This is the true life story that I had written for O'Naturals, its a 2 parter so they should be having the 2nd part of it out before 2012, so you can go and read it there. But while I have this borrowed time, I'm posting this to you and also saying 'thank you for reading, for commenting, for believing in me, for praying for me, with me, for being there every single step of the way, silently and publicly. God bless you and Have a very happy New Year.
I on a personal front, hope to have a new laptop, write more, publish a book (this has been a 3 year dream, touch wood for 2012) travel, fall in love? (I'm open to offers) lol and live and laugh more. In all my pain, distress and fears, God has been so good to me. He's given me family,good friends, a best friend & sister, an outlet to express the gift He gave me. I am so blessed and I am certain that I'm on my journey to being pain free, truly alive and well. Here's to more poetry, stories, laughter and life. Happy New Year and God bless you real good.
Hairdos: Mother, Grandmother and I
I’m sitting on my little stool, in the living room, my heart beating just a little bit faster as the long hand on the clock creeps up. Somehow my armpits feel a bit wetter. I know that the door will creak open and ... and the door starts to creak open. I shoot off my stool and race into my parents bedroom and go under the bed. I had been planning this hideout for a while and I was certain that this time I won’t be caught.
"Tope"! My name rings out and I unknowingly shiver. "Why must we do this every time? I know you are hiding somewhere and sooner than later, I will find you, so why not come out and just let’s be done?" The voice fades off and I start to relax but the voice comes closer. "Honestly I don’t have time for this. When I catch you, it will not be funny!" The voice bounces all over the room until it bends over to my hideout and a hand shoots out and grabs me by the leg. Grandmother pulls me to the living room while rivulets of tears fall down my face.
Going to the hairdressers always took so long and ended unsuccessfully because I have a tender head. It had become a bi-weekly nuisance. One day, my mother snapped when she came and found me screaming like a sacrificial lamb while being held down by one hairdresser as the other tried to weave my hair. She paid the woman and marched me into her car with my hair uncompleted.
We got home and my Grandmother, who lived with us, looked at us with a smirk on her face. Mother and her were not the best of friends and mother tried her best to keep out of Grandmother's way. "So you have given up?" Grandmother beamed at my mother. My mom shook her head and said forlornly "I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should just shave her hair." I trembled at the thought and whined a big "no". I knew what happened to children who had shaved hair in my school. Everyone said they had head lice and teased them with the ‘gorimapa’ song.
Grandmother came to my rescue. ‘Let me finish it up for her and I’ll do her hair from now on. At least you will not have spend my son’s money needlessly." Grandmother ended somewhat triumphantly. Mom looked at her and let out what sounded like a grunt. I followed Grandmother willingly. Grandmother sat on the big chair and I sat on my little stool in between her legs.
Grandmother’s fat thighs suddenly clamped down on both sides of my head; holding my head so tight, I couldn’t hear anything. Her hands came over my head and like little needles poking at my head. It took me a while to find my voice because I was in shock. She finished up the weave just as my mother came out to see what was going on. "There! You see! Straightforward hairdressing. Done. All that money wasted when you had a true professional at home. And you, shut up!" Grandmother pushed me towards my mother, stood up re-tying her big wrapper around her waist and walked out of the living room.
"You see what you’ve caused now? Hmm? Mama will have something to say anytime you have to get your hair done! Left to me, I’ll just shave your head!" Mother said as she pulled me to herself and wiped my face. At that, I shouted "no". She echoed my voice. "No?! But every time you get your hair done, it is drama and disaster. What am I to do with you?" She scooped me in her arms and carried me into the bedroom where she gave me some paracetamol for my rising temperature and a cold orange Tree-Top drink. So I lay in my mother’s arms wondering how the next hairdressing time with my Grandmother was going to be. I didn’t have long to wait, it was two weeks coming.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Friday, 30 December 2011
Friday, 23 December 2011
For Melissa Hasbrook
It was a simple way we met, Melissa and myself. It was a poetry gig in Wigan. We both performed and somehow, someone introduced us and we started talking and I invited her to come stay at my flat and she accepted. I remember apologising profusely about the dingyness of the flat and she graciously told me it was a good flat.
She told me about her life and I shared mine and she told me of her history and I told her of mine and we chatted late into the night and the next day. I was sad to see her go, this new friend of mine. Imagine! A child of American Indian descent and I a mixed hesistant child of Dahomey and Yoruba origin. Light and dark, smooth and dred, and it didn't matter , for when we spoke, we were children of a common note-earth.
So the bond was forged and she inspired me with her pictures and my poetry of them and she wrote constantly to praise my faltering voice, reassuring me that I had something to say and ears listened. And I confirmed her of a soft bed and lighted heart whenever she came. And as the father watched from the castletop for his son, so I watched for her return.
She returned some months ago and light filled my room but the darkness of my pain formed a shadow which muted my joy, however, she used her light to pierce a hole through and left. Encouraging me to tear further and step back into the light I once danced in. Slowly, I listened for the drumbeat and gingerly lifted my feet, arched to descend in dance. I am dancing now, arms akimbo, head roll-tating in time with the percussion gong, feet laughing along with the gongo as rhythmn slithers up and down my back arching it with esctasy.
Melissa, sister in light, here is this for you.
For Melissa
With a harsh toll, I was awakened
to a new journey removing from self-pity.
Your parcel placed in my hand received with
false cheer from the postman.
Puzzled. I sat on my bed, smiling at memory
wondering what you laid beneath.
Bubblewrap. My childish piqued, till I opened
my epiphany.
Frien. I cried when I saw the prints of life
briefly shared to my excitement.
Realising how much I missed; a heart
who loves, receives me without judgement
I felt ashamed and cried some more.
Salt, tobacco, sage, (juniper?)
You brought healing in a bowl
I let it sit on my table; afraid of what
I did not know.
I confess, I let fear dictate my departure
from Mother Earth, letting her sit,
forlorn, in a blue bowl. Till,
you left and I, apologetic, asked her
forgiveness as I threw your gift on her face.
Friend. Sister. Dear friend.
Forgive my apprehension; I am
a creature of bad habits.
Skin conditioned to prickle at things unknown.
You, a constant voice of praise of my
episodic verse; my inspiration
by Platt’s grave; a visit of different cultures
in a bedsit diverged of prejudice; a light
inviting flickers of hesitation into a
secure knowledge.
I am born again. Tears washing
away the pities of a new age. Lights
like yours confirming again.
God is Love.
She told me about her life and I shared mine and she told me of her history and I told her of mine and we chatted late into the night and the next day. I was sad to see her go, this new friend of mine. Imagine! A child of American Indian descent and I a mixed hesistant child of Dahomey and Yoruba origin. Light and dark, smooth and dred, and it didn't matter , for when we spoke, we were children of a common note-earth.
So the bond was forged and she inspired me with her pictures and my poetry of them and she wrote constantly to praise my faltering voice, reassuring me that I had something to say and ears listened. And I confirmed her of a soft bed and lighted heart whenever she came. And as the father watched from the castletop for his son, so I watched for her return.
She returned some months ago and light filled my room but the darkness of my pain formed a shadow which muted my joy, however, she used her light to pierce a hole through and left. Encouraging me to tear further and step back into the light I once danced in. Slowly, I listened for the drumbeat and gingerly lifted my feet, arched to descend in dance. I am dancing now, arms akimbo, head roll-tating in time with the percussion gong, feet laughing along with the gongo as rhythmn slithers up and down my back arching it with esctasy.
Melissa, sister in light, here is this for you.
For Melissa
With a harsh toll, I was awakened
to a new journey removing from self-pity.
Your parcel placed in my hand received with
false cheer from the postman.
Puzzled. I sat on my bed, smiling at memory
wondering what you laid beneath.
Bubblewrap. My childish piqued, till I opened
my epiphany.
Frien. I cried when I saw the prints of life
briefly shared to my excitement.
Realising how much I missed; a heart
who loves, receives me without judgement
I felt ashamed and cried some more.
Salt, tobacco, sage, (juniper?)
You brought healing in a bowl
I let it sit on my table; afraid of what
I did not know.
I confess, I let fear dictate my departure
from Mother Earth, letting her sit,
forlorn, in a blue bowl. Till,
you left and I, apologetic, asked her
forgiveness as I threw your gift on her face.
Friend. Sister. Dear friend.
Forgive my apprehension; I am
a creature of bad habits.
Skin conditioned to prickle at things unknown.
You, a constant voice of praise of my
episodic verse; my inspiration
by Platt’s grave; a visit of different cultures
in a bedsit diverged of prejudice; a light
inviting flickers of hesitation into a
secure knowledge.
I am born again. Tears washing
away the pities of a new age. Lights
like yours confirming again.
God is Love.
Thursday, 15 December 2011
The Visit
This is something new that I have been working on. I would love to hear what you think. I warn you, its a bit long but keep with it.
The Visit
Trepidation.
An insufficient word to cover
The traces of sweat underlying
My armpits as I pack my
Bags; going through checks
Bars, locks and doors, checks
Bars, locks and locks, checks
Bars, doors and bars to get
To him in his numbered shirt
Like a famous footballer kept
From prying eyes, no photographs
Please.
With steady eyes, he gazed at
Me as with trembling hands
I put my bag down wondering
If I could or should shake
His hand as I lift my
Fingers to my hair, a feeble
Excuse of a salute to the
Shadow of what made him
Once great.
Buttocks almost missing my
Seat, my heart pounds
An unearthly rhythm
I’m thinking with rabid
Eyes, yikes! Is there a
Doctor in this house? His
Steady gaze somehow comforts
And unnerves me simultaneously
The guard indicates the
Number five, fingers stretched
Palm wide, brisk, I clutch my
Pad to furiously comfort me
As pen scratches crazily on
Paper working with his lips
As he uttered new lines of
His memories.
There is no sign of remorse
Nor is there of triumph, its
A steady pace of what has
Been, emotion cannot unchanged
It. It’s a tripping of words of
Life gone past, actions committed
In hazes of black and as it
Flows, he’s lifting while
I’m the one sinking.
Behind liquid brown eyes
I furtively search to see if
Somewhere there could be regret
But my fear stops me from
Gazing too long, so I write
Squirrelling away my
Fevered angst, rage and
Pain. The guard comes
Back for five is past and
I pick up my bag, do
Not say goodbye. It’s a
Nonchalant release
Of a practice that is just
Now a hobby.
A quick backward glance
To this murderer of time
But all I see is the back of
His shirt and regret grips
Me once again by the tails
I am dangling between this
Truth that grips.
Mother, I am sorry. A whisper
As clangs of gates echo
My shame, I grip my bag
Closely, my tears glancing
Past the lines of heated words
My whisper completes my
Fear to face father and ask
Him why?
Instead. My footsteps
Echo the words building
Walls on my heart
As block by block
Sound. With each clang
Of the lock and bar
Repeat. You are
Dead to me.
The Visit
Trepidation.
An insufficient word to cover
The traces of sweat underlying
My armpits as I pack my
Bags; going through checks
Bars, locks and doors, checks
Bars, locks and locks, checks
Bars, doors and bars to get
To him in his numbered shirt
Like a famous footballer kept
From prying eyes, no photographs
Please.
With steady eyes, he gazed at
Me as with trembling hands
I put my bag down wondering
If I could or should shake
His hand as I lift my
Fingers to my hair, a feeble
Excuse of a salute to the
Shadow of what made him
Once great.
Buttocks almost missing my
Seat, my heart pounds
An unearthly rhythm
I’m thinking with rabid
Eyes, yikes! Is there a
Doctor in this house? His
Steady gaze somehow comforts
And unnerves me simultaneously
The guard indicates the
Number five, fingers stretched
Palm wide, brisk, I clutch my
Pad to furiously comfort me
As pen scratches crazily on
Paper working with his lips
As he uttered new lines of
His memories.
There is no sign of remorse
Nor is there of triumph, its
A steady pace of what has
Been, emotion cannot unchanged
It. It’s a tripping of words of
Life gone past, actions committed
In hazes of black and as it
Flows, he’s lifting while
I’m the one sinking.
Behind liquid brown eyes
I furtively search to see if
Somewhere there could be regret
But my fear stops me from
Gazing too long, so I write
Squirrelling away my
Fevered angst, rage and
Pain. The guard comes
Back for five is past and
I pick up my bag, do
Not say goodbye. It’s a
Nonchalant release
Of a practice that is just
Now a hobby.
A quick backward glance
To this murderer of time
But all I see is the back of
His shirt and regret grips
Me once again by the tails
I am dangling between this
Truth that grips.
Mother, I am sorry. A whisper
As clangs of gates echo
My shame, I grip my bag
Closely, my tears glancing
Past the lines of heated words
My whisper completes my
Fear to face father and ask
Him why?
Instead. My footsteps
Echo the words building
Walls on my heart
As block by block
Sound. With each clang
Of the lock and bar
Repeat. You are
Dead to me.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Gimme some lust
First published in 2007
There has been this big debate about love and lust and it has been very interesting. I tell you, the number of romantics still roaming the streets! They should be shot! Do you know how many people still believe in the 'love at first sight, music when he/she appears, everything looks brighter when he/she is around' nonsense!
I say ' down to all dem people with dem mind in rainbows and flowers and give me people who know that what you see is what you get, there ain’t no sunshine, no flowers no nothing when she/he gone because there ain’t in the first place!
So I'm representing, for lust, pure sweet lust (please just make sure my pastor never hears) and I give you this poem in defence. Enjoy!
True Love
I could tell you things
Tell you I love you
When all I want is to know
If your skin really is as soft
As it looks
If the promises your smile gives
Are as true as it beckons
I could compare you to a bright sunny day
Say you come out brighter
Tell you; I'd die without you
I'd give my life to you
When all I'm wondering is if your lip gloss
Tastes as good as it looks
And would you quiver, if
I touched you there?
I could tell you some things sweet, untrue
Draw you into my arms, not touching you
When all I ache for is to drag you, down
As I grasp your hair, ravish you with my lips
My hands, my teeth, me
I could tell you many things
Convince you, I love you
Why not
Let me show you instead?
There has been this big debate about love and lust and it has been very interesting. I tell you, the number of romantics still roaming the streets! They should be shot! Do you know how many people still believe in the 'love at first sight, music when he/she appears, everything looks brighter when he/she is around' nonsense!
I say ' down to all dem people with dem mind in rainbows and flowers and give me people who know that what you see is what you get, there ain’t no sunshine, no flowers no nothing when she/he gone because there ain’t in the first place!
So I'm representing, for lust, pure sweet lust (please just make sure my pastor never hears) and I give you this poem in defence. Enjoy!
True Love
I could tell you things
Tell you I love you
When all I want is to know
If your skin really is as soft
As it looks
If the promises your smile gives
Are as true as it beckons
I could compare you to a bright sunny day
Say you come out brighter
Tell you; I'd die without you
I'd give my life to you
When all I'm wondering is if your lip gloss
Tastes as good as it looks
And would you quiver, if
I touched you there?
I could tell you some things sweet, untrue
Draw you into my arms, not touching you
When all I ache for is to drag you, down
As I grasp your hair, ravish you with my lips
My hands, my teeth, me
I could tell you many things
Convince you, I love you
Why not
Let me show you instead?
Something Interesting
First published on the 16th of April 2007
This whole love , lust debate is fantastic! I have so many people coming out of the woodworks (see it?) saying 'gal, the lust we shared is what's keeping the love going' well not everyone used the lust in the past tense but you get what was meant.
So I'll keep my next two entries focused on good ole LUST! enjoy!!
Desire
I, succulent surface of a pomegranate
want that primal greed
you, the eager teeth sinking within
now bite quick, fast, hard
take delight, indulge, enjoy
me, as I give, juices in your mouth.
and here is another
WARM
I don't know what goes
When you think
On in your mind
Of me
But I know what goes
When I think
On in my mind
Of you
Hands on your body
Lips on yours
Love me like I want
Hold me, Yes !
This is all about me and yours.
This whole love , lust debate is fantastic! I have so many people coming out of the woodworks (see it?) saying 'gal, the lust we shared is what's keeping the love going' well not everyone used the lust in the past tense but you get what was meant.
So I'll keep my next two entries focused on good ole LUST! enjoy!!
Desire
I, succulent surface of a pomegranate
want that primal greed
you, the eager teeth sinking within
now bite quick, fast, hard
take delight, indulge, enjoy
me, as I give, juices in your mouth.
and here is another
WARM
I don't know what goes
When you think
On in your mind
Of me
But I know what goes
When I think
On in my mind
Of you
Hands on your body
Lips on yours
Love me like I want
Hold me, Yes !
This is all about me and yours.
Love Rock
Posted first in 14th April 2007
This is to y'all who think I hate Love (truth is : I do) but I know some believe in it like they believe in God and I respect that, so I give you something I wrote when I also was a believer
Vows
Steadfast steps through the crowd
To your waiting side
I do
Beaming into your eyes
You're all that I see,
that I know
Standing by your side
Binding myself to you
I will
Looking into your eyes
See a future ahead
I am
Taking your hand
My circlet of trust embraces you
I give
Walking back with you,
A new life to begin
I live.
Now that I've made y'all happy, I go back to my lust tribute! haha just messin' with y'all. I'll just give somethings straight as they come, make of it as you will
Can the weather change your skin?
So they told me
But I'm still black as sin
Can the distance change your heart
So they said
But you're still fond to me
Can people change in the distance like the weather?
Over again I have heard
But they are just you and me.
And here is one I wrote so long ago, one time when...
You wouldn't be my
'All of the above'
In a multiple choice
Question sheet
But you would be my
'Due to popular demand'
A beloved repeated request
And I would
'Grab my copy now'!
and this tells it all eh?
BODY AND SOUL
I just wanto be on this plateau
Darkened aureole of heavy savannahs
Running through the clefts and mounts of this plain
This dark plateau
I just wanto die on this plateau
Ebonic scents of luxuriant abundance
Slipping with liquid fluidity to the centered peak
This dark plateau
I just wanto live on this plateau
Powered force akin to engulfing flashes of flames
Carried with powered volcanic eruptions of lava
Carried up, flung and slung down.
I just wanto need
This dark plateau
This is to y'all who think I hate Love (truth is : I do) but I know some believe in it like they believe in God and I respect that, so I give you something I wrote when I also was a believer
Vows
Steadfast steps through the crowd
To your waiting side
I do
Beaming into your eyes
You're all that I see,
that I know
Standing by your side
Binding myself to you
I will
Looking into your eyes
See a future ahead
I am
Taking your hand
My circlet of trust embraces you
I give
Walking back with you,
A new life to begin
I live.
Now that I've made y'all happy, I go back to my lust tribute! haha just messin' with y'all. I'll just give somethings straight as they come, make of it as you will
Can the weather change your skin?
So they told me
But I'm still black as sin
Can the distance change your heart
So they said
But you're still fond to me
Can people change in the distance like the weather?
Over again I have heard
But they are just you and me.
And here is one I wrote so long ago, one time when...
You wouldn't be my
'All of the above'
In a multiple choice
Question sheet
But you would be my
'Due to popular demand'
A beloved repeated request
And I would
'Grab my copy now'!
and this tells it all eh?
BODY AND SOUL
I just wanto be on this plateau
Darkened aureole of heavy savannahs
Running through the clefts and mounts of this plain
This dark plateau
I just wanto die on this plateau
Ebonic scents of luxuriant abundance
Slipping with liquid fluidity to the centered peak
This dark plateau
I just wanto live on this plateau
Powered force akin to engulfing flashes of flames
Carried with powered volcanic eruptions of lava
Carried up, flung and slung down.
I just wanto need
This dark plateau
Remembering the Day of Rain 2
Still in deep thought about Dike. I think the beautyful ones are not yet born as Kwei Armah said but the exceptional one die too soon.
On the 13th of January 2007, the poetry world lost someone who had always been a forceful gale in the poetry performance climate. With a style that hit you full in the face leaving you no choice but to suck in deep and breathe, his performances always left people breathless. One with a cheeky smile, he drew you in into his words, his facial expressions, his tone and then he swept you off your feet like a hurricane and spat you out again but you never felt broken or damaged, his torrents cleansed.
He was always quiet but you knew he was there, the second time I met him, I turned to Anwen Lewis (another poet) and said 'he is a beautiful man' graciously, he smiled but didn't say a word, mortified that he might have misunderstood me, Anwen reassured me with 'he likes it when people say he's beautiful' I never had much time to know him, despite Bolton being 25 minutes away by car, for the train bound like myself, it could sometimes take forever to get to Manchester, so I skipped out on a lot of events, but the few times I made it and met him and watched him perform, it was always a delight, my favourite of his was 'Tired'.
Now I wonder if in so many ways that we now see he was trying to tell us something. It takes a very strong willed man to take the decision that he took and that holds my respect. The last time I saw him was at the Tongue and Hammer slam in Bolton, he walked past and I said hello and a poet standing next to me (I forget who now) said 'Dike looks a bit thin don't you think'? And I replied ' But he's never been a fat person, has he'? Little did we know that, that which sucked his life force was kept hidden from our eyes by his determination to go on, his poetic zeal and his struggle to go under his own terms.
Dike died alone. That is I think what hurts me on the inside because I don't think anyone should died on their own. My mind has raked over the different possibilities that could either have saved him or made his passage easier, especially in the Nigerian context where people are always around you, it is alien to die on your own, but he did and I mourn that. However, I also celebrate him, for he was a good poet and man. Everyone have their faults, Dike did have his but he was a good man. He saw my performance for the first time, gave me his card, and told me I would go far, he and Segun Lee French introduced me to the Makeda group and I had a brilliant time.
At the Identity workshop, he had nothing but encouragement for me and even when he disagreed with some points I had made, he wasn't arrogant about it. Several times, I had to call him to say 'Sorry I can't make it' and he would say 'Next time then' Only there would be no next time now for him, for me to see him. With Dike, it is over, the end.
This year, he sent an email round to the Identity group saying something like 'Glad we all made it into the new year'. That was his feeling and something I will hold on to. Dike was glad for everyday, despite his pain, he was glad. So I am glad for every time, I met him, spoke to him, and saw him. I believe his memory will live on, through the things he had done, the people he had mentored, his very essence.
And we would remember this remarkable man who graced our lives and we would tell upcoming poets, performance artistes and writers about this man who's act was electric and we would make them wish they had known him. We will tell them about this man and he was called Dike Omeje.
On the 13th of January 2007, the poetry world lost someone who had always been a forceful gale in the poetry performance climate. With a style that hit you full in the face leaving you no choice but to suck in deep and breathe, his performances always left people breathless. One with a cheeky smile, he drew you in into his words, his facial expressions, his tone and then he swept you off your feet like a hurricane and spat you out again but you never felt broken or damaged, his torrents cleansed.
He was always quiet but you knew he was there, the second time I met him, I turned to Anwen Lewis (another poet) and said 'he is a beautiful man' graciously, he smiled but didn't say a word, mortified that he might have misunderstood me, Anwen reassured me with 'he likes it when people say he's beautiful' I never had much time to know him, despite Bolton being 25 minutes away by car, for the train bound like myself, it could sometimes take forever to get to Manchester, so I skipped out on a lot of events, but the few times I made it and met him and watched him perform, it was always a delight, my favourite of his was 'Tired'.
Now I wonder if in so many ways that we now see he was trying to tell us something. It takes a very strong willed man to take the decision that he took and that holds my respect. The last time I saw him was at the Tongue and Hammer slam in Bolton, he walked past and I said hello and a poet standing next to me (I forget who now) said 'Dike looks a bit thin don't you think'? And I replied ' But he's never been a fat person, has he'? Little did we know that, that which sucked his life force was kept hidden from our eyes by his determination to go on, his poetic zeal and his struggle to go under his own terms.
Dike died alone. That is I think what hurts me on the inside because I don't think anyone should died on their own. My mind has raked over the different possibilities that could either have saved him or made his passage easier, especially in the Nigerian context where people are always around you, it is alien to die on your own, but he did and I mourn that. However, I also celebrate him, for he was a good poet and man. Everyone have their faults, Dike did have his but he was a good man. He saw my performance for the first time, gave me his card, and told me I would go far, he and Segun Lee French introduced me to the Makeda group and I had a brilliant time.
At the Identity workshop, he had nothing but encouragement for me and even when he disagreed with some points I had made, he wasn't arrogant about it. Several times, I had to call him to say 'Sorry I can't make it' and he would say 'Next time then' Only there would be no next time now for him, for me to see him. With Dike, it is over, the end.
This year, he sent an email round to the Identity group saying something like 'Glad we all made it into the new year'. That was his feeling and something I will hold on to. Dike was glad for everyday, despite his pain, he was glad. So I am glad for every time, I met him, spoke to him, and saw him. I believe his memory will live on, through the things he had done, the people he had mentored, his very essence.
And we would remember this remarkable man who graced our lives and we would tell upcoming poets, performance artistes and writers about this man who's act was electric and we would make them wish they had known him. We will tell them about this man and he was called Dike Omeje.
Remembering the Day of Rain
I wrote this piece on the 26th of January 2007 after I heard the news. I was so shocked and I felt slapped. It was the first time, something that awful had happened to me since I came into the UK (more was to come) and I couldn't just wrap my head around it.
Dike, I remember you today lifting my head to the heavens and blowing you a kiss. Adieu you beautiful beautiful inside and out man.
Today, we bury Dike Omeje, returning his body back to earth. Today, we let go of the last physical reminder and take what we know only in doses of recorded words, books and pictures and of course our memories. Today, we resign ourselves , it is the TRUTH, we give him back to earth and we turn away and go back to the business of living, surviving, being.
I cried this morning, not for Dike, not for myself but for his mother. No woman should have to bury a child and I cried for her pain, her loss, her grief, I cried for the sharp sting of bereavement she will carry for the rest of her days, and I prayed for her, that she would survive each day having less pain than the day before. It won't go away, I know but may it be bearable.
Today is the day we give back someone who was sent for a while to add that sparkle and pizzazz to our lives, we give back the one God sent to let us know what it is like to know a man sprinkled with angel dust. Today.
I wrote this for Dike and read some of it out at his wake and I want to say thank you to the many people who, even though, they had never met him, shared in the grief that we all have. I want to say thank you to friends who called and wrote to say 'we are with you in grief over this loss of life'. This milk of human kindness that so binds us is deep and thick. Thank you.
He. Poet- Dike Omeje
You told us.
You told us
In ringing tones
Steady beats as your voice trailed
Over our skin, our ears, minds
Your words, philosophical, lyrical, true
In the midst of laughter and rain
So many starless nights
You told us
But you never uttered a word.
You knew.
You knew as
We walked the town of a million mirrors
Clinked glass, clicked shots
Smiled and said 'cheese' for the camera
You let us take memories in any form
That we pleased
Silent in your pleasure,
We would go back to remember
You knew
But you let us go on in our ignorance.
Now we know
Questions crowd my mind
Did you groan with pain at night?
Far from our questing intrusive eyes
Far from our glances that rapidly turn
From curious to shocked to pity
Did you hate the thought that we
Could love or hate you differently
If we had that emotion to link to you
Is that why you were silent?
Were you shrouded with your own agony?
Shuddering in stolen silences you got
Cursing the demon that ate within you
Yet using the same to bring out a power
We marvelled at every time
Did you hope for a salvation?
Or were you just determined to be remembered
For how you lived and died
With the stubbornness of the strong.
Questions, dear sage
Inquire how you faced the hooded one
Did you fight when his cold hands
Clamped around your heart
Or did you bare your chest,
Invited him to plunge his knife
Facing him like a lion
Did you still have anything else to say?
Or had you made your peace
Knowing 'come what may'
Did memories cloud your glazing eyes?
And voices speak to be heard
Or was all calm, silent, letting you walk
The mirrored river in dignity
To that cold embrace.
Did you struggle to breathe just one more time?
Or did you sigh with relief
This war, no more to fight
Whatever way you went, brave one
It won't diminish that you lived
A strong man and died
A courageous one.
Bard with the 'come hither' eyes
You have closed them, one final time
Your voice ebbs and fades
Our ears tuned to hear the echo as it falls
You have walked the road of the elders
Kissed the feet of the shrouded one
Held his hand and danced in time
Not this lifetime again to meet
But while you were here, you made clear
You wrote, you spoke, you. Poet.
Adieu Dike Omeje- silent at the steps
Dike, I remember you today lifting my head to the heavens and blowing you a kiss. Adieu you beautiful beautiful inside and out man.
Today, we bury Dike Omeje, returning his body back to earth. Today, we let go of the last physical reminder and take what we know only in doses of recorded words, books and pictures and of course our memories. Today, we resign ourselves , it is the TRUTH, we give him back to earth and we turn away and go back to the business of living, surviving, being.
I cried this morning, not for Dike, not for myself but for his mother. No woman should have to bury a child and I cried for her pain, her loss, her grief, I cried for the sharp sting of bereavement she will carry for the rest of her days, and I prayed for her, that she would survive each day having less pain than the day before. It won't go away, I know but may it be bearable.
Today is the day we give back someone who was sent for a while to add that sparkle and pizzazz to our lives, we give back the one God sent to let us know what it is like to know a man sprinkled with angel dust. Today.
I wrote this for Dike and read some of it out at his wake and I want to say thank you to the many people who, even though, they had never met him, shared in the grief that we all have. I want to say thank you to friends who called and wrote to say 'we are with you in grief over this loss of life'. This milk of human kindness that so binds us is deep and thick. Thank you.
He. Poet- Dike Omeje
You told us.
You told us
In ringing tones
Steady beats as your voice trailed
Over our skin, our ears, minds
Your words, philosophical, lyrical, true
In the midst of laughter and rain
So many starless nights
You told us
But you never uttered a word.
You knew.
You knew as
We walked the town of a million mirrors
Clinked glass, clicked shots
Smiled and said 'cheese' for the camera
You let us take memories in any form
That we pleased
Silent in your pleasure,
We would go back to remember
You knew
But you let us go on in our ignorance.
Now we know
Questions crowd my mind
Did you groan with pain at night?
Far from our questing intrusive eyes
Far from our glances that rapidly turn
From curious to shocked to pity
Did you hate the thought that we
Could love or hate you differently
If we had that emotion to link to you
Is that why you were silent?
Were you shrouded with your own agony?
Shuddering in stolen silences you got
Cursing the demon that ate within you
Yet using the same to bring out a power
We marvelled at every time
Did you hope for a salvation?
Or were you just determined to be remembered
For how you lived and died
With the stubbornness of the strong.
Questions, dear sage
Inquire how you faced the hooded one
Did you fight when his cold hands
Clamped around your heart
Or did you bare your chest,
Invited him to plunge his knife
Facing him like a lion
Did you still have anything else to say?
Or had you made your peace
Knowing 'come what may'
Did memories cloud your glazing eyes?
And voices speak to be heard
Or was all calm, silent, letting you walk
The mirrored river in dignity
To that cold embrace.
Did you struggle to breathe just one more time?
Or did you sigh with relief
This war, no more to fight
Whatever way you went, brave one
It won't diminish that you lived
A strong man and died
A courageous one.
Bard with the 'come hither' eyes
You have closed them, one final time
Your voice ebbs and fades
Our ears tuned to hear the echo as it falls
You have walked the road of the elders
Kissed the feet of the shrouded one
Held his hand and danced in time
Not this lifetime again to meet
But while you were here, you made clear
You wrote, you spoke, you. Poet.
Adieu Dike Omeje- silent at the steps
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
Soetry
I've just started this new thing, (well really I've not just started) but its taking a hold of me now. You see there is a before and after to my life, Before, I was waiting, always waiting for something or someone to happen, for a bold person that many imagine that I am I was too timid and afraid of what life would turn into if I grabbed it the horns and rode it. So I waited, for the time when something would make me come alive and live. then, I had my After, I had major surgery and I realised that for over 5 hours I laid on an operating table oblivious to what surrounded me, but those hours shaped my life, in fact they reshaped and redefined me, so I'm taking those horns and I'm riding!
Soetry is one of the ways, this is where I mix up poetry and music together to get my own vibe. I had been doing this on the sly but I got the studio brought to my house (the pain still restricts you see) spoke to a friend and he's helping me out now and also putting together my work, spoke to another friend about that and things are on track. I'm half way through and this year, my book's coming out!
I'm dropping it like its hot! I'm living, loving, kissing (yeah you heard me!) kissing HARD!!!
So I share the first lines of my awakening
Sanity
I wish you could read my mind
Find disturbances, grievances, fears
My smile is larger than my joy
My joy is small, if any at all
My mind is a book, lost dusty, rude
I wish you could live my dream
Discover horror, pain, grief
My laughter is louder than my pleasure
My pleasure is small, if any at all
My dream is a nightmare, lonely, scary, unknown
I wish you for a little while
My mind, my dream
Understand this, you are not my enemy
I just need you to know and
Be aware of me.
PS: I have been watching a lot of Tyler Perry this weekend and I tell you that man is a blessing! Watching his plays and films especially any that has Madea in it is an amazing but uplifting experience. God bless and stay in a peaceful storm
Soetry is one of the ways, this is where I mix up poetry and music together to get my own vibe. I had been doing this on the sly but I got the studio brought to my house (the pain still restricts you see) spoke to a friend and he's helping me out now and also putting together my work, spoke to another friend about that and things are on track. I'm half way through and this year, my book's coming out!
I'm dropping it like its hot! I'm living, loving, kissing (yeah you heard me!) kissing HARD!!!
So I share the first lines of my awakening
Sanity
I wish you could read my mind
Find disturbances, grievances, fears
My smile is larger than my joy
My joy is small, if any at all
My mind is a book, lost dusty, rude
I wish you could live my dream
Discover horror, pain, grief
My laughter is louder than my pleasure
My pleasure is small, if any at all
My dream is a nightmare, lonely, scary, unknown
I wish you for a little while
My mind, my dream
Understand this, you are not my enemy
I just need you to know and
Be aware of me.
PS: I have been watching a lot of Tyler Perry this weekend and I tell you that man is a blessing! Watching his plays and films especially any that has Madea in it is an amazing but uplifting experience. God bless and stay in a peaceful storm
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