GRACE
When I say I am an intangible thing in the palms of nature --
I mean how do I belong to a place where the morn is a cyclone of hell.
Yesterday, a 14-year-old became a pin in sand dunes,
her ungraceful pale skin reeks for revenge.
Today, in the binary world another being sought life
and caught death in her chase. In this country, everyone is a prey --
I mean you may rise with a smile like a flower blossoming
at the kiss of dawn and be a name for lamentation before the sunset.
For the past three days I’ve become a temple for grace --
Grace to not become a face for wails on your TV,
Grace to not become a feast in the den of hunters
Grace to not become another poem for grief, a litany for the hunted --
Grace to not become a psalm for grace.
I mean how do I belong to a place where the morn is a cyclone of hell.
Yesterday, a 14-year-old became a pin in sand dunes,
her ungraceful pale skin reeks for revenge.
Today, in the binary world another being sought life
and caught death in her chase. In this country, everyone is a prey --
I mean you may rise with a smile like a flower blossoming
at the kiss of dawn and be a name for lamentation before the sunset.
For the past three days I’ve become a temple for grace --
Grace to not become a face for wails on your TV,
Grace to not become a feast in the den of hunters
Grace to not become another poem for grief, a litany for the hunted --
Grace to not become a psalm for grace.
NOSTALGIA
Today, I held mother’s frame against my chest
Pretending to feel a life in the embrace.
A smile sprouted at snail’s pace across
My mouth — no one knows what peace is
Rooted in a mother’s clasp.
I baptized myself in lagoon of tears that
Fountained in my tankard of dearth.
What is there to wail about?
How I became a palm tree towering in a desert? --
how my room hums in a clum of cordless violin?
How what is left here is only ashes of memory?
Life is more a threnody when the image of a
Mother is six feet pavement.
Pretending to feel a life in the embrace.
A smile sprouted at snail’s pace across
My mouth — no one knows what peace is
Rooted in a mother’s clasp.
I baptized myself in lagoon of tears that
Fountained in my tankard of dearth.
What is there to wail about?
How I became a palm tree towering in a desert? --
how my room hums in a clum of cordless violin?
How what is left here is only ashes of memory?
Life is more a threnody when the image of a
Mother is six feet pavement.
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BIO:
Ajani Samuel Victor is a creative writer and student of University of Lagos. He was a Semi-finalist at the 2020 Jack Grapes Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the 2020 Kreative Diadem Annual Writing contest. His works are/forthcoming on FeralLit Journal, Eboquills Mag, Praxis mag, Augment Review and everywhere else. Say hi to him on Twitter @solvic16 and Instagram @fab_du_solvic.
Ajani Samuel Victor is a creative writer and student of University of Lagos. He was a Semi-finalist at the 2020 Jack Grapes Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the 2020 Kreative Diadem Annual Writing contest. His works are/forthcoming on FeralLit Journal, Eboquills Mag, Praxis mag, Augment Review and everywhere else. Say hi to him on Twitter @solvic16 and Instagram @fab_du_solvic.
