₦airaland Forum

texanomaly:
This is really good llaykorn.

Thank you, Tex. Been a thousand years. I never knew you still dropped in here.

JigsawKillah:
This is good, Llaykorn


Can I borrow your topic? I feel something insane forming.

Haha. Insane bawo? Go on, drop something and call my name.

In the city
where we
grew up

when cars speed by
bus stops at night, that is where
grown-up men stand to search
for what's left of all the compassion the
world gave yesterday. There is
none in the mirrors - no compassion
whatsoever; it shows the dark
circles under their eyes, it
laughs at their qualifications, spits
at their university degrees. No
compassion.

These men feel the weightlessness of
their own heads when they nod. They
know the emptiness in their
skulls when they hear echoes, but
they don't know enough words
to describe all the fires that burn in
their souls when they remember
all of society's wise words. There is
no wisdom in what society says - they
know! But that's not enough reason
to not smile and nod empty heads
to the songs that society sings.

It's like searching for one's
reflection in broken mirrors so the images
are distorted. Or hating the truth with
half of your heart and fighting it
with the other half.

In the city
where we
grew up

they have men who pile up
their certificates and write their suicide
notes on them. The tables are too hard
and the floors are harder; the certificates
make their suicide notes come out neater.
They have a long bridge that sleeps on
the ocean. That is where the men wait
for the darkness and jump, unsure if
they are ending their pains or starting
them. Dawn doesn't come before they know.

Was it my brother who said it?
That he knows men in the city who
are just learning how to be mad,
but have enough certificates
to prove they're experts
at it.

MDCCCXXXII:
"They shortlisted poets? Yet again I ask, who tha hell are they?

My extensive knowledge of roman figure reveal just how much you hate counting syllables.

Then again, reveal my true nature, since you know who I am.

You must have started mixing up the passwords to your various accounts, I guess. Well, maybe your frequent dose of your this your nectar thing helps your memory as well.

MDCCCXXXII:
They?, who tha hell are they?

Hope you know who I am? Let my moniker reveal my true nature to you, lekan.

Yes, they. The shortlisted poets. And, I know who you are. The only thing your moniker reveals to me is your extensive knowledge of Roman figures.

MDCCCXXXII:
Care to share the link let's read for our self?.

There's no link. They are my friends on Facebook.

DanseMacabre:
True bro. I wish I'd known of the call for submissions. The funny thing's that, if you don't have a real gift for poetry and the ability to rhyme meaningfully, you'd end up using words just for the rhymes, the same way most of our contemporary local rappers do.

P.S Is this the same laykorn from that our Whatsapp group that year? It used to be fun with OAM4J, yuzedo, jigsawkillah, texanomaly etc.

Hola.

Oh yes. I remember I had to keep Rhymezone open years ago anytime I wrote poems. The rhymes ended up dictating the way my poems started and ended.

And yes, it's the same laykorn. You used to have this same name on the group?

LaRochelle:
I sent the link of this thread to one of my friends, a poem writer, performer and lover. She was now thanking me as if I gave her the winning numbers for lottery.

PS: I didn't read it. I'm yet to appreciate the deepness of poems.

I can imagine how your friend feels. I just bookmarked the page. It's the best poetry I've read in a very long time.

DanseMacabre:
Evolve into what exactly? Shakespearean verse? Metres and Iambic pentametres? Rhymes? That's prescriptive poetry bro, and it's exactly what modern poetry evolved from.

Thank you, DM! Many of these people don't believe that poetry has evolved into something bigger than the literature they were forced to read in secondary school. Romeo just won the Brunel Poetry Prize. There were more than a thousand entries, and I'm sure there were a lot of uninformed people who thought they could get anywhere with how perfect the syllable-count of their sonnets were. I know quite a number of the short listed poets and some of them don't even write in stanzas. Lol.

JoeBlocks:

Joe, what do you think?

RaggedyAnn:
This is really amazing! You have a powerful narrative style - deep and haunting. This is art. Well done, you.

Thank you. Do Not Walk Into This Room was eqaully amazing. You had me glued till the end.

stuff46:
What we say isnt important, oh me i have missed a piece like this for long.

Poetic

Thank you stuff. Do you still write?

It's dark when I get back to the seaside. Darker when I make it to the abandoned cabin, so I crawl my way in, shielded by the darkness. I gaze up at the empty sky, there are no stars, there is no moon, there is only darkness, darkness, everywhere. I hear a sound; the chirping of a cricket, and I laugh. I laugh harder as my voice echoes through the darkness. The cricket chirps on, I know the sound, I know the sign. I can't forget today, I can't forget yet.

I turn on the old lamp; the only thing I came with, and I hold back more fits of laughter. The pails are still in the same place, but now coated with rust. I lift up one of the pails and there is my old watch, covered in dust. I pick it up and dust it. Its light still works but the time is incorrect. It must be, if it shows 9:49am at an hour as dark as this. But as my heart starts to beat aloud, and I start to get bathed in my own sweat, the doubt hits me. It hits me hard. Just as hard as Kabeer's back heel kick had always hit my temples while we sparred in this little wooden space. Is it morning? Is today one of those days when the morning is just as dark as the night? Is there an eclipse? In my life? In all of the world?

I look out through the open window onto the sea. I let my eyes linger, trying to remember him- Kabeer. His almost bald hair, his perfume, his earplug. My hands shake and the watch falls. My knees go weak. I stare at the waves as they crash on the beach, and I wait. I wait for the waves to bring his face, to bring his missing body. I wait for the waves to come rushing at this little place by the sea and get me too, the way they did him. My eyes brim with tears. I sniffle, once, twice. I tighten my muscles and groan with the pain. I can't afford to cry, not here, not today.

I drag my numb feet across the floor. The wooden boards creak, creak beneath my feet. It's their own way of remembering, of sobbing. For Kabeer, and for me, too. For all the futility in my reason. For a man seeking what he never will find. I silently move towards the corner of the room. My big toe hits on something, but I'm scared to flash the torch.
Scared that it will be what I came here to seek. Scared that it won't be what I came here to seek. I press my toes on it to make out the details. Plastic, curved, an earplug, Kabeer's earplug. My heart sinks, sinks to an impossible depth. Sinks to the depth where the hands of saviors can't get to, won't get to.

I pick it up without looking, scared that it might vanish from the ground if I shove my lamp towards it. I raise it up to my nose. The perfume's still there; the Hausa perfume Kabeer liked to wear. It's strange. One year, three months, four days and three hours. I know the count. The immortal scent is a miracle. I almost smile at the memory of the little jars where he kept the perfumes. But I take one look at the earplug and I'm numb now. My sunken heart sinks deeper. I am frantic, confused, scared. Where is the dust? I swing the lamp around the room. There is no sound. There are only the chirping cricket, the crashing waves. My heart beats fast, faster, something is wrong.

There is no dust on the earplug. One year, three months, four days, there is no dust on the earplug. Three hours, the earplug still shines from the tiny silver dots that coat its blue skin. With shaky hands, I drop the earplug into my jacket pocket and I sprint out of the cabin, towards the crashing waves. I run along the shore, mad and scared. Mad that he still comes here, that Kabeer still comes here, or someone else that I don't know their name. Scared that my lamp would make out colors, colors from his jacket, seated and earnestly watching the sea. My heavy boots cling to the wet sand with every step. I am not tired, I am afraid. Afraid I will catch him on his favorite hobby. Hobby, hobby, that was on those days. The days before the sea took him away.

My breath wanes and I run on. I won't find him. Not here, not today, but I run on. I run on for every time he wasn't allowed to compete because he wore an earplug, and they considered earplugs to be harmful weapons with which he could stab his opponents to death, if he so ever wished. I fight all the fights he never could fight. I fight with my waning breath.

The waves come rushing at me, and I stop to run. The angry waves climb to my waist and bury my fists. The lamp drops, the earplug drops. I wait and watch the waves take away the earplug, take away what's left of Kabeer. They started it, they finished it. I whisper his name, "Kabeer, Kabeer". He has his earplug. He hears now.

I walk back to the cabin. And, I forget to wonder if it is Kabeer who comes to use the earplug, or someone else. I forget to wonder why there was no dust on the earplug.

THE END

This one, for all the deaf people of the world. Don't bother, much of the things we say is not that important.

©2017
laykornwhisperingocean@gmail.com

joseph1832:
Magun is for married women and I don't do married women.

Beside, you'd be surprised how a healthy imagination and sex experience makes a man a better poet, especially when he puts those experience in writing.

Oh, yeah! Thanks for all the pieces of advice.

joseph1832:
LMAO!. I hear you. But I'm not dead, not in the least bit. My sex poems will continue. Every sex experience gets written poetically.

It's a whole new world full of sexual adventure.

I don't want to imagine that each poem in your collection represents a different partner. Beware: Magun is real!

joseph1832:
LOL. I absolutely don't know. I believe with recent event, I may have to hang my pen for a while.

You sure will get a beffiting welcome in the DPL now that I am their president.

DPL: Dead Poets League

joseph1832:
I understand you. But it's always nice to let the audience know what they're reading so we wouldn't have another 'moganacanta' here. I'm sure you remember how that went?

Oh, yeah! I can't forget him. I wonder where he is with his 'dancing language' crap.

Beautiful, Joseph. We're going to add 'social critic' to your list of titles very soon. One thing, though. I think satires lose their gripping power when the authors name them as satires, and the audience know what to expect even before they start reading. Lol

TheSCRYPT:

My boss is back

Scrypt, haha. Been like a hundred years.

I now slow down
my steps when
I walk by
these police stations
only so to get a chance
to peer into the wreckage
that's left of cars
pulled from accidents.

I have learned to admire
the destructive art of impacts
sending massive cars
into shriveled balls
of crushed iron

this art that sends
massive cars into death
traps, death cans,
death containers, death,
death, death, written
everywhere.

I slow down my steps
to stare at deflated
bags that hang from
the dashboards,
dotted with blood
and, maybe, tears.

to stare at the airbags;
blood-stained airbags
that are meant to save
our lives but the
only things they
really do save now

are stories, stories
plotted on the dreams
that got crushed in the
wreck, the limbs, the lives-
empty blood-stained airbags
modeling all the emptiness in
our own worlds- what they save
now, these bloodstained airbags

are little marks of death,
and man's vulnerability
the little marks of blood,
little marks, little maps,
that lead to towns and
cities where all the
weakness of man
is not only recognized,

but I also,
understand,
appreciate,
embrace.

these days,
I understand,
appreciate,
embrace.

TheSCRYPT:
How do I indicate, raise my hands? llaykorn, it is still not fair.

Yes, Scrypt, and your legs, too. Both of them. How have you been bro? A thousand years!

gudluckgreat:
Yea

I didn't notice it's posted above. You'll be added in hours.
Cc donifez emmaculate99 jigsawkillah

gudluckgreat:
Yea

Hi, Goodluck. Please send me your number by mail.

joseph1832:
Yes and Yes, Miss you too.

Old friend, how do you do?