Note to a Rapist

You ascribe to my body
praise and worship. The
value of a piece of fruit,
Ripe and bursting
with juice. You lift
me and you unravel
my mystery.
A boy impatient with his wrapped
presents. But this isn’t Christmas, and this
Present was never given. Taken like
The fruit of a tree not freely offered.
You suck the life, the purity,
the essence that I too have
Out through the orifice
You forced with a straw.
And when you are finished,
Belching with sweet contentment,
Laughing with the great pleasure,
I am taken, by you and by myself,
to a place where
I did not once
Belong. The abode of
a community of the
defaced, the despoiled.
Because I am not a piece
of fruit, there is an
experience I ascribe
to this…This thing.
Thenceforth,
I become a spectre
In the shadow of
that eternal memory

The Future

I courted confusion across a
shiny sea of promise.
And there was love on either
side of me.
Tricks of the mind are absurd and
yet we yield to them.
There never was one that did not
take me by the hand,
A thing pregnant with promise,
That did not take me by the hand
And sing.
The future. A bed. A smile. Hair.
The future. A pen. A desk. Food.
Kitchen. Little feet. Little voices.
Something true. Home.

?

Light that plays on my head

Makes me wise

Dappled in sunlight the colour of

blood, we live and we thrive

In heat and in cold. Beyond

the years that do so boldly

beset us with misery, we aspire

For higher mysteries than these,

and we would die like a flock

of grounded geese drowned

In the muck of the earth that

was our home for time past

and time to come.

Ode To The Drum by Yusuf Komunyakaa

Gazelle, I killed you

for your skin's exquisite

touch, for how easy it is

to be nailed to a board

weathered raw as white

butcher paper. Last night

I heard my daughter praying

for the meat here at my feet.

You know it wasn't anger

that made me stop my heart

till the hammer fell. Weeks

ago, I broke you as a woman

once shattered me into a song

beneath her weight, before

you slouched into that

grassy hush. But now

I'm tightening lashes,

shaping hide as if around

a ribcage, stretched

like five bowstrings.

Ghosts cannot slip

back inside the body's drum.

You've been seasoned

by wind, dusk & sunlight.

Pressure can make everything

whole again, brass nails

tacked into the ebony wood

your face has been carved

five times. I have to drive

trouble from the valley.

Trouble in the hills.

Trouble on the river

too. There's no kola nut,

palm wine, fish, salt,

or calabash. Kadoom.

Kadoom. Kadoom. Ka-

doooom. Kadoom. Now

I have beaten a song back into you,

rise & walk away like a panther.

This is one of those poems I wish I and not the original poet had written. Sounds selfish, I know. And if I could steal it, I probably would, he-he.

Am I Not a Child?

Something I penned a few weeks ago in response to this picture, whose image has remained with me ever since I saw it about a couple years ago:

Am I not a child
Whose limbs are sticks,
Whose face is a mask
Of bones?
Why are my eyes like dice
That roll in my head,
Opening and closing,
A physical plea,
A pitiful cry for mercy,
And I pray they fall on any number
That will be the vision of my salvation,
And I close them, and when they open,
Still I remain as dead?
Am I not a child?
Then why must I worry about death
And food and vultures?
Do children not have fat cheeks
And laughing eyes
Or greasy lips and chins
That form mischievous grins?
Are children not restless
And naughty and bright
And sprightly?
Why does my open mouth
Do nothing but plead
For simple nourishment
If I am a child?
If I am a child,
Why am I alone?
Am I not a child?

Father and Mother

He walked to school along the path

That his father had taught him,

Where just beyond the rocky outcrop

Was the land he had inherited.

One day, just one day,

When he became big and strong,

He would farm it

And feed from it

And live long

For those he loved.

Something had come into their home

And had taken their father away.

No one saw it.

But it came, sure as night,

And they only saw what it did.

Father’s face, Father’s chest,

Father’s legs, Father’s stomach

Father had failed, and the light

In his eyes had died,

And Father too had died.

He counted the years,

Ten of them to go,

Then he would be a man

And wipe away Mother’s tears.

If Mother lived that long.

Because something had come into their home

And was taking their mother away.

No one saw it.

But it was there, sure as night.

And they now saw what it did.

Mother’s face, Mother’s chest,

Mother’s legs, Mother’s stomach.

Mother was failing, and the light

In her eyes was dying.

And Mother too was dying.

Call and Response

I watched a documentary on human trafficking a week ago. It shows how modern slavery in the form of the sex trade (as well as in other forms) continues to thrive. However, what made this documentary different and very interesting was its employment of music. The whole thing was essentially a concert by a wide range of artists singing against human trafficking, with interspersed comments by experts, actors, and other celebrities. The reality portrayed in the film was very sobering, so I went back and wrote the poem that follows in response to it.

Call and Response is a very decent documentary, and when you sign up for it, just know that you're in for plenty of music from artists such as Talib Kweli, Matisyahu, and Natasha Beddingfield. Interesting, I hear you say. Absolutely. One thing about the music for me was that sometimes, the artists didn't seem to be singing directly about the issue that the film was about, human trafficking. But then, I realised, they didn't need to, because a thing as universal and pervasive as music does not need to be so direct and logical. Just the fact that they were singing their songs on that screen, and the music I heard, was a strong enough message to arouse my passion and fury against human trafficking. The music certainly carried the spirit of the issue at hand.

This is what that music and those images inspired:

VISIONS OF LIGHT

Through my eyes and into the world I see visions

That run through dark streets and splash into

Moonlit puddles. Through alleys of despair

And corners that reek of dreaded fish that

Has been the staple of the mouth beneath my eyes.

My visions are fraught with hope that frightens

But also enlightens, that tightens the lashes

Of conviction and constriction, or consternation

For a ruined nation. Such are my dreams, 

Fleeting like a cool breeze in the desert.

I live in darkness, but not despair; I live in pain

But I do not wish for numbness. Dumbness seeks

To assuage my soul, apathy that preys on

The senses. In a shrinking world, a global nation

I live, and dare to hope. In pain, I dare to hope.

In fear, I dare to hope. In men, I dare to hope.

In God, I dare to hope. Because through

The darkness I see bright dreams and visions

That shine with the light of a thousand sunrises

And vanquish with the light of a thousand angels.

For more on  Call and Response, visit: http://callandresponse.com/