Posted by: Ron DuBour | April 24, 2017

for muse and madness I-III~by Ayoola Goodness Olanrewaju


 

 

for muse and madness I-III

 

alao…

upon your seeking hills for muse and madness
i have thrown an egg of answers…

may my egg stay an egg
may your seeking hills melt and become plain…

for he that shakes a market
must be patient for the tingles of noises…

i am a market of noises
i shall not twist my tongue on silence…

the lines i bleed are the droppings of tears
there are tears in the lines from these hands
there is a passion patient paintiently passionate…

i am a poet of tears…

i have asked my eyes questions
under the mumbling of lips
the calculations of within the streams of my tears…

they say i have cried a nile…

a true poet does not look for rich walls
whose regalia of wisdom run far from wise
he searches patiently for broken walls
whose woods are rooted in the palm soil of knowledge…

i light the lamp of generous elders for burning wisdom
they give me their teeth for my teeth
and bless my eyes their eyes…

alao…
get noises…get tears…get passions…light the elders…

II

alao…

i have picked these words from the stones of my tongue
from her womb tomb…tomb womb…

and upon your hills for muse and madness
i shall again throw the wool of answers…

may my wool remain a wool heavy for the lips of the winds
may your hills break at its silenced thud…

i am a market of noises
may these noises tingle your ears…

the lines i bleed are kilned in the face of the moon
they have walked the lane of the sun
they are the little teeth hidden into the knotted hems of elders…

they are the dance in the market of fine maidens of thoughts
they are the tears from restless sleeps of a wandering soul
they are the drums of many rhythms for the days without beats…

they are the they in the they that they are…

a true poet is the patience under the udders of poesy
the patience that caresses poetic breasts for abundance of milk
he is the humble ember that waits for the caress of winds for fire
under the watch of the tripod who hold the pot of muse…

for the pot needs fire for agitation
to spit forth the froth of muse madness…

the winds have blessed my ember…

alao…
walk lanes…get patience…get winds…light the elders…

III

alao…

this is the third time i write to you
from the bones that held the cheeks of elders…

and upon your seeking hills for muse and madness
i throw the gourd of answers…

may my gourd remain a gourd and not falter into shards
may your hills heal into plain grounds…

i am a market of noises
may these noises tingle your ears…

my poetry is like the congealed pap caged within the shell of leaves
caressed by fine hands of musing maidens…

it is the chewing stick that lives long in the mouth of elders
the bitters that taste better on the tongues of grays…

i read the rhythms of your strings
the riots in the colours of your weaves
and the lies they told you in the feathers in your cap…

i cried into a long hiss
for you copulate with poetry like a greedy gigolo
lost into the lustful laps of sodom…

i wish you go blind…

a true poet is a soft kiss on the cheeks of art
a soothing caress on the virgin lips of poesy
he is the quietness in the threads of fine colours
the teeth that have kissed the feet of elders…

he is the meticulous knock on the corridors of muse
the mirror that mirrors himself from blurring imageries…

or what is poetry in a poetry forced?

alao…
be true…get patience…kiss softly…light the elders…

Ayoola Goodness

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