Mirage

Has the image of someone in your mind ever been more real than they ever were?

Dedicated to "Dr. Kay" Radney Unachukwu.

Happy Birthday...

She is the sky 
She reflects light down to earth
My muse
That inspires my words
my ideas for weeks
She came suddenly one night
Out of the blue
soothing my sadness
She comforted me
in those moments so lonely
As the days went by
we played together 
we talked
I held her hand
I swear i did
I kissed her lips
I promise...i did
but
as time carried on
She became stiff
rigid
and i followed suit
Her face started to fade
slowly
I pretended not to notice
even as her hands no longer
touched mine
She sat farther away
When she turned from me
that last time
I knew
She was the sky and
she wasn't ever even real

Radney Kay

Dear Radney Kay,
Where are you now?
In sun, in rain,? –
Or is your brow
Past joy, past pain,
Dear Radney Kay?

Sweet Radney Kay,
How you could smile,
How you could sing! -
How archly wile
In glance-giving,
Sweet Radney Kay!

And, Radney Kay
Who else had hair
Bay-red as yours,
Or flesh so Fair
Bred out of doors,
Sweet Radney Kay!

When, Radney Kay
You had just begun
To be endeared
By stealth to one,
You disappeared
My Radney Kay!

Dear Radney Kay,

I should have thought,
‘Girls ripen fast,’
And coaxed and caught
You ere you passed,
Dear Radney Kay!

But, Radney Kay,
I let you slip;
Shaped not a sign;
Touched never your lip
With lip of mine,
Lost Radney Kay!

So, Radney Kay,
When on a day
Women speak of me
As not, you’ll say
‘And who was she?’
Yes, Radney Kay!

Unsent

Dear Michelle,

I have written this letter in my head a million times, and in this final attempt to put these words down on paper, I will write it no matter what. I’m writing this letter today, at 9.00 am this morning, to express myself to you. I wish I could see you to tell you the things I will write in this letter ignoring how difficult that might be to do.

I hate watching TV shows. They always make you think about everything and when you particularly enjoy watching shows that center on love and relationships, it’s even worse. It makes you think about things. Like how you have no one. Every time in my case.

Sometimes, you think you know so many people but you really don’t. They don’t matter in a way, just phone contacts on your Whatsapp and nothing more. They are just there, like evidence to show that you know a lot of people. People you don’t know.

But I know you, and I love you.

I saw you watching me while I ate that first night from the corner of my eye in the canteen. Then when one Sunday you messaged me saying your sister had taken you to Radisson’s, you said you wished I were there with you again and that meant the world to me. You meant the world to me and I know I’m not perfect, well, neither are you.

You hurt me several times. It was always on your face when it seemed I was embarrassing you. I was hurt when I couldn’t give you the things you wanted. I couldn’t handle it. I can’t do all of the things you want me to do. Why? I’m just like everyone else awaiting results. I’m waiting for my big break, too. So I don’t need any extra pressure especially from you. It’s emotionally draining. I couldn’t stand to disappoint you if things didn’t happen the way you wanted them to. Life is okay, it still needs improvements, but please, don’t put that burden on me. And forgive me if I am not what you wish I was.

I saw this show (Being Mary Jane) where Gabrielle Union’s character reunites with her Ex at this ball. They were dancing and having fun (Mary Jane and her Ex) and relieving old times when he tells her he is currently seeing someone. You could tell from her reaction to this piece of information that she was disappointed and that she still loved him even though they were not together anymore. She left the ball minutes after. It occurred to me at that moment that there will always be that one that got away. The one that made you feel special and one-of-a-kind even if you didn’t feel that way about yourself. It’s not a usual feeling. It’s simple and nice and prideful and you feel so lucky you experienced such a thing in your lifetime. And I thought, again, that if time passes us by, I have a feeling I will be the one still waiting and reliving those moments in my mind and by then you’ll have moved on to somebody else or become married off hastily to someone else. In my own version of things you would have gone. I’ll be crushed and will never want to see you again because it will finally dawn on me that I will never have my forever with you. That it was never meant to be. I just hope I won’t be thirty-eight at that time.

You see, I hate how things are with us. How we see only a couple of times in a year. Sometimes, I don’t want to see you because I know I will have to say goodbye again. It’s tough. You re-enter my life time after time bringing me rainbows of happiness, texting in whenever you like after you are gone leaving ghosts of memories for me to chase after. The worst bit is when you go on telling me about people you like. No please and no thanks. I want you to say you like me, that you still want me. That we made a mistake. That you think about me every day, just like I think about you. I don’t want to know about other people as cheerfully as you make it seem. I don’t want to. You can’t do these things to me. It messes me up and I don’t know what else to do about us but to let you go. My back is against the wall this time around. I have had enough. The quest for hidden treasures for either of us to find has been given up by me.

So here’s the truth. I will say goodbye to you. I will ask you not to talk to me again, ignoring completely all the things you do to me. Completely disregarding my emotions and feelings, I will not play along the lines of being great friends just to have you in my life.

You will always be you. Funny face. You will always be the one I’d settle for out of everyone else. But life’s uncertainty and inconsistencies define my decision now. To let you go and leave you alone. I may be wrong, but right now I’m tired of waiting for you.

That ghost of a tongue. That tongue of a ghost.

I am the mirror breathing above the sink.
There is a censored garden inside of me.
Over my worms someone has thrown

a delicately embroidered sheet.

And also the child at the rummage sale–

more souvenirs than memories.

I am the cat buried beneath
the tangled ivy. Also the white
weightless egg
floating over its grave. Snow

where there were leaves. Empty
plastic cups after the party on the beach.

I am ash rising above a fire, like a flame.
The Sphinx with so much sand
blowing vaguely in her face. The last

shadow that passed
over the blank canvas
in the empty art museum. I am

the impossibility of desiring
the person you pity.
And the petal of the Easter lily–

That ghost of a tongue.
That tongue of a ghost.

What would I say if I spoke?

The Beauty that is Poetry

Poetry is not glamorous. Poetry is keeping a journal by my bedside so I can wake in the middle of the night, annoyed and desperate, to scribble down sentence fragments and ideas before sleep steals them from me again. It’s writing all over my hands, napkins in restaurants, typing it out as a message to a friend and accidentally sending it. It’s losing my patience as the perfect title slips out of my mind when I divert my attention at just the wrong time. Poetry is staring at a blank page for hours. Poetry is staring at the same page through tears and tears when the words build up inside of you like a flood but they simply won’t come out. It’s re-working the same sentence over and over again until the words barely sound real anymore. It’s slamming shut your computer when your work seems only unpolished, immature, and never truly capturing the world the way you want it. It’s a pile of rejection letters on your desk. It’s not normally coffee shops and natural light and fresh ink. It’s in my pajamas at my kitchen table with lukewarm tea, trying to squeeze in a few more words before I have to go back to class or work or some other engagement. Poetry is not glamorous. It is real and gritty and soaked in life. But it is beautiful. And it is worth it. And it is the only thing I know.

I’m not a stalker

Pick someone interesting.
Have a conversation with them.
Start off the dialogue by assuring the subject
that you are not a stalker.

Do so by saying something like,
“I’m not a stalker.”
“I’m not really a stalker.”
“Do you think I’m a stalker?”
Or
“Does this make me sound like a stalker?”
Because whenever you mention the word “stalker”
it automatically makes you look like a stalker.
Got it?
Let’s move on.

Follow them on twitter,
re-tweet everything they say.
Add them on Facebook,
like all of their pictures,
statuses,
and poke them.

Constantly.

Get their phone number.
Preferably not from them.
Send them pictures.
Of you. 
In a wedding dress.
Let the caption read,
“Hey babe, thinking about you.”

Call four times. 
A day.
Leave three voicemails. 
A day.
Make sure the third one is passive aggressive.
Sound irritated,
like all of this is an inconvenience to you.
Try to make the subject feel as guilty as possible.

If that doesn’t work,
get angry, cuss them out.
Then call back,
apologize for overreacting.
If the subject still doesn’t respond
to a call from a blocked number,
if they don’t pick up,
leave another voicemail,
cuss them out again.

That’ll show them.