By Ayòdéjì Israel
What Disfigures This Poem is the Mention of Fire
it was midnight. we dragged our feet
and swayed about in dizziness.
market women all over the place. a flame of fire
dancing around my father’s compound,
seeking a body(ies) to devour. such
is the beauty of life. some religious men
calling upon their gods. saying odo re lati wa/
/odo re la o pada si.
which is to say that birth is a step downward,
& death is a step upward. tendering their hands
to the air and blowing their prayers
into the wind. women, too, inside wrappers
and blouses, yelling ikunle abiamo o
at every string of fire rising against the sky.
the children had slept inside their huts,
but they said they too would soon catch fire:
that palm leaves embrace fire faster than
bodies of men. we were the only men
who could help: my father and i.
the other men had either ran for their lives
or had had their bodies roasted in the flame
that was furious. everything felt crazy:
the men who started the fire stood afar,
and swallowed their eyes
as it surrounded our little village. what
have men done to men
to deserve a trial by fire?
a little girl cried and my father went in to save her.
my father cried, too. he became gasps & filled
our mouths. what have men done to deserve death,
by fire?
Scatter My Sorrow
I shuffle my fears inbetween my palms
and my chest. The birds on the window
fly here to console my soul, but my heart
rejects metaphors and stays desolate. For
some time, I had been a good boy, before
this country tore my heart apart; before
my friends went to field and returned to
war. Although the sky here is blue,
the rain it births is unwatered. It is from
the blood of every person this country de-
nied of breath. Lord, if my country wants
my breath, hinder it. If anyone, birthed from
woman, seeks my dismissal, forsake his
keenness. I stretch my palms and reach for
your help. Scatter my sorrow. Turn the heap
of my worries to a desert. My lover lost her
body in May. Tomorrow refuses to unfold
and they say it is the will of God. When will
sorrow end? When will I receive the answers
to the prayers I placed on your soft palms?
Tonight, I send my name to your angels. Cover
my nostrils with your right and odored palm.
Sweet Home
On the verge of a night, the breeze exhales
the wind in a jiffy, between the gaze of the sky
and the cry of the earth. I sit in-between chaos
and serenity and watch the sky unleash itself.
How gentle a night will be, if it becomes free
of chaos. My country is a metaphor for the sky.
How gentle will my country be if it forbear wars?
The still cool night, as the walk of a snail,
is innocent of grief. The wind bends beyond
its power. The wind begins to scatter the pillars
of peace within the earth: Papa’s brick house;
Mama’s wooden shop; grandfather’s soft head
inside the soil— these are my p(eace/ieces/illars).
How crisp will the breeze be to calm the wind?
A blown trouble cannot be stopped. An angry god
is difficult to appease. The wind is mad. The wind
flutters its wings and breaks every house. The wind
is furious. Again, the wind flaps its power and be-
comes a storm. Between storm and disaster,
which is worse? The storm unzips itself and be-
comes a war. How sweet will a home be when
it is void of war? When stillness becomes its song.
How melodious and calm the song of the sky be-
comes when everything is quiet. Home, sweet home.
Sweet is a country that does not suck its own blood.
Sweet is every home that stands against the wind.
Ayòdéjì Israel, a poet, writer and editor, is a Pushcart Prize nominee. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Channel Magazine, Eunoia Review, Counterclock, Ake Review, Defunct Magazine, OneArtPoetry, Livina Press, The River, Bitchin Kitsch & elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @Ayo_einstein.