Metamorphosis

Chances fall down as we circle the forgotten
days that once existed as long held breaths.
Holding on to bruised visions and
solemn prayers.
Hope has been shining in the glimmering prophesies
that promised refuge.
Refuge for the past we did not tred,
for the future that the waves brought
ashore much too soon.
For our memories that lingered between sheets
but did not think to bring honey
to stick on to the parchment of our hearts.
Now our fragility sits upon the moutain of the aged youth,
mounted and subdued.
Here we are,
Arriving to yesterday’s blues
but forgetting the tune,
once again.

Womens in me

To the womens in me and who have walked through me:

I thought about you all yesterday, as many hailed you and raised you up high. I felt a pride, yes. A pride of one who enjoys the yield of a sowing she did not attend. But between the lines of pride and joy, I also felt sadness, sadness that you must still request an invite to the table of humanity, sadness that your purity is still ranked according to pelvic tightness and painful groanings, sadness still that the pedestal is still too low and high and does not acrtually exist but you are made to believe and desire that it does, sadness again, that we cannot simply exist as womyns but as women always lacking-
and striving, sadness, that the present,
in all its future earnings,
can never simply be enough
for us,
for me,
and for the womens in me.

Fruit of love for Mine

The one that got away but returned to the troubled hearts waters,
stubborn one,
complex and
Mine.
My beautiful one- unborn,
rebirthed and evolving.
When shall this fruit ripen?
Let’s dance around the realities of
our becoming.
Were we only dreaming
when we lost
our paths
and forged
ahead to
the unknown?
Arms locked,
bodies in conversation,
praying mercy.
Mercy, mercy, mercy mercy mercy
I pour on your crown-
Solemnly in fervent wait
for the fruition of these waitings
and smooth endings.
My beautiful one- unborn,
rebirthed and evolving.
When shall this fruit ripen?

Dealin’

Sonia’s been talking about all that

all that storytelling about being black and bad

all that knowledge woven in the politics of

dealing with one’s self and

I’ve been thinking about what

it really be about when Sonia tells me

that i am a black women who hasn’t meditated

on my self and only myselves

i’m really thinking about what Sonia is preachin’

through her sweet monologs and sultry lullabies

that tell me my blackness is worth more than a

glimpse, more than a shame-filled, passionless

fuck.

so I am really thinking about what Sonia has got me thinking about:

that I ought to do more

to deal with all of this,

all this blackness

and all that lays beyond it.

Sonia most definitely has me thinking about

dealin’.

Letters to Ayoola (2)

Ayoola,

I can barely hold in my excitement and sadness at the news that Baba has proposed. What a beautiful and sorrowful way to end this convoluted and complex year and a half. I am just ecstatic that one of us will be walking down the ailse but also deeply ashamed that I will be the friend and sister unable to attend because she neither has the finances nor the immigration papers that will allow her freely leave her country of residence. Is this where I apologise? My whole body and mind and spirit and soul is in apology for you, my dear and only friend.

Ayoola, you’ve told me before but I believe it came more like a dream or an epiphany to me the other night: I have been giving of myself and receiving snowflakes and sand dunes in return. How did I get here? It seemed the more I gave of myself, the less I recognized the reflection in the mirror. How could this be? I wrestled with the inner demons to contort my face into pleasing and desirable forms–faraway smiles mingled with inner tears.

I’m walking backwards these days–retracing my steps to the Eden of the departure of joy and well being. It looks like a long journey, one that may never actually reach an end-point. You might wonder if this does not worry me or cause me some discomfort. Funny enough, dear friend, I have not felt lighter in years. There is so much depth in the past, and I often have to wake from it’s sweet slumber to realize that I must still be present in the present. I’m coming and going somewhere new and my mind is finally understanding peace that can come without price

Greetings to those of the world and the spirit.

Faithfully yours always,

 

Letters to Ayoola

Ayoola,

I was filled with so much joy when I saw your handwriting (that cursive script I could never master) on the envelope that was left on the doorstep of my apartment. As I read each word –I felt the peace, the joy and the love fill my soul. You’re happy and my heart could not rejoice with you more. Baba sounds like a wonderful man: everything that you waited and prayed so dutifully for. In short, your letter has brought sunshine and smiles to my spirit. Ose, Ore Mi Atata

I’ve been praying more and working harder. I know you’ll smile at this and say “Less work and more prayer!” I am trying to strike the balance but there is the common saying “God helps those who help themselves”? So I suppose I am testing the hypothesis.  

It seems, however, the more I have tried to organize and categorize all the various facets, the more out of control everything has gotten. I was thinking the other day what a beautiful feeling free-fall must be–letting go completely. But more truthfully Ayoola, the more in-control I have set out to be, the more out of touch I have become accustomed to feeling.  So, I’ve been building barricades that will ward off any unexpected pitfalls in April.

So, I’ve been building barricades. You first saw them and tore them down but I have rebuilt them to be much more solid and encompassing than before. It was an unconscious decision. Unpacking insecurities is so cliche and I have never been very good at articulating  my emotions. So these barricades have worked to ward off those who want to see beyond the smile and laughter. The barricades have made me an island but I realize this may only last for a fleeting moment. When love leaves and resentment comes to nestle in the corners. 

I am just somewhere between floating and dodging peace. Yet it is all I long for these days: Serenity knocking as opposed to the jostling bodies and loud sirens. So I’ve been thinking maybe the barricades must come down? but how?

Ore mi, I know you’ll probably read this saying or thinking, “you don start again oo” and you are probably right…But I long to see your cursive again so please fill me in on all the details of passionate Baba and the unrelenting pot-bellied Oga-CEO.

Stay well,

 

 

 

Omolara,

the beautiful one.

what did you choose to hold on to,

when they came to plunder?

was it the joy in your laughter,

the stars in your teary eyes

or the stories in your drumming heart?

 

Omolara, the beautiful one, when they came to take,

when they came to take,

when they came to uproot,

it seems they took it all.

Did you take a stance or

spread your thighs wide?

Was your fragility a tool for destruction

or an escape to resurrection?

 

We all stood at a distance watching them,

hack away,

greedily and hungrily,

at your terrain of boxed complexities.

 

Omolara, to rewa,

tell me,

did it hurt?

did it burn?

did it linger at all?

omolara

 

 

From A Far Away Place

I see the dimming lights in their eyes,

the finality-

of something often,

of something close,

of something cherished,

of something forgotten.

There is futility in attempting to put these pieces together,

But I am drawn to it–

this exercise in impossibility.

I’ve dreamt of the paths untrodden,

that they might have missed to reach this  place

of unfounded dreams and unspoken hopes.

To label this failure would be too easy.

On this seemingly fruitless journey, we have been waiting.

Haltingly going neither backwards nor upwards-

Floating between the intermediary of who we dreamed  to become

and

that which our reflections mockingly produce.

we make gods of our bodies

and starve passion through the unwritten literature of our souls.

we are searching,

searching perhaps for that which we lost long before this journey began.

searching greater still, for that which our hands have not formed

nor our minds fathomed.

And They tell us-

that we are dreaming larger than we can become-

Because becoming has never been

in our power-

 

On this Separation

Mother, now that we are separated by these large waters-

And by crackling fibre lines-

that sometimes transform your humming voice into unfamiliar muffles.

But Mother,

Now that we are separated-

I feel somehow unable.

You have never asked me to carry your burden

But suddenly

I feel heavy.

The weight of the unknown-

balances unsteadily above

me.

It is only now-

that I realize

I have been navigating this world through

you.

And Mother, I am ashamed to say-

that all this while

I secretly thought it was

you-

who had needed me most.

Never truly acknowledging

Your strength,

until now-

now that my own lack of-

mocks me,

and is hastily demanded to

stand

upright

alone.

Mother, we are now separated-

by these man-made borders.

But separated still-

by so much more,

that I cannot-

define.