Rivalry- a poem of taste

Image result for kissing evil abstract in black and white

Picture gotten from- Pinterest

Have you consoled your embroidery?

your interwoven sleeves carved from healing smites?

Mother of souls.

Mother of colds with cursed sores.

You remind me of moon tales,

skipping bad omens for good fortune.

 

Oh buttercup!

Save these little fingers for one itch.

Bring men that think like goldsmiths,

black and beaten, chosen by water.

We can twist the tongue in spirals,

our food still wouldn’t know it’s born yet.

 

Let me tell you about noise-

Early mornings are for early mournings.

I’ve heard women say this

“visit me in places that make me scream”

another way to lure gardens to a shore.

…breathing heavily in silence.

 

I am

a taste of my own sin,

a dying flesh with wages sold as the moon rises.

I am

an in-betweener of stolen air,

in rivalry with my own mouth.

 

 

 

 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.

 

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The perfect kind of lie

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Picture gotten from- AJGIEL

It’s not the same old. It’s not the differences in passing time either. It’s the new ways I’ve learned to listen, hold hands, rejoice and share. I’m a bit swollen from it all.

My head yearns for more. The drive pushes me every morning to be productive, to not call it a day until I play my favourite songs whilst doing something tangible. I can’t describe how fast these days go by, how they tend to be so full of nothing that really matters, how some of it can be so selfish and lonely. In gaining more, I’ve lost a lot more, forgetting often that people can only bear what they can for a certain time. I’ve thought about others as well, how quick these people have grown, how far they’ve come. It’s mostly unthinkable yet very impressive.

Everyone has got nights they choose to sleep their worries till morning or drink it all away, “party it out” or just sit and think about them. I wish I was just like everyone, at least what aches would be much easier to bear.

My truth is living what I’m happy for. Watching the people around me and far as well growing at their own pace. My truth is learning from others, learning these new ways to write, learning new ways in all and new survival instincts too. It’s self-distrusting but I hold unto myself most times unshakingly. It’s very pleasing in the end.

It will be the perfect kind of lie if I told you my strings were intact or that everyone enjoys my kind of rhythm. I wouldn’t be telling the truth either about my fingers, what they type to ex-friends and those who pretend to care. Sometimes, I want to scream at people who find their route back in Malanda’s words “I’ll tell you what I’ve been and it will scare you!!”. Sometimes I wish I knew how to perfectly play the savage role.

It can be frustrating not knowing who to run to, to dump all the noises in my head or whose shoulders to cry on when I lose my breathing to tears. I demand for myself every time moments like these occur, I become my own comforter. I most times ponder on how other girls just like me get through. It can be daunting. I forgive myself everytime it hits me that my happiness is in openness, it’s in little things, it’s in where I can connect tiny dots without role play, it’s where I’m not by myself.

How can life be this meaningful with so many complicated ways of passing and reading meaning into it?

How can these people lie about coping with meaningful connections without breaking a little?

Talking.

 

 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.

 

Daddy issues

Image result for black man and daughter in black and white

Picture gotten from-Pinterest

There are three main things self-reflection may teach a patient mind: self-discipline, acceptance/openness and self-control. There are many ways people may choose to reflect which may either be loud or to the heart.

We are greater than the things we say for ourselves. We restrict our abilities to only what our eyes may have encountered and not fully with our minds and brains. We neglect the paths our hearts may create for us in thoughts of it being fragile and so delicate, forgetting that what’s broken may still be broken again in order for it to mend.

Submission

I’m very aware of reasons why feminists fight to be heard. I don’t blame extreme sexists that pull major chords as I’m intertwined in being non-feminist and sexist at the same time. I break a little when I watch things not add up with submission, when women are ridiculed about their softness. I’ve watched mum for years, I’ve seen loyalty, I’ve questioned her love.  “How can a woman, so powerful, so filled with knowledge be this?” I’ve seen other women too. I’ve watched myself try to grow out of it but it’s a born ritual. It’s my own way of welcoming peace. It’s my only power over the other.

Trust

We can totally be honest with each other but lack this. We can hold hands, laugh, talk about the children and eat in good silence when we are certain about our distrust for each other. Evenings made me believe that the sun may rise at sunset. My sister and I would read conversations with words very familiar with love written by unfamiliar people. We would both lay under blankets and brew gossips about these evenings. We were soul sisters. We grew to hate what men that looked like this do. We still talk about it, we still cry a little over what we’ve known. It’s almost like disappearing from what seems to mean good because we weren’t shown how goodness can be trusted when it’s felt. It’s not normal to be thought of  that way by another, I think every now and then.

I wish I have someone to blame everytime I choose to run with my eyes. I hope everyday for the day I was first heart broken by my eyes to be erased from my head. I don’t want to be reminded of being broken in a place that I should run to when I’m broken. I hate to talk about home to people that don’t feel like home, I don’t hate to run from home because of my eyes and the crotches it walks with when there. I hate the thought that the first man that warmed my hands when I came into this cold world stalls me from breathing into a certain type of peace I crave.

Daddy issues.

 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017

Self-betrayal for my art

05:09am

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Picture painted by Abasido

I’ve held grudges for mid-nights that refused to give me the right words, for ecstatic memories I needed to feel at times like this.

Here’s how people who applaud the cracks and loopholes in my craft talk to me.

Did you hear them? Did you see what I wrote about them? No, because they feed on silence and that quietness that keeps them at a distance.

Don’t sing praises yet for the way I make you feel. Don’t be confined in my thoughts for too long imagining how I penned it all down. Don’t love me only when you can relate to my pain. Learn to understand this place I choose to write from. Learn to fall with me without fighting gravity. Appreciate the loathe that burns through the words that speak for sanity. Know this. Know this always that I’m a breathing war.

Darkness

I wish I allow myself be whole everytime my fingers itch to speak. I wish I wouldn’t choose parts of me that aren’t naked everytime I listen to my body’s vibration.  There’s art in feeling the way I do before these processes. There’s also the art of picking what my soul’s spirit wouldn’t let the world listen to, self-betrayal.

I’d cut through these layers of my flesh to compromise for losses. I’d paint my worries red to white the agony of womanhood and my evolution. I’d dance to the tune of every poet I adore to feel sane and not hate that I do this. I’d give up writing about lust, what I think of others and where I’d rather be just to outshine these constant thoughts.

I’d betray myself everytime for this art. Writing.

Do you find yourself sometimes in similar situations of self-betrayal? Would love to know in the comment section below. Thank you.

PS– This content was featured by Abasido Michael with his beautiful art inspiring this post. Do check his Twitter page out and appreciate his content and art if you like them. Thank you. 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.

Nwoke’m

Do you ever listen to your own repetitive connections at 03:00 am too?

Image result for sexy black man in black and white

Picture gotten from-Pininterest

I’m starting to think imaginations are art. I’m starting to love the entangling emotions built from it. How strangely I could be fluid and solid like an umelted candle at the same time. I’m starting to feel all the same.

Yesterday, I thought. The day before I did too and many days and months before then again, I’ve been thinking. How would someone like you meet me? Would it be spontaneous, would be soft or angry? Would it be in a crowded room or when I’m by myself. That’s the scary part of thinking. I don’t want to be ready. I want to be with myself in full, in love, vulnerable and loud. I want us to meet unforced just like the universe has been with me lately. No mind games, no holding back. I like the modern approach, the evolution of it all. Descriptive dialogues and unending gist of our taste in music, books, movies and other people, what we worry about when it gets dark. Tell me where else you would be when you’re not with me.

Nwoke’m

When you’re here, your past is. The darkness of it won’t scare my love, I pray. The time you choose to be weak, I’ll be strong, I pray. The time you’d change, I’d learn to adapt, I pray. These are not my affirmations, they are hopefully who I’ll grow to be for me and for you until that “someday”. I believe our feet have come across same footpaths more than twice, I believe time is keeping you for magic. You are a future to wait for.

Keep yourself for me.

Nwoke’m (Igbo translation for “my man”)

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.

Oh sweet mama!

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For those who harbour a special kind of love in their hearts, I believe you all can relate to the chills your mum/mummy/mama gives you. For those who have lost theirs to this cruel world, I believe you all too can feel yours even more than I do. Every mum is a blessing, a celebration and a joy to the hearts of those who cherish a good thing.

I can’t say I’m closer to my mum than I am to my dad but part of who I am today was hugely impacted by mama. She would resound these native proverbs (incomprehensible ones) when I was little each time she wasn’t happy with me and they never really made sense until now. I sing them to my friends in English like I’m actually advising them when in reality I miss being scolded by mama. She makes the most jokes in the house and will always be the first to discipline any of my siblings including me whenever we decide to be naughty. I hated the days of “church every sunday and wednesday” coupled with “fellowship every friday” but all that I miss now knowing how much I’ve drifted away and how far from home I am.

It’s not easy to raise five children, and sometimes I look back now and admire mama in the purest way ever. The least she does is complain about how best we should be doing, instead she would find alternatives even if it means risking her all to get it for us all. Everyone in the house will call her “mgbo” (meaning-bullet) because she’s overly protective of her own especially towards papa. I’d tease her sometimes about her tummy asking her when we’d be expecting more siblings. Her response never changes anyway “Zuzuru gi shi eba puo!” (meaning- stupidly get out of here!).

I was never used to saying “I love you” to her but staying away from home for more than a year has got me into the habit of doing so, knowing how much I miss her and her Sunday white rice with “ofe akwu” (palm kernel soup). One of the tastiest you’ll ever have from a typical Igbo (ethnic group in Nigeria) home. Mama will giggle and say “Okay” each time I tell her I love her. Guess that’s the Nigerian way of saying “me too”. I very much miss my mum and I can’t bear another year apart from her nor my dad and siblings.

How much does/did your mama/mum mean/meant to you dear reader? Would love to know if there are momma’s boys and girls around my blog :). Thank you for reading.

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2016.

 

Blogging series 6: Never have I ever

by Dyna Ekwueme

Image result for running away

Picture gotten from-Runningaway

WRITTEN FOR THE THINGS AND PEOPLE I LUSTED FOR

Being vulnerable about my fantasies and sexual cravings for certain kinds of profane words and touch that emits all kinds of vibrations in my writing. Never have I ever been found writing about my wants for  someone else, someone who doesn’t want me, someone who probably thinks I don’t exist. The hypnosis of my feelings, like a spree cursed by a god.

WRITTEN FOR THE THINGS I GAINED FROM PAIN 

The writer’s block I get every now and then, fleeing from my blog like I’m all about that busy life. I wouldn’t write about the long piles of unpublished posts in my draft which has me thinking “I’m not good enough for me”. The resits people don’t see but praise me for as a university girl. The pain and struggle behind it all tends to be hidden in what appears to be like “she’s doing okay” to you.

WRITTEN FOR THE PEOPLE WHO NEED THIS WRITING

With self-obsessive writing blinding me, I fail to write for those who need their voices projected, for those who look up to words to heal them, for those who are not educated and need their tears sent to the government, parliament, leaders, charity organizations and philanthropic bodies through my writing. Never have I ever written enough for change, for love for others, for unity, for development and for substance of evolution.

Part 2 contributed by Emediong Etetim

WRITTEN FOR THE LIFE I WISH I HAD
Everyone feels they understand the level of pain or frustration I’m in. To them, only my feet is touching the water. To me, only my head is above the water. Never have my words been understood but rather misconstrued. Now to live a life where it is okay to not have to explain myself at every turn is all I crave to have.

Disclaimer: This piece was originally written by me and part contributed by Emediong Etetim. No one else had contributed to this piece. 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2016.

 

 

Blogging series 5: The spirit behind “I am”

by Marvel Augustine

Image result for who you are in black and white

Picture gotten from- siouxlander

In life you go through a conditioning process, it creates a mindset (habitual) overflowing with ‘I AM NOTs’. I’ll throw in more light here, take for example; as a young girl of nubile age but you seem to have a broken relationship always, you find yourself with the wrong men and so on. You feel really bad and believe that you are not good enough, you look into the mirror and compare yourself to a glamorous movie idol or homecoming queen and say to yourself, I am not attractive.

Your relationship fractures, and you then begin to think you’re unloved or unworthy. Better still as a schoolchild with a less satisfactory scores (grades) on your report card, you say to yourself, “I am not smart”. These and many more are continuous occurrences you develop all through the years and into adulthood, which begins to define the way you see yourself.

Overcoming this “I am not” mindset  or mentality begins with trusting your inner spirit. There are no boundaries restricting your inner spirit, but your worldview and conceptions to the outer world are defined by this, using your five senses. The outer world is always changing, which, by our definition, means it is not real. This awareness that remains unchanging is the only reality that could lead you to experiencing a majestic wake-up
call.

Run through as many inventories as you can of the things that you would like to define your life with, then make the shift of your imaginations from “I AM NOT” to “I AM”. If you want what follows “I AM” to be harmonious, you should become conscious of what affects your inner spirit. Change the words that define the concept of yourself. Reword your inner mindset first, then seek to gain access to the real you and all that you  desire.

The words “I AM” which you consistently use should define who you truly are and what you are capable of. It should be represented as meek as that of the holy expression for the name of God. Always make your very first consideration the honor of your divine spirit. This will allow you rise to previously unimagined heights.Spiritual acknowledgement is a trigger to the power of “I AM”. Teach your outer self to acknowledge the Supernatural power of your inner spirit.

“I AM”, two of the most powerful words ever, whatever you put after them defines your reality. Stay positive!

Disclaimer: This piece was originally written by Marvel Augustine and this is one of the media he chose to share his inspirational piece. No parts were added by me or anyone. 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2016.

Blogging series 4: Forest of Promise

by Aiidee Sinclair

I was on my way to Bonny Island to see a relative. We had boarded a ship and sailed off. After about 35 mins we heard fired gunshots. 

Image result for island with green forests

Picture gotten from-Thailand

“what is the problem?” I asked one of the cabin crew.” our ship is under attack by a group of gangsters ” a man I could I tell from his voice was in great panic answered.

“what?!” I screamed on top of my voice with my heart throbbing aloud.

“Please Mr. help me! they are after me” said the most beautiful and gorgeous girl I have ever seen, crying by the end of the ship just close to the entrance of the main door.

I wasn’t in my right thinking as I forgot for a moment that we were in a great deal of danger. Her natural beauty got me. I finally decided to help, as what else was there to do when we were under attack by the unknown. As I pulled her up from the ground, she seemed frightened and had given me a distrustful look.

“What is happening? what offence did you commit? was it you who had caused this attack?” I asked furiously not minding if she had answers to it or not. It felt like such a nightmare. ” I was about to be smuggled into a world that doesn’t exist, I had escaped before my abductors knew what was next”  she replied with a hasty look. 

“boss! there she is” A man with a huge jaw beard appeared from behind her. She turned,  pointing at the three hefty men with large figures and a mean lookwalking towards us with the man I had seen at first, screaming 

“please Mr. help me! those men are after me”, I quickly grabbed her by her hand  and began running towards the front of the ship not knowing where this will eventually lead us.

“There is no other option than for us to jump as many of the crew had done” I said softly to her when we got to the front top of the ship. She didn’t hesitate but jumped off the ship. I followed swiftly. We swam for what seemed like an eternity until I passed out….

we found ourselves at the shore of the sea surrounded by thick green forests….

To be continued…

Disclaimer: This piece was originally written by Aiidee Sinclair and this is one of the media he chose to share his fictional prose. No parts were added by me or anyone. 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2016.

 

Blogging series 3: The fortress of our romance

by Vic-Sandra

Image result for romance in black and white

                                        Picture gotten from-Rominblack

Words unspoken
Eyes unrelated
The quiet of the distance
The distance between the space
Her tongue rising only to fall
Her lips parting only to sigh
And her voice heard, only to falter
And only the heart in his voice could lift her gaze

And this is the fortress of our romance;
Backs aback,
Rears at rage,
Thumping thresholds,
Even the boundaries bicker
The carcasses of our empty pain linked umbilically
And the laughs of our yesterday stand appalled
Is this the fortress of our romance?

Tight eyes open only with hope of a promise
The promise to be held beyond our grief
And the faith in his safe hands,
Ones that nudged my entirety to life
And cradled my fears to sleep
For the edge we sought had found us
And only our instinctive breath had pulled us beyond our volatile volition
In hindsight, this really was our fortress
For only here did we fight, to love
And cry to smile
And part to be held.

Part 1: contributed by Dyna Ekwueme

In soft touch we rekindled,

doses of unfelt passion.

The place we had it all

bearing  it with trade marks of our untold kisses

The memoirs of our romance

The letters written in penance.

Oh darling! how strong can you feel this love

the plight of our soft edges.

Let me save you this beating heart

a thousand times and more

to feel this thing we bore,

Love, Ore.

Disclaimer:This piece was originally written by Vic-Sandra and part contributed by me. No parts were added by any other.

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2016.