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Passenger (For Chinua Achebe)


For Chinua Achebe

The sun withdraws its yellow eye
and you gave in slowly to a
new dawn of old parturition;
it has been known, when man closes
his last eye, he has kicked th' bucket.

His Black Soul, who was his black boy
has lived on this hill of shedd'ng rocks
'n' our soul has left us, when he did.
were we not to live as memories?
we're pilgrims in the credo of living.

What essence does he speaks, if not
from him? we have barrels of wine
and our cups are swept by the wind,
yet we drink all our passion and
hold our knuckles against our fist.

Was it not here, that things fall 'part?
and we close both eye, to see 'is eye —
and we think of thought, and what 's left.
is it not unwell, that while we
entrust ourselves here, we're pilgrims?

Beloveds, wander as the cloud
ev'n at its silent rumble. the
constellations is in our palm,
are we not the Black Boy he left?
life rests not in shroud, but its breath.

You're gone inner and outer, gone.
no moon, no ground, no sky, no you.
and we are not close to be far;
for, we're the shadow of your books
and the murmuring of dry dust.

If the cage is kept, is the bird
of his lips rent, or his wings plucked
as bitter fruits? sweetness, is it
not in struggle, as you did for us?
is it not in the drunkenness

of the wetting mud? it is seen
in the smooth weft of looming clouds
and the emptiness of rain in
a pregnant cloud. yet, is it not
this life that you've lived, and we'll live?

"words from the innocent mind"
Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace


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For Ikeoluwa.

I have sailed in the ocean — on
your body's warm drenched spot axis,
and i have felt the touch of your
freezing burning hands and cold words:
you said some soft words gently in
my ear on a cold night. and my
body is a tree, it rustles
when winds beat. winds like your mutters.

I have a whirling desire
that we are over the 9th edge;
grabbing, rocking, licking, tasting —
and the passion flows 'n' action shows.
your whole body defines a lot
even when i see nothing but
the voluptuous pillows of a
tired bed, calling me to sleep.

Slowly, this pace beats rapidly
like a running fire. and i'm
burning coldly on a meet with
your whitish round thorax muscle.
glorious! your body is a bike
and i'm good at riding roughly.
slide and glide, make a symphony
of our salvation on this cold night.

Akinwale Peace AkindayoPhilip Peace