…Never advise me to dream of Paradise,
For the only place where I find my relief,
Isn’t on the pristine beaches of Maldives…
Poet Code-101: Fall in love with poetry; never a poet.
I’ll tell you why…
I’m your typical curious lad. It should have ended me long ago if it wasn’t for my nine lives. I grew up always needing to know, hence I was curious about anything by Enid Blyton, Ahmadu Ingawa, Rudy Francisco, Danielle Steele and others.
It led me to storytelling at a young age, to Tolkien and Rowling, to more, but my world changed years ago when curiosity led me to ‘her’. An Element, of delicacy and light. A Poetess, with ink of lucid bright. A curious kitten, we’re the perfect match. She taught me poetry, and I taught her to love me. In the following infant months of my poetic expedition, I was getting the hang of it almost too simply, I bent all the devices and meters to my will. Was it because I was always pouring my flows all over my teacher, my muse? Or was I actually good at it? I couldn’t care less. I just wanted to impress, never cared to express.
I was becoming so good, too good that I could write someone’s destiny. So when my muse became tired of my poetic praises and my love, I lost all purpose. Soon, I became an empty quill. Speechless. I reduced myself to a spectator, attending poetry events and festivals in Kano, Abuja, Kaduna or wherever I could, and from afar I’d cheer online performers in Orange Poetry, Hilltop or Alitfest, while I go snap, snap, snap, or fire emoji, fire emoji.
The only poetry I had left was my trick-or-treat technique, where I polish my old antiques to impress the few fine fine girls I admire in their DMs, collecting their aww-some reactions like some gold coins.
Caring friends and family eventually heard my silence. Then I began getting wake-up calls… that I was good enough regardless. So over time, I gradually retried, and eventually, like a magical Phoenix, I rose. Wasn’t easy but I rose and in a different way; as a wizard of words. I learnt my poetry all over, learnt how to write not just to impress but to express. Instead of just writing, I learnt to write the right thing. I became more than just a romantic poet, I became a universe of explosive tales and journeys begging to unfold and although my pages are hardly filled up, panic level is at 0.00% because I trust the goodies my word-shop has in store.
Don’t get me wrong; romantic poetry can never not be the heavenly sanctuary that radiates the insides of our black holes; it’s the gift that keeps on giving, and perhaps one day, I’d find me another muse.
Now my new-fangled words taught me that I could do more than just write stuff, that I could channel powerful forces from within and paint the world with my words of societal change, artistic expression and global betterment.
The first poetry I wrote as my newer self, was a sonnet. One that carries me back to curious days. One that carries me back home:
Never ask me to compose a Sonnet,
I lost my muse in a lover’s embrace,
Whilst she acquired a rouse to burn lit,
The prisoner locked under my rib cage.
Never convince me to sing a Lullaby,
My tone is an oxymoron of silent noises.
I’d scream tenderly till my voice runs dry,
And pray you bewail your melodic choices.
Never advise me to dream of Paradise,
For the only place where I find my relief,
Isn’t on the pristine beaches of Maldives,
But in the warmness of these comfy bedsheets.
Let the night fall, I long for domiciliary release.
Home is my Heaven, my only place of Peace.
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