I haven’t written
And, I haven’t chosen to be written;
though I am written in leaves and blood
and the mud — snapping with teeth
like the branches of the woods
Oh, youth, you made me feel fresh
Not a serving of flesh cased behind a bone
and all the bone is chewing to break out
to now what it cannot know, now
I wanted so much to know what it was like to write
to have known if I had written anything of any value
I am writing as I will always write
clutch my blood next to the quilled ink
sparrow along the ridges and dominant the
lull of the breath; stay passive at the apex of the muscle
I will knead into me a belonging in poetry
as the bread knows the yeast and the sky knows the sun.—
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 ❤
bits and pieces of raggedy bone
that is the slimming of my patience
reading other poets online to be inspired
as I am exasperated, weight gain and the logic of dieting
it infuriates me; not due to non-participation, I need exercise
yet a lush-and vivid life too; to call my own
this ennui blinks and I am tundra or desert or something of barking sap
madness of impatience winning, I am no race winner. I came second place once
in Year 2, Class 2, I have the silver, white ribboned medallion. I loved running and still do
I love feeling the orbit of the earth on my soles: I have to learn to romanticise treadmills
as sexist bitches and sexist tropes don’t allow me the run I need to feel the axis of my heels
know the axis of the planet. I so want to be a projectile, yet they narrow me to mechanics
objectification of body fitness. I am just angry. Why can’t things be my way for once? God,
why do I always beg? Please give me something as you recently did. I need this. I need to run
in open spaces. For now, only for now, I will also do this liminal walking. Only because I love running
but this is a compromise temporary. I will weave my wings back somehow — God, you have to let me.▬
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.
my angels had their feathers partly clipped and sewn
into hives making them cripples bees; like some factory
chickens that never know the daylight who work in
solitary asylums made of nboisy walls of cries that they
feel that their own breed is a stranger to mnistrust. My heart
longs for a release from the tides and tightened bars of society
where a woman and a man has a loaded curse of connotations and
derogative denotations where mimes attempting to speak the truth
are shunned from sight, from hearing, from communication — as they
have failed to use some lingua franca or the other.
and me and those like me are waited to be bullied on
by people called classmates and heads of corporations
preying on my skin as AIDS on white blood cells tainting my
infrastructure and then defining me as a basket case, damaged goods.
But God watched my assassinations multiplied and threw me more spines
in which oeuvres were collected and threaded and sewn into documentaries
and books and I realized that even in the hated shit pile rising on high
away and untouched from it is a many whorled flower bursting hermaphrodactyl seeds
that became planets and helped to whisper supernovae and then they realized how I am a lethal
weapon for I have survived all the blasts they have thrown and still formed my own un-capitalized
what can I give to you
that I already have not offered,
or given, someone else?
You say Virginity
I start to blush
you draw closer
and you revert
I say what is a Hymen and some blood?
you look perturbed;
I say what about your Hymen?
you cringe and say you don’t have one
I look at you and laugh
you get mad
I don’t care
I talk equal exchange
like a fair trade
or, like the evil stock market
I say you gotta buy shares to earn them back
but even then it’s never quite certain if you do get back
because that’s the way the ball — oh hymen, bounces
also if by trade or barter should I not get a Virgin for a Virgin?
or rather something intimate for an intimate?
You get mad and tell me to stop my madness
and then I laugh, but you shake me
you tell me to not laugh at you how dare I
I unhinge the lock — with the key I have inborn
and say look her macho
you want my Hymen broken for what purpose I don’t know
you probably say a lot of indirect things too but your goal
would be the same; you’d buy me things, you think my Hymen
is like a bag or a condom, something you can throw away right?
Then surely I must cut your balls off too or some layer of skin close
because they are what you don’t need
you stare at me, disturbed
I continue, I laughed for you, in a way I might not have for anyone
if you can’t read my laugh how can you read me down there
if a laugh escapes you then so will my erogenous, my clitoris
my breasts, my eyes, my tongue, my legs, my freckles, my moles
my rash on my upper left arm, the skin coloration near my right foot — you’d miss a cosmos because you were only concerned
on a meteorite that explode anyway and destroy you
you are a fool, a virgin fool who can probably make me come from between my legs but never me as a whole
you are not a lover, you are a virus who infects white blood cells
copies them (thus you’d copy my Hymen that which you claim you don’t have) and like the zombie viral you’ll just copy my personality
in blood and ejaculation; spreading out like a disease
I get up, you don’t move
I say you are completely devirginised
your Hymen has burst
you shout, what’s…what?
I say, your Hymen was your heart
and you punctured it and made it bleed
now there is no proof right?
That you are alive?
Funny, you have no womb
such a hollow chasm — how can I make love to you
when you have mutilated yourself by excluding
yourself from the 23 pairs?. ▬