Titi

Titi
Ure ever beautiful
like the sun
like the flowers bloom
like the gush of waters from many fountains formed
like lilies in the land of smiles and tranquillity
jewellery adorns your natural adornments
make up oppressed by the beauty of your
dark skin
your beaming eyes of magnetism
your fragile hands
your tender skin


Ure ever beautiful like
the Nubian princess
at the streams
With you neck exposed and regal

Ure the beauty
Of pyramids
The lush landscape of Babylon
The wealth of Solomon
The breath of Zanzibar
The kiss of Niger River
The breasts of peaks of Idanre
The voice of Yemoja



You are the Orisa
I worship secretly
Secreting flames of heartfelt love
Burning incense of desire
Make sacrifices at the table cloth of inadequacy
Moaning at imagined fantasy

You are the obi
I gnaw at
In the morning
You are my Obi that
Tightens my heart in a strong grip
And release in a strange lease.
You are the mischief of Esu Odara
With the swagger of Yeye Osun
You are the tender leaves of Ife and the rain forest

You are a woman for the rich man
Not a poet like me
Not a poet sonofabirch

Fabrication

When you drop me like a pin
Know that I am a needle
Lost, peradventure, never found
Patiently waiting
At the sidewalks
For only a tailor eye.

I have tried to mend
To sew differences
To knot faiths
Bringing rhythm into your boring sequence

I am a needle
Sharp with memories of us
Always at a personal worship of your tender skin
Hurting and loving-giving pleasure

I have tried not to mute
I have cried, I have walked with my bare foot
All seams seems at a dying stage
When the doctors, sew the heart with advice.



I am no bait
For your anger
No balm for your indecisiveness
There are no crevices to hide
For I am no one’s fiddle
I am that small needle
That leaves you with a riddle

You are my wool-my fabric
On which without,
There is no existence-
That, I crave intact.

But we are fastly worn
So tenderly torn threadbare with silence
For when I try to mend
You render signs of farewell

I am a needle
Lost in transit
On the rug of temptation and confusion
In your purse of disrespect
In your weave-on, staying.
All I need is the strength of fabric without fabrication
All I need is your spirited love without silence
Or
There is a wide pool of designer clothes from China
There are a heap of China-made garbs in Yaba
And a thronging of mini-skirts in Victoria Island boutiques.

At the Walls of Gaza Strip

We are at the walls
We have lost our virginity
Under the hospitable stars
Behind the brushing bushes
And on the seats of cars with seasoning kisses

We are at the walls
Where we fingered the fingerling
And tinkered the chamberlain
That was looking and rebranding



We can do it
With the can do spirit of town
Where condemned condoms are hidden from frowns

BE Warned
But they are warmed in bed
By the tease of money, wealth and fame
To the contracts of thighs



Churches and Mosques in their fold
When they fold up in the evening
A new life unfolds
Holy Ghost fire dims for one terrible blazing fire
Hadith hides from the shawl of Haram



We are at the walls
Of Marx and Tolstoy
Home of the troubadours and trouble makers
“Its a mad hall of presidents”
Residing in the innards

We are the walls
Where favours ends at Gaza Strip
Except there is some stripping and some wailing.

To Femi; a Poem to a Bloody Blogger

inset Efemena Adagama in an Art Class.

I appreciate the poem written to me by Efemena Adagama but I do not consider myself as intelligent. In fact, I have never deemed it fit to add "intelligent" to my profile. I am just myself. Creative at least.I and Efemena met on facebook and he happens to be one of the poets that I respect a lot. I have read some of his poems and have encouraged him to publish.

TO FEMI

He who meets you meets a white-haired professor
He who meets you feels the charming wisdom of OAU
And he who knows you has known literature
Is Ife not known for its intellectual rascality
and its intellectual tower of bookism spanning years
Are you not the iroko of letters and letters of ink
that have been used by us in defining its name
I spread my books on the floor - walk on
I spread my pen on the floor - walk on
He who meets you meets a white-haired professor
And I have met a white-haired professor here

March

March in my papermache
Strewn it till it stinks
I have lost sense of style since Sinatara
I have unlatched my belts of love since Abacha
Smash the moulded heated head
Tests are over-Inspection over.
Test results look likes insults
So want to insult, sorry has no salt



March
Make your point
In my pointed pointillism
Ask the film for a doctored documentary
I am a mad man
Seen it all-Fucking all
Like fucking Jesus on the fucking walk
On the storm.
Fuck it!

I have found the lady

to share my hands with
to make sonnets, songs, stories
and children
to breath out our love with childbirth
a child with my eyes, her nose and heartbeats.

I HAVE FOUND A LADY
To charge me
And caress my often roughened hair
To pray
As my fears sometimes go over board

I have found the lady
Be my pair
In this world called Vanity Fair
To teach me how to truly love,
Love without loathing.

I am but a lover’s disciple
Waiting to close distances
To walk on turbulent seas
Waiting
To hold you in my arms.

I need a lady

to share my dreams, my fears with
to lie and love with
from now and forthwith
to share my wit.

to free me from
the fetters of pain
to twine us with
ropes of longing

A lasting sigh of honey



In need of no jar shape
capable of cancer
with her quick temper

In her stead a queenly stature
of corresponding heartbeats
Rhyme, Rhythm, Synchronicity
of temperate mood




My hands on rapturous warm bodice

A queen of succulent kiss
of sunlight smile (even in brazen weather)
of precious eyes and belly button.