I am actually wondering if people still like my poetry. I realised today I am not as prolific as I once was like 5-7 years ago. I also wondered if my poetry stills means anything to anyone. I know through my entire time writing in this blog for almost 11 years that it has been a bittersweet, but meaningful journey. I had my lows and highs. I was able to share some of them here. I was experimental, logical, emotive, attempting to positive and empathetic but also at times mislead. I am happy that I have grown up so much. Matured more than I could have ever realised when I have started. This has been a very personal and intimate journey for me. I have been very fortunate to have had it. I Thank Allah Almighty that I did. It means so much to me.
So, I wanna continue forward. I wanna keep on writing poems here. I wanna keep on experimenting and writing my feelings. If the years back was more an experimentation I think the years would be a mix of confessions and memoirs as well.
I wanna thank everyone who stuck by me as I kept on writing here. I hope to keep on writing more and more.
I feel Blessed that I can write. I Thank Allah Almighty. I just feel blessed to get to know these poems and also have them in me.
Continuing on the journey of writing poems
Much love and good luck and prayers to me and the readers ❤
in the light of the sun through a window; sized medium, shutters green-slight
it slits on the top; reminds me of old cameras — yet what it records?
life inside or outside? Both? I am soaked by the frame. It’s reference —
a sketch. I am tidying my short hair, happily cut for the occassion
of living alone. Less stress. More eloquence. Like a few short words.
Written on some wall. Engraved on some tree. I feel the sun on my face,
on my naked neck as I blow dry hair. I am getting better at this.
There is a still stubbornness of my locks. They wave and curl; they
are not straight. Cannot be straightened. My androgyne reifies in my retina
in the crown of keratin. I should be pleased. I am. Now. Then, the act of hair
wavy yet immaculate makes me feel bliss. Kiss of warmth of sun and an apparel
for my hair. I feel my blood rise with Moca. Another warmth. Walking on
Stone pavements with my tousled hair and packed bag with coffee.
Loving the feeling of boots clicking on the pebble. Loving the motion
of walking — just walking. Feeling the independence of legs, of locomotion
— I am a being of hyperactivity — my hair flows out even with a hairband
and my clothes are loose and casual. Too casual. Like no metrosexual touch
upon me. No sense of the feminine fashionista. I still need potential for that.
yet my hair, the window and the walking are all potentials
these radicals of being that I didn’t think of always
when breathing winter’s air back in my native land in my youth
crisp tongued with a promise only realising 16 years later
like some sixteenth birthday come after
I study the leaves. I think of the hours I may browse the net
Study the contents of my books. Wait for the shipment of texts
to arrive in packages. Another potential.
my movement gains a stride; slight equations that make me feel complete.▬
the rain drank the sun; the day fingers a grey-dark ceremonial
like some ritualistic garb, aiming for some funereal demonstration
or a pilgrimage set in marble and the edification of a time forged
in multidimensional pathways — subtle yet interesting
the rain drank the sun yet her thirst not quenched
the satisfaction was not only in the light serein
gales and winds blew; night was hallowed with light
from the flames of thunders and the pools of lightnings
— there came an ocean; inverted but also sensuously foamed
Venus was birthed in foams, pearls and the oyster carapace
like that of the turtles that support the world — mythos mixes
like a fine precipitate in the analogies of extraction
from the foam of lust and love came the armour of the one sheathed
and daggered; your love was not merely a hypothesis
it was a dissertation written in rain
and what writ in water is eaten by the earth and evolves; never dies.▬
coupled with only my letters
vassaled and vesseled it into my veins
like a form of oxygen crystalised into flesh
a wordsmith always forged iron
until the forge no longer was science.▬
they clipped your wings so you could not fly:
you chose to run instead and make some wings of papery grass
to glide away. They try to tame you with a tortuous nag, of civilised society
you found civilisation on a walk with moss and stone
and the freckles of the moon and the cobwebs of the sun
made gossamers on your palms, like rings of trees on blood
and a flowering of lashes and smiles made you who you are
a warrior, phenomenally, to quote Angelou and an angel in the sand.▬
via Beauty Is Broken — Matter — Medium.
An articulation on what means to be a woman in a culture that voraciously greeds and feeds ideal female perfections.
what am I?
you ask me because it was easy to ask than to proceed with an answer
we were both cobbled stones of a street with the mimicry of each other’s
positioned organs upon each layer – only some glands and garbles slightly different
for the mechanism in the marbles holds best to steer the courses as they say.
we don’t want to think in genders and sexes
though our positions are gendered and sexed
with all the fluids, hormones, desires and culture
assisting, hurting, abusing, limiting, transcending
between our androgynous spaces of brain, soul and mind
matters – what mattered to me was you, we both enveloped
by our hyphenated clauses our breathy unfinished words
and orgasms from a pulpit of our elbows, napes, skins and throats
to the apex of your thighs – where your penile-clit a contradiction of towers
who is clamped shut by being built by dead stone; whose industries knew no skylines like
your erections knew the skylines of your jaws, face and eyes…
what am I?
and we do not make love, or fuck, or buy time by receding
into our own hourglasses with its concave and convex dimensions
it’s practical math mixed with a √ and a π and some other things
we could lapped to know with both tongue and teeth as in both the body mixing
and the word mixing…
we don’t know what should end or begin or rather are we both
already beginning and ending something with our breathing and gazing
with the nightmare and dream of our veins coddled by blood that knew how to
cross lines beyond bone-borders without leaving a trace aside a small sense
of knowing you had joined with another…we are just comedies and tragedies and
autobiographies when we are not like this and I think we exist only in a context that does
not really embrace other contexts…we are beginning to be less amorous and more bored with ourselves than each other…
what am I?
now I don’t know and you don’t know if my breasts has it
the answer or your chest has it and are we both under lock and key
are we both asking this to ourselves or to the other…
and we each loop this question, infinite, constructing a golden ratio
that broke the breadth and width of it and knew something else entirely.▬
suppose you had kissed me then with your wide-eyed, wide-toothed sclera
reigning into a hypersegmented reality where you and I only exist as bodies
to be bathed and sauteed with pleasure and all orgasms quick paced melodies
and branching into a rhizome filled bacterial larvae and you tell me “it’s never enough…”
not out of chance yet out of some folly of your heart you tied with a string
and you gazed at me longingly my genitilia some sort of bouncing heart beat
that a voyeur’s paradisiacal sonnet had: crept me into the spaces of your monologues
truth is that I am not only a body cremated at pleasure’s pyre on some pole where your lips
touched and gazed and gazed and gazed — I crept up as a vine but I have my trees you don’t know.▬