Poems by Umar Yogiza Jr

Poems by Umar Yogiza Jr
 
 
a body of woman
 
when a man is called to judge himself
he first of all change the constitution
 
I
 
she’s worn
yet throes into the scar’s party
in her body
 
the music’s width
in her unhealable scars
is an atmosphere of power
 
an inner ritual
of a restive mind
that she can’t make stop
 
an ajar screen into
past’s pains and sorrows
which joy cannot erase
the pains
were daytime
in her night
 
the pains
society had turned
into classic
 
a sacrilege upon
a woman
whose faults is being a woman
 
a woman
whose only faults
is being beautiful
 
she walks a distance pains
above strengths, an expanding pains
above governing
 
when the body had knew
and seen too much. the mind gives
the body pains above description
 
and whatever the mouth says
stand questionable
no matter how true it is
 
II
 
she looked up at sky’s
muteness patches of pale clouds
her eyes became tab of tears
 
a sophisticated cruelty
done to the flesh
became a stigma’s badge
 
and only keeping quiet
becomes a symbol for
societal acceptance
 
III
 
a body of a woman is fatter than soil
larger and wider than land and water
larger than our rooms
 
a body of a woman is larger than our villages
larger than our cities
larger than our countries
 
a body of a woman is larger than rules
citizenship, constitutions
and certainly larger than our dreams
 
a body of woman is not an invitation
to embark upon an adventure
it is not a set goals
 
nor a world in need of exploration
not a legacy or a life sum–up challenges
it’s an abiding grace of God
 
 
 
letter my unborn child
 
my son, the tea brewed out of my veins
my branch of the future
whenever you come here
you may find a stoic country laughing in bonfire
that doesn’t care about your taste
know that, you are not the sugar in the tea
but a water brewed with history
a taste of atrocities in the tongue
 
my son, my spare parts of the future
you’ll be fall by the memories
of the places you’ve not been
of the people you’ve not seen or heard of
you can be cut by the delicate shade
and mountain cold of unknown breeze
you will feel the splashes of hatreds
hear the cries of grave bound traditions
on the air, chanting of the danger of
a single direction, chanting of the time
not long past, be you, be strong
 
my son, my eyes in the future
when you meet a country now nigeria
i don’t know what it maybe upon your time
if it becomes a mountain pain, mazes
roaming upon the lines of your palms
that didn’t care about your happiness
please, turn it into a tea, colour of earth
and words merged with gold sky
brew it into poetry of joy you’ve not gotten
she used to be a land of beauty
let your love for her be a diamond joy
of a mystery that lives in you forever
 
my son, my bridge to immortality
when you meet a tea, call a country
that has lost the flavors of living
in the ocean of your tongue
forget the message of your tongue
imagine the beauty and scent of first rain
to a farmer who farms just to feed him mouth
imagine the ordinary students studying
a four years course for seven years
knowing fully he/she can’t be employed
imagine people dying within themselves
hiding who they are, just to please the society
imagine, imagine, please imagine
before you hate your country.
 
 
 
the furnished hellfire
 
my country is a one book library
my life and survival, a book without an author
chapter of peace & good life already written
only writers armed with the ink of bigotry:
tribalism or religion succeed as writers
i am fighting to be good in a chapter of horror
 
my country is a beautiful destination
the journey depends on your connection
and, i am a dirt of past encyclopedias
a syntax penned by marginalized bruises
yearning to be beautiful in a pit of horror
in a country ruled by the wit of saboteurs
 
at the doors of who you know, get what!
the hinges and keyholes are suspended
scenes are closed to be opened by corruption
religion and tribalism, the only landscape
became the food that rots the tongues
and the wound that closes the mouth
 
my country is easy. it depends on who you are
life is a grail, coded designs, coined by
filaments upon filaments of interpretation
they are the thorns that readjusted my destiny
a sore spell, a fruit of rootless trees
whose images are the shadow of my body
 
my country is wealthy, only for the wealthy
i am reworking the labour that made me
dig the grave of the past, the one that buried- me
picking their bones to rewire the car
of history that brought me here, unready
i am an orchid learning how to die like a man.
 

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