…and we can never go back there
however grand, however glamorous
the unending days
felt in the company of
voluptuous nights
overlapping shoes,
foreign language of my past…
My first visceral experiences with poetry were in high school. Before that, I had not really encountered writing that moved my spirit in the way that the Psalms did. Fiction catered to my mind, effortlessly killed the time and was a good escape from socializing with fellow teenagers, which I dreaded because I thought I was really strange and not easy to like. The latter was false because I still have very meaningful friendships from that period.
I read the entire compendium of Shakespeare’s sonnets in junior high school, not having the slightest idea what he was talking about in most of them, but loving the sounds and the mathematical arrangements of the words. Love Is Not Love (sonnet cxvi) is still a favourite. At the peak of my identity crises when I started to terribly fear that I did not belong and perhaps never would, I discovered Emily Dickinson. And there she was, speaking to my spirit. In the same way that the Psalms did which was a powerful crutch for me as I was estranged from religion at the time.
Then I discovered spoken word poetry in the city. It was a dazzling movement. It still is. It was not something I really envisioned myself doing, the performance bit of it, because once I saw a live audience, my nerves got fried. But I could hear lines, words, in a special way. Sometimes all day. Sometimes slowly, over long periods and it was amazing what happened when I stitched them together. It is something I really enjoyed. So few people understand the immense joy of extracting just one good poem, from wherever poems come from. It is a high I will chase all my life. That, and discovering good poems, that others have made.
Purple Avocados by Ema Babikwa
Avocados dangle like ornaments
in the tree of my childhood
and I still feel the itch
of yam stalk guns
and grass-burn
in the shower
when the ease and innocence
gone, rain down in droplets
short Victorias
strike and trickle down
the deep valley of my back
and we can never go back there
however grand, however glamorous
the unending days
felt in the company of
voluptuous nights
overlapping shoes,
foreign language of my past
i'll burn a bit of myself
every passing day
for you
to make sunset rosettes
for your lost children
and a nest, for their echoes.
- Stories From Young African Poet: The Identity Crisis Versus Belonging Of Ema Babikwa. - October 16, 2024
- Cafe 24 || Winner: Lost And Found By Stephen Olayemi. - October 12, 2024
- Stories From Young African Poets: Shards And Bits Of Memories Of Rahma Jimoh. - October 9, 2024
