was too wild it scared us. So we dragged and buried it deep inside.

Slut is the head we push down between our thighs each day; our hands become pestles pounding yam, afraid that eyes will notice that wild, earthy thing we call shame.

“Slut” is an empowering piece that navigates the sexuality of women in African Society. Sexuality is thought of as shameful, a thing to be kept from the public eye, a thing to be policed, sneered at, undeserving of love and attention, to be conquered, and yet pervertedly obsessed over.

But Olisakwe doesn't just shed light on this disgust, her work explores escaping the cage of unearthy-ness. Stanza seven tells us of the poetic persona’s encounter with Nneka:

‘Until Nneka. Wild one, with a body that tapered like a Coke bottle and limbs that stretched from heaven to earth. Nneka, with a mouth that spat words like hot corns, her head filled with sin. She gazed at my cage, shook her head at my slut and said, “Chai, who did this to you?”

Then she picked at my locks, tantric fingers exposing the other way of freedom, and I have never been the same again.’

The piece also covers how women, who have been policed and have policed themselves, police other women's sexuality in African Society. Consider the first and eighth stanzas. While stanza one tells us that:

‘Grandmother said there is a slut trapped in every woman, a wild taboo that must never be set free.

So mother dipped her fingers in a tub of pomade and massaged her daughter’s clitoris until the puny thing grew thinner and disappeared into the fold of skin.’

…the poetic persona, too tired of hiding that wild, earthly thing, too curious, eventually succumbs to the Slut, where stanza eight tells us that:

‘Grandmother looked at daughter and said, “This one is spoiled.”

Mother shook her head and said, “Her chi succumbed to slumber and this happened.”

Daughter strutted away. A proud slut.’

I think this springs up from our fear of wildness, afraid of the fact that it lives within us and cannot be contained nor tamed. But wild is who we are. We cannot put on a body Earth did not make for us. 

Ukamaka Olisakwe's skillful writing utilizes sharp and deep words to turn the pathetic narrative around. I wonder what is your conclusion of this arresting piece. Mine is this:

You cannot trap what is meant to envelop you

Deities will spit at your gesture of naked folly

For like the wildness of the earth, 

Slut is not un-earthy.

I read a few African prose works this week. I have a list of them and can't wait to consume them completely. And I love that contemporary African prose seems to break some rules now. I feel that too many restrictions in the grammar and structure used in prose limit the voice and depth of the writing. We read to travel, don't we? So we might as well travel without hiccups.

I have been so consumed by personal issues, and I am too overwhelmed to write. Writing ought to soothe the spirit, yes? But I am afraid of feeling like a fool when I finally read the words I have written. So, I had to read books. Either works anyway, so long I'm engulfed in creative work.

Back to the restrictions on prose, I remember the poem written by Emily Dickinson “I Dwell in Possibility.” You can find it here on the Poetry Foundation.

I shall dwell on the first stanza:

“I dwell in Possibility— / A fairer house than Prose— / More numerous of Windows— / Superior— for Doors—”

If you are new to Emily Dickinson (or perhaps, this poem of hers), you can take some time to understand what Possibility is, and why its initial letter is capitalized.

Take your time to read the first stanza, line by line, and swallow the words and em dashes.

Emily writes of Possibility as “a fairer house than Prose.” Then, goes ahead to explain how open and unrestricted Possibility is in the two other lines of the first stanza.

Well, I am not here to analyze the structure or style of the poem. I am choosing to focus on this stanza because it painted a picture in my mind. I like to think that this fairer house called Possibility is Poetry. This stanza paints an image of Poetry, and I find myself wanting to jump in through one of the many windows of this fair house.

Many windows?

Doors?

This brings me to a topic I taught recently, Poetic Licence—breaking grammatical and structural rules within reason.

I will capitalize the initial letters of Prose and Poetry because Emily Dickinson made them proper nouns.

This is not a critique or comparison between Prose and Poetry.

I appreciate that Poetry is more “uncultured” by the day, not subscribing fully to literary norms. I like that Poetry can sing to me, and can also dance on pages, and can take the shape of anything. I like poetry that appeals to the senses unrestrictedly. 

These days, we have begun to describe what passes as Poetry and what doesn't. There is something about living things: we hate restrictions. If we are restricted, we hope we are the ones restricting ourselves and not some other being. And Poetry is a living thing. A living being that can breathe, move, consume, excrete whatever waste lies in you, and reproduce a new desire.

And so, when you call on Poetry, perhaps, think of a house that lives? Or whatever creature that helps signify artistic freedom in your mind?

And then, let words weave themselves as they please through your hands? And for once, don't try to question how they dance from your fingers to the pages?

I have read several poems by creative folks on Substack. Poems that shiver, walk with shaky legs, smell like salt, bitter kola, and ogogoro, enter a room with poise and grace, taste like onions, take the form of a time machine, have bruised hands, have beautiful feet that fall and refuse to get up, that take small steps, that take large strides. I have met poems here that have a brief but poignant conversation with me. And I know that whatever beauty and ugliness of poetry stays with me like a person that has been part of me and almost becomes me.

And I look forward to meeting more Substack poems.

Because my mind loves to deviate, I'll pen (or keyboard) down with an idea that just tugged at my creative spirit.

Shall we paint a picture? No worries, we shall use the mind as a canvas.

Here's the setting of this painting, and as you strike your brush against the canvas of your mind, ponder about the questions that each stroke may offer.

You are a formless soul standing at the corner, perhaps excited, perhaps deliberating. Earth has set a body aside and is quickly making the finishing touches. A Breeze of Air comes to stand beside You and causally engages You in a conversation, in whatever language, existing or extinct, or never-before-heard. If you are deliberating, You are likely to ask the Breeze of Air what the world is like. If You are excited, the Breeze of Air will ask You what you think of the world You are going to encounter.

As a guide and prompt for our painting, we'll have this dancing poem “The World is a Beautiful Place” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. You can find the poem here on poets.org

Perhaps, at one point in our writing, we have had paintings as a source of inspiration for our writings. Today, we shall play reverse.