Skip to main content

She Is Poetry - Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu


SHE IS POETRY

I know a girl who would kill herself for a dare 
I know a girl who would bleed
for the truth
I know a girl who has words 
on her body tattooed
like a scroll rat eaten
Every page a tale
From the head to the tail.
She finds herself face to face
with herself in the mirror of words.

I know a girl who could make you eat your heart out 
on a gold platter 
With silver lines
Hinged on rhymes.
I know a girl who laughs in the face of danger 
That jail sentence is supposed to scare her 
But with words she twist their arms.

Is that an echo? 
I hear someone talking back
I am her priest, she's the temple.
She's my patch when I begin to crack.
Haunting memories on my stacks.
She tells me what I lack
Adventure devoid of blames
Hunger games
What's in a name?
Maybe the feelings I try to maintain.
To only feel love in moments of hate
Set fire to surroundings as I instigate
Sting. Heal. Devastate.
Right wrongs we create.
She tosses a ball to me
"It's in your court, play as you feel"
This ball's a circle of realities
When I'm spent and spit regret
She'll get back what I spent
Memories made to pay fantasy rent
Words to work my dreams to bloom
Too much pleasure no more gloom
She echoes back with a sonic boom
Melodic. Poetic. Tell me the tune!
She's the lone wolf howling at the moon.
She's the rising sun when dawn is due.
She's the music that soothes when life's turn blue.
She's the chords that strike when dirge is through.
Can you match her wit for wit?
Can you patch the cracks she fits?
Oh echo ringing in my head
Please stay with me, oh remain
When my voice I strain
And sunshine hide from rain
Fill my every loss with your rhythmic gain.
Mimic my heart with your sweet refrain
Echo away my hurt and pain.

Told you I know a girl who reflects
The beauty in toads we all reject.
Who lifts us up when we defect
And tears wipes when wept

There you are...oh echo in my head
Perched on the edge
of the nation's head
Reminding us of our pledge
Uniting us like butter and bread.

I know a girl looping like stars across the horizon
She's my smile, sinew and song
And what is her name?
Bet you desire I say (it)
I've fallen in love with the sound of every word she makes...
She's standing on this green carpet.
Can you hear her laughing as we applaud her echoing?

She is poetry

#WorldPoetryDay
#365DaysOfPoetry
#Pengician
#SSA
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.  "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies"  "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat"  After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?"  "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener  pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold  patriotis...
Post a Comment
Read more

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....
Post a Comment
Read more