Image from Flickr.

Recalling Losses

It was the same night
you walked out into a
car that drove you
off.
I called you Laraba.
you took the sun off from your
eyes
and dropped it in the middle of
sulking orphans.
for once you were kind.
kindness was the oil of your soul.
I loved you
the way flowers love morning light.
the way children love the moon
in the darkness of grasses.
It was a simple
fellowship of mind and blood and
hair bending in the wind.
who holds the hands of time
when pain is inflicting the air with
pungent rot?
so my glass is almost empty of
wine,
and I sit here and watch you go in
a car.
and I think to myself, that my
house is sunless and my hairs
have lost their rumble.

*

A Motherless Race

every body is running.
the clock says we should run.
time is tired of its circular madness.
i have drawn the last air tonight in
my lung
and it hurts to see children running
to the sea.
their hearts burning with topaz fever.
bulging eyes with no sight.
it hurts to call out to the sea and not
be heard.
to break through a violent ripple and
find that all your breath would one
day go out to the sea.
the way waves go and leave the sea
sober and still.
it is deadly to hold on to things and
people in the
broken fragment of your only light.
the clock says run.
and i remember the strength of my
youth.
the children of my youth roam all
around gasping for wind in their
lungs.
but the wind has no mouth to say,
“I am gone.”
it only speaks in its swerve
and
wingless voice.
the clock says run.
but my mother is not here.
how do I run a motherless race?
she hates poetry.
she said poetry stole her boy at a
flower age.
this thing is a green leaf swallowing
sunlight.
more feet are approaching the sea.
their footprints in sand remind me
of the direction mother turned
when I started running.

*

Before Tammy Came into the Picture

you do not understand.
the places that bring blood to
our eyes.
the people that boil our blood.
we held hands in a circle and cried
out pain.
in times like this, songs ought to
own human bodies.
they ought to own hairs and feel
goosebumps too.
songs ought to be identified and
touched the way
they drift our moods in
circles.
every human owns a dog in their
body;
mine has been tamed by a love song.
again our hearts wear a regalia of
loss.
you do not understand pain in the
body of ice cubes, in a
scar when new friends placate you
with hugs and bedtime perfumes.
perfumes remind me of Tammy.
she burned my hair in a flame of love.
my small diary is the grave in which
I have buried the times we
shared.
this is not about loss or
heartbreak.
you do not understand the power
of circles.
whatever holds light vomits it into
a human body.
because bodies are reservoirs of
all the wastes of fire.
fire tells the story of tongues afraid
of tasting even moisture.
you do not understand what a
bubble feels in
its hollow
heart.
meanwhile I was talking about songs
and hair suffering in the wind and
places
without an iota of love
before Tammy came into the picture.

 

 

**************

About the Author:

Goodnews Mememugh Karibo studies Mechanical Engineering in Rivers State University, Nigeria. His poems, over time, have been published in online magazines and elsewhere. He writes from Port Harcourt.

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4 Responses to “A Motherless Race: Three Poems | By Goodnews Mememugh Karibo” Subscribe

  1. osymizpah unuevho 2017/07/10 at 06:00 #

    very beautifully penned.

  2. Osalam 2017/07/14 at 03:21 #

    magnificent

  3. Raphael Kueniemugh Karibo 2017/07/17 at 09:19 #

    Brilliant.

  4. Ik 2017/07/19 at 04:45 #

    I really love this

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I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

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