Skip to main content

Featured Poem: Cry No More Child - Martins Deep

CRY NO MORE CHILD
 
"You were born after rain" you were told
by the grown ups that buried your umbilical cord
Pointing you to a group of plantain trees in the backyard.
 
This is your birth story
 
Cradled safely in her arms
She baptised you
In the Jordan of her tears
Whilst the priest watched on vainly with holy water
At the throes of mother.
 
Moonless night and dateless it was
Life was sorry for such tragic role
In the scripts you were called to play
by the thunders that rumbled
And the night birds that mourned.
 
You grew gracefully like palm fronds.
Measured your height with the tall bamboo standing on your toes.
Your fingers turned green from keeping cassava plantations.
 
Life kissed hard your cracked lips
That bled juju lyric
For the spirited drummers in your chest.
Songs themed with courage and hope as you paddled on the limpopo
With savoury tales for whoever cared to listen.
 
Your tattered clothe on colt back
Saddled by hunger riding triumphantly through your veins into the caves of your mahogany eyes.
 
The white of your teeth
That rivals the silver moon
When her smile shreds her veil.
Your fart like the smoking chimneys of oil refineries
When you return from the stream at eve
Water pot balanced on your head
As you sing like you fetched the sun into it.
 
How Africa fondles the soles of your feet with the tuft of her grasslands!
She tries your feet with the heat of the sahara sands
But it was Africa, jealous mother
Preparing you to stand before kings, little one.
Your charm amulets jingling like the tambourine
chasing the fear of dawn away.
Eyelids like the strings of the kora
strumming your doubtful heart into rest
like a poised hunter whose kill within rage is sure.
 
It is the way you danced alone when your seine was heavy with bounties from Oshun
Its your laughter after acts of mischief
Hope is the way you squat by the fireside scribbling on the earth all the papers that owe you praise songs while you wait for the soup to cook.
 
Strength was in the way you swam against the raging
tide of the River Ethiope first light to the other side to gather snails for the market.
Survival was your canoe floating from the horizon of the Argungu River
Without paddles
The waves leading you home
Where no one missed you.
Bravery is in the way you pout
chasing the leopard with a rod among your cattle with the Maasai chant half-understood.
 
Cry no more beside the giant anthill with your shattered water pot mocking your faith.
Cry no more,
For mother's prayer echoes
Remaking, weaving paths.
Searching in the forbidden heights
For a crown
That befits your scarred brow.
 
A god in mud garment
As time washes you into the
Awe that left mother breathless
And the earth, as you tell this story.
 
-Martins Deep

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Doris' Torment - A Villanelle Of The Rose | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

POEM 298: DORIS' TORMENT - A VILLANELLE OF THE ROSE Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose It was just so black and mellow But she could never forget the hose That morning, Doris was shocked by the pose She had to calm herself with a marshmallow Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose Later, Doris was spooked by a prose She tried to focus on a fellow But she could never forget the hose Alex tried to distract her with a transpose Said it was time to start thinking about a martello Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose Doris took action like an expose The rose was like a toxic jello But she could never forget the hose Doris nosedived like a tricky chose Her mind became dangerously yellow Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose But she could never forget the hose ------- This is a type of poetry known as Villanelle. ------- #365DaysOfPoetry #Pengician #SSA Enjoyed reading? Please leave a comment and sharing with friends. Thank you!

Featured Article | Quicken Us, by Paul Albert

QUICKEN US So will not we go back from thee: quicken us, and we will call upon thy name. KJV Then will we not depart from you; revive us (give us life) and we will call upon Your name. Amp -  Psalms 80 vs. 18. Ever watched a movie where your favorite actor was beaten to a pulp? Beaten to the point where standing on both feet becomes a prayer point? But beyond the pain little sparks of adrenaline still moves through His vein, He doesn’t want to give up or rather He is Hell bent to be the last man standing. I am sure you’ve watched such. But wait. Focus on this…  How did that man who has had a beating of His lifetime overcome His greatest fears? Maybe He remembers countless number of people who would become slaves forever to a conquering enemy or how unpredictable their lives would certainly become or definitely the cry of the ones He loves most. Then a spark is ignited, a fire that actually never died starts flowing through his veins again. You can imagine the velocity of adren...

Dear Nun | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

POEM 254: DEAR NUN I pray thee, dear nun, a morning psalm don’t be to me. Would rather you sow, deep in my heart, the yearning of your bud, in the wake of twilight. I pray thee, dear nun, in vain doth my want restrain from wrapping us in a hell of heavenly bliss, for though I kiss my Rosary, still it be blasphemy to rise and fall in lust's refrain. The lingering whiff of your first menses nor the beauty wrapped in flowing gown, doth conceal you inert desires, nor veil, with virtues, you [I dread to say nor write], for we’re far beyond those pretenses in which we cage love in pious frown You could hold a smile, it won't millstone your soul and cast thee hence in heart of Sheol. Shed now your sigh, estranged the flowing gown and let your long-lost heart embrace wanton thoughts. For they both appear, to pay sin’s toll, not one word from thence shall condemn your soul So would you make me now sweat beads from your Rosary? Would you let me take to another realm where clouds shall we...