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Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts

Monday, 18 January 2016

The Volume of Love, Grief and Music | A Conversation

(L,R) Wale Owoade, Oyin Oludipe

THAT VIRTUAL evening, relishing the possibility of a postscript for EXPOUND's The Dirty Issue, we had slipped into other diversions of the mind. One of those had been hiswhat he did consider—primordial longings for the city of Abéòkúta and the AKÉ Book and Arts Festival, whose songs had just begun to swell from across the miles to Ìlorin, home to his university life.

Another, however, was my intimation around a poem he had written a day before our meeting. The below is a conversation - a brief communion of thoughts which had ensued after Wale Owoade's interesting work:


OYIN. 
THE VOLUME OF LOVE, GRIEF AND MUSIC is a rewarding read.

WALE.
Thank you, brother.

OYIN.
I read, “Love is air / And dear at the same time…”

You know, I have always asked myself this: which of these two, really, is immortal?

Life or Love?



WALE.
It’s a tricky one. From what I have seen, I will go with none. Both are slaves to time.
In another thought, there is an ‘afterlife’ for love: memories.

OYIN.
Tricky thought, I think.
Yet, it would be Life that shall give Love a capacity of being;
Even though we soon, eventually, in life, lose many things we love.

WALE.
Love is slave to life; life is slave to time.
I agree.

OYIN.
Then what is Time slave to? Death?

WALE.
Yes. Death. Which reminds me of this question:
Is death ripeness?

OYIN.
“Rust is ripeness, rust / And the wilted corn-plume…”
That is according to Kongi. Well, it is only convenient for a
Bored world to call ripeness staleness.
Nonetheless, we await the promise of the rust.

WALE.
True. Those who wait rust…
Those who cannot wait die?

OYIN.
Those who rust wait to die.
Marvellously, every soul eventually does rust.

WALE.
Interesting. The soil lusts after our rust.

OYIN.
Or, perhaps, it is our rust that lusts after the soil.

WALE.
Beautiful!

OYIN.
Yes. Beautiful.
 



Wale Owoade is a Nigerian poet. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in publications like: Diverse Anthology of World Contemporary Poets, Via GrapeVine II, The Lake Poetry Journal, Yellow Chair Review, Euonia Review, Black Mirror Magazine, WORD Up, Maple Tree Literary Supplement, and many others. Wale is the Publisher and Managing Editor of EXPOUND: A Magazine of Arts and Aesthetics and is currently working on his debut manuscript.

Wednesday, 15 July 2015

To the Child | by Ayo Akinduro



To the child

Who met death

On the path to life,

I love you


To the child

Who found life

Yet found no love,

I love you
 

To the child
 
Who found life

And found love too,

I love you


To the child

Who knows no love

But gives bread to a stranger,

I love you


To the child

Who labours from dawn till dusk

To feed his world,

I love you


To the child

Whose soul is seared

And body scarred with the rod,

I love you


To the child 

Who cries herself to sleep

On the hem of defilement,

I love you


To the child

Who sings in the alley

Because he has everything,

I love you


To the child

Who can bear it no more

And prays to God her soul to take,

I love you


To the child

Who is thrown like a burden

From a foster shed to another,
 
I love you


To the child

Whose clothes are rags

And yet knows happiness,

I love you 


To the child

Who is dressed in fine purple and linen

And knows no happiness,

I love you


To the child

Born or unborn,

Happy or sad,

I love you


To my unborn children

I pray to God for the grace

To be the best motherbecause

I love you.



Ayo Akinduro is a poet, writer and columnist. Mass Communication student at Babcock University and a lover of kids and music; she believes that life, like roses, comes with thorns and loves to depict this through her writings. 

Photo credit: pinterest.com

Tuesday, 30 December 2014

Your Silence Tickles Me, Migin | Two Poems

March, 2014 
 


Your silence tickles me, Migin

Your silence tickles me. Those ploys

Are salve for a cowherd’s lone,

Red magic, one moment lymph-red sore

To sprout a weal of passion, loath

Trances - and two years’ glaze on corns

Peel at the touch of your eyes


Your silence tickles me.

How sole is that calm glow!

Do you tempt gods? Do winds ride

The tone of your pulse? The night’s

Cold trumpeter? A dire lapdog cast

What brings you back to me? Tell me, Migin

Your silence tickles me.
  

by that dusk...

So now the sun leaps to a death-tryst

In shredded robes, and rashes break

On every pore, heavy with dreams


So now, sadness flags on petals of wine

For lake-mists from the meadows of lone

In October dusts, and threshing in shadows


So now I saw. By that dusk I saw
 
An angel’s flare fly in seasoned loops

I saw you, pure to the fall of light...



Paintings by B. C. Okah.