the loss of a father who was also a mother, the pain it carries when you lack the love that was once bestowed upon you and you were told to become a man.
I would tear pages from my books and write what I felt. Unfortunately, my mum found the papers. I was beaten black and blue. I stopped talking and writing. I now write like my life depends on it, because it does.
I confess that I too would die to reach for the clouds. half abstraction. clouds which exist in half abstraction. you my dear, exist in half abstraction as
I cannot write a poem that does not originate from some deep part of me, and usually, these poems feature people, things, or situations I feel connected to. My mother’s poem being my first significant poem just reminds me that I have not lost that part of me even as I get older. I am grateful for that.
Stories From Young African Poets: Abdurrazak Learns The Art Of Boundaries And The Pain Of Rejection.
When I finally meet her I will bloom satisfaction Pluck enough to reshape into hope Track back to this moment and Seduce the small skeptic sizes Of me into waiting a bit longer
My poetry was informed by loss—the regurgitation of constant emotions from the influence of this loss.
Growing up I always had this feeling of estrangement from everyone, this deep sense of loneliness and alienation.
Although this poem speaks to the loss of my mother, while also paying homage to the very essence of womanhood, my mother is still very much alive and well. In an interview with Chimee Adioha of Black Boy Review, Ukata Edwardson once said: "The truth is, in all reality, every piece of art and literature performs a little lie."
When I was young, despite not knowing what poetry was, the lines stayed with me from the very first time I listened to the audio on my sister's phone.
Meanwhile, the infectious energy of Yoruba movies drifted in from the living room. My dad, a fervent fan, would often have them playing in the background. The booming pronouncements, and the lyrical exchanges, often delivered in poetic verse, were a constant companion to my afternoons spent with African poetry. It dawned on me – both the poems and the movies revelled in the power of words. They held the magic to weave stories, paint pictures, and stir emotions, all with the simple tools of language.
