Tag Archives: poetry

Maudlin Monday.

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  • This is the view from one of my windows. The first one was taken around five o’clock and the second around seven o’clock. I keep trying to paint this scene but I never get the colours right. What can I say? I’m a novice.
  • Hubs interviewed Linda Ikeji today. Her blog  is one subject we do not agree on. But you know, bless the hustle and all that.
  • I must have written about 2,000 words all day today. This post does not count. My editor is terribly English – and a bit posh. When he scolds me, it feels like being chastised by 007.
  • I had about eight nightmares yesterday night. I slipped from one into another. It happens when I am stressed.
  • I used to write poetry a lot; pages and pages of the stuff. At about 20 I had two poems sent off for publication by a friend in  the Abuja Literary Society. In subsequent reviews, I was  referred to as a ‘He’. It pleased me. It had a certain Brontë-esque quality.
  • I found a poem I wrote a while ago. I would love to have a reply to it, or your take on it, in any form. I was trying to tell a story as succinctly as possible. I hope I succeeded. It’s called ‘You Good?

He asks ‘You good?’
And I know the mood

But when I step in his life
He likens me to a ‘bored housewife’
Hurries off Central
When our eyes meet
At Bond Street

So when he asks ‘You good?’
I say ‘Hey. I’m good’.

  • Ugh. It’s one of those days. I am full of self-loathing.
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You know how sometimes, you see something and you wish you had written it yourself? (This is how I amass writer friends. I simply decide that rather than being jealous like I used to in…ahem! …ages past, I would simply befriend them.) Well, this one is one of those such things. I could have used the lesson in this when I was 16.
And 19.
And 23. Heck, I could have used it not three years ago, dammit!
Ah, I miss writing poetry.
Enjoy this one.

I bind myself loosely so that you’ll see me
and not too tightly so that you can understand me
-neither helped
So, I come apart trying
…and you aren’t here for the pieces.
Pieces that you say will never touch floor,
Scrape earth,
Feel dust,
Are stuck in muddy expectations
I don’t recognize them anymore-

Me. Is this me?
This come-away, this back-and-fort-undecided
Without-conviction-or-a-clear-purpose girl?

This can’t be me

You see
I, pour forth from generations of kings that disregard their crown
Not because it doesn’t fit but because
The weight of gold is a constant reminder
of a responsibility we constantly wish-away.

Now this is me
Hands-on, cut-the-crap, say-what-you’re-about girl
You can take this response as my ability to get up
even when I touch floor
To trust again and slide from rubble
Knowing that these cracked situations are training wheels
…I train
…I catch a bus
…I ride…

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