Like Me, You Too Are a Conjugation in a Language That Has No Verbs.
I
There are too many poems in your eyes,
sarauniyata. salty poems. The last time
I tried to filter some, they ran into oceans. I
Hear pain is salty. The day your father's body
Washed ashore, I insisted: ldogho mmoñ awot enye.
Water did not kill him, the ocean is too soft to filter breath
From body.
II
Soon, your sister joined. Nsibidi: At the hospital, I
watched as she threw her hands like anchors
Into her lungs; and I thought to myself, aya mom
Abifik amo. She will surely catch her breath. Afim
Idogho ib^k. The air is too generous to refuse her a little of itself.
III
After your father's death, your mother's in-laws asked
Her to cleave out her womb for inspection. What womb would
Bear things that have no shaft dangling between their thighs?
She was forced to gulp your father's corpse as atonement for
the sin of not dying before him. And when she jumped into a river
To drown her sorrow, it spat her out, said she was too salty, things
That are soaked in tears are always salty.
IV
Today, at the funeral house, Obong Nsibidi says a vulture
Perches atop your family's lineage (for those who cannot
See what this means, I vomit my ancestors into their eyes).
This is to say, the spirits aren't done yet, you too must be
Washed ashore like seashells abandoned by the tides.
V
You throw your body into the air, catch it midway and roll in on
The floor as cowries "abiad usen ke usen abiad." One who
Spoils the day, the day spoils too—and I wonder when you
Ever spoilt a day. Soft flower plummeting towards earth with dead
Poems burned into the black of your eyes. Like me, you too are
A conjugation in a language that has no verbs.
__________________
Two Bodies Painting Pain Into Dandelions
After reading this poem, you'll agree with me that pain
can be love's strong bone—a skeleton holding the fleshy
mounds of our love together. Who knew pain could be
this sensual? I stretch into the soft of my lover's body
and find a grave buried inside. Tell me how many graves
can a grave swallow? At the hospital, I ask the doctor
the cure for pneumonia and migraine and the loss of a
father still alive. His face shrinks into a dénouement:
there's no cure, just the right amount of rest, a little bit
of warmth and forgetting. How do I measure the right
amount of rest in a place where restlessness holds the
signature of hardwork or warmth where snow falls from
the heart of men sizzling under the sun? God knows I am
trying, but how does one unremember the undead, erase
the picturesque scorn of an empty grave epitaphed with the
inscription in memory of a leaving (living) father.
When my lover says she is on heat, I jump up in excitement.
You do not understand, in a circumference where cold traverses
the ribs of my lover to her lungs, being on heat is a metaphor for
saying: look, the sun has sweltered me into painlessness.
Today, I'm not wishing myself to death. Today, God hasn't died in my throat.
Something about our pain seems romantic. Say memosa pudica, say my lover
Is a flower sensitive to touch, folding herself along the heaps of goosebumps
Trailing her skin—therefore, herein, our pain is romantically intelligible.
My lover says: I am having a migraine. It interprets to me as: write me a poem
For my headache. I tell my lover: my spine is a congealing metal. It translates to her
as: stroke this hardness into orgasm.
At night, when the sun recedes its glow for the moon in her eyes
The night stretches across our window frame. She dissolves like water
In my hands, her body wet with pain. I shred a little of my pain to the
wind and watch it twirl with hers. Aroused by this, she strokes the
hardness of my body into euphoria. This is the only way we know how
to love—two graves swallowing themselves in ecstasy; two bodies
Painting pain into dandelions.
I am grateful for otherworldly writer like Mr Michael Immosan. This poems speak to me in ways intimate to my reality; past and present. I do not know what kind words will suffice in appreciating the magic churning from this poems. I only know I do not want to stop reading him. Wishing him Godspeed, hoping to see him at the top.
ReplyDeleteI am grateful for otherworldly writers like Mr Michael Immosan. These poems speak to me in ways intimate to my reality; past and present. I do not know what kind words will suffice in appreciating the magic churning from this poems. I only know I do not want to stop reading him. Wishing him Godspeed, hoping to see him at the top.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your kind words. I really appreciate.
DeleteImmosan, the first day I experienced your poetry was at the nest and ever since then, you've been doing the job of delivering wonderful pieces.
ReplyDeleteThe imagery in the first poem added with the ibibio fusion is something very wonderful and I couldn't stop snapping my fingers after each interpretation.
In a single sentence, you make magic into stanzas and call it poetry.
Thanks boss, I really appreciate. I hope you get inspired more.
ReplyDeleteWow! I haven't read something like these two in a while. It feels warm and good. I wish I could express it better. Immosan, I understood - most parts - and that's a good sign.
ReplyDeleteKeep writing.
Powerful emotive pieces. God bless you brother!
ReplyDeleteI have always been Curious about your Writing.You weave words into fine linen.
ReplyDeleteLoved Every bit of it