silent prayers
how much light can a night eat before a boy's ears become
dancers to the dirge of a dying cricket?
it's 12 a.m.
& my eyes strain to float in fear - limbo - to balance forces heavy enough to turn a vessel of blood and bones
into a house unsure of the power its bricks and stones have always held. how do you tame a boy's heart into believing grief isn't
one of his valves? my body is always a stranger to this journey. i open my eyes, this big white room is a rose garden.
once again, i'm a tarred road unnamed - a piece of paper unsure
of what ink i'll find myself adorned with. thorns find a friend
with my feet & my soles don't struggle before morphing into a door.
what home accepts pain as a guest?
i'm shrouded in dry leaves and a mix of colours that taste like tears,
who knew a rainforest could be the perfect metaphor for this naked body? this is where i concur, where i let my body be the subject for metamorphosis, where i make myself the only good thing to come out of this dream.
perhaps this time, my hands will be a bird, humming, healing & my feet will find harmonies in each space they leave. each crack in my chapped lips will carry some weight & silent prayers will once again, nest on them.
dancers to the dirge of a dying cricket?
it's 12 a.m.
& my eyes strain to float in fear - limbo - to balance forces heavy enough to turn a vessel of blood and bones
into a house unsure of the power its bricks and stones have always held. how do you tame a boy's heart into believing grief isn't
one of his valves? my body is always a stranger to this journey. i open my eyes, this big white room is a rose garden.
once again, i'm a tarred road unnamed - a piece of paper unsure
of what ink i'll find myself adorned with. thorns find a friend
with my feet & my soles don't struggle before morphing into a door.
what home accepts pain as a guest?
i'm shrouded in dry leaves and a mix of colours that taste like tears,
who knew a rainforest could be the perfect metaphor for this naked body? this is where i concur, where i let my body be the subject for metamorphosis, where i make myself the only good thing to come out of this dream.
perhaps this time, my hands will be a bird, humming, healing & my feet will find harmonies in each space they leave. each crack in my chapped lips will carry some weight & silent prayers will once again, nest on them.
20/10/20
i want to write about how innocent souls wore the colour of the night, how darkness became a metaphor for their words, how they became
a blank space, a vessel at the mercy of hopelessness. i want to sing about freedom and not watch my head morph into a minefield
at the sight of a stained flag. but a parade into the past and these shadows drown, again. my blood doesn't wear the colour red and gunshots become the only
music in my ears. blame me not, i still can't find the right shade to paint my words walls in. call me a coward but how do i make
my voice into a siren without fearing i won't be the subject of a dirge?
what ways do i wiggle myself of out this hole and not end up with bruises
making me into a living testament of all that's left of a broken silence? once, i got accosted by men meant to be beacons of light,
vessels that should house nothing but hope and wear help on their faces. instead, dread replaces the air around me and for once, i
felt my future stand still. ice replaced each of their gazes, despair drizzled and I could hear nothing but goodbyes in everything i held on to.
listen to my heart, can you hear the thousand and three tales i want to tell? but how do i melt these lines on my palms into tracks of tears
carrying silent fears? every journey to that time is another ashes unburnt. what hurts more than a familiar burn carrying a memento of dead dreams?
so forgive me when my tongue becomes elastic at the mention of 20/10/20. blame me not when you feel my hands go numb.
some skies are just not meant to be soared in. a dive and what was once spoke the language of wholeness becomes an element of peace
in pieces.
a blank space, a vessel at the mercy of hopelessness. i want to sing about freedom and not watch my head morph into a minefield
at the sight of a stained flag. but a parade into the past and these shadows drown, again. my blood doesn't wear the colour red and gunshots become the only
music in my ears. blame me not, i still can't find the right shade to paint my words walls in. call me a coward but how do i make
my voice into a siren without fearing i won't be the subject of a dirge?
what ways do i wiggle myself of out this hole and not end up with bruises
making me into a living testament of all that's left of a broken silence? once, i got accosted by men meant to be beacons of light,
vessels that should house nothing but hope and wear help on their faces. instead, dread replaces the air around me and for once, i
felt my future stand still. ice replaced each of their gazes, despair drizzled and I could hear nothing but goodbyes in everything i held on to.
listen to my heart, can you hear the thousand and three tales i want to tell? but how do i melt these lines on my palms into tracks of tears
carrying silent fears? every journey to that time is another ashes unburnt. what hurts more than a familiar burn carrying a memento of dead dreams?
so forgive me when my tongue becomes elastic at the mention of 20/10/20. blame me not when you feel my hands go numb.
some skies are just not meant to be soared in. a dive and what was once spoke the language of wholeness becomes an element of peace
in pieces.
Waiting For Rain
allow me anoint this poem first with a prayer, & find a thousand
and three ways to paint each line with the colour of my blood.
perhaps this time, each word can carry the weight of grief
& a bird will nest here, with an ode to hope, carefully resting on its
beak. once, i saw a boy fight for his teddy bear.
in grunts only these eyes could understand, i watched him
clamour for the same shield on his mouth, on the treasure he held.
who knew a hive of questions was a metaphor for that day?
call it a miracle, i'm still here finding the key for this song.
or how do you explain that not all dark clouds are pregnant with
rain? what stories do you knit to make sense of this miscarriage?
that windows are doors that just haven't found their keys.
in this poem, every question is an autopsy for the pain i never named.
walk through this body and count the cadavers i house.
today, my eyes are a siren. there's another boy waiting to be a mirror
for this image.
me, a well at the verge of dying,
waiting for a miracle, waiting for rain.
and three ways to paint each line with the colour of my blood.
perhaps this time, each word can carry the weight of grief
& a bird will nest here, with an ode to hope, carefully resting on its
beak. once, i saw a boy fight for his teddy bear.
in grunts only these eyes could understand, i watched him
clamour for the same shield on his mouth, on the treasure he held.
who knew a hive of questions was a metaphor for that day?
call it a miracle, i'm still here finding the key for this song.
or how do you explain that not all dark clouds are pregnant with
rain? what stories do you knit to make sense of this miscarriage?
that windows are doors that just haven't found their keys.
in this poem, every question is an autopsy for the pain i never named.
walk through this body and count the cadavers i house.
today, my eyes are a siren. there's another boy waiting to be a mirror
for this image.
me, a well at the verge of dying,
waiting for a miracle, waiting for rain.
|
BIO:
Taiwo Hassan is a student of Yorùbá descent, a poet and writer. A Best of the Net nominee, his works have been published in several print and online publications, including Liminal Transit Review, Praxis Magazine, Ice Floe Press, and Dust Poetry Magazine, to mention a few. He also clinched the second place prize for MANI's poetry competition. When he's not writing, he's either listening to music, singing or watching TV series. His social media handles include @iamtsoul on Instagram and @symplytaiwo on Twitter.
Taiwo Hassan is a student of Yorùbá descent, a poet and writer. A Best of the Net nominee, his works have been published in several print and online publications, including Liminal Transit Review, Praxis Magazine, Ice Floe Press, and Dust Poetry Magazine, to mention a few. He also clinched the second place prize for MANI's poetry competition. When he's not writing, he's either listening to music, singing or watching TV series. His social media handles include @iamtsoul on Instagram and @symplytaiwo on Twitter.
