Pandemic Poems - APRIL 2020
Bio Note: My flair for poetry has spanned a decade now since my undergraduate days. I have been in my university’s creative writers club and served as editor in 2012/13. Poetry is my relief in times when I am clogged, the way I express my mood, whatever state of mind I am in. I have two volumes of fifty poems each; Broken Psalms and \i>Holy & the Ivy although I have not been able to publish them. I am currently working on a chapbook of romance poetry A Stir in a Vanilla Twilight. My training is in medicine but I have come to love and appreciate poetry. My work has been published or is forthcoming in WRR, Ofi Press and Rumpus.
invasion of microbes
earth’s foreman ploughs with long intercontinental hands for spawned seeds in her womb. on massachusetts review it is the intensification of anti-Asian pathogen racism that follows a patterned script of three acts: invasion, eradication & strenghtening of white bodies on the screen then i turn to the dead street outside my window half-opened & half-shut for life against the witty hand in the air, marvelling at the power of microbes; a world beyond unaided eyes, non-cellular strands wearing tailored protein coats, the bad habits of china & the church bell tolling in the empty cathedral downtown. i lean into the quiet still; (dead streets), dead shores, grounded airplanes, putin’s rumoured lions in moscow, un statistics & wikipedia. stay at home! stay at home! abuja cowers in her radiant blue watch for terrorists, herdsmen fracas, stranded ghosts lurking―the foreman tricking in shapes of every form malleable, brittle, metallic, irradiant, one virus, one influenza holding earth ransom.
love now as you always will when you’re half the world away aeroplanes no longer fly the earth for hearts to spill in episodes of different time zones, ogling at delights of spicy airhostesses kissed in dreams. spectacles of window shoppers in daylight, crowded airport lounges, walkways, school buses & early humans. night & day are all the same for a sparrow’s return; the frigid bed is warm, fluffy feelings in cuddled spaces of mating cries. zero jet-lags. zero i have an emergency & sudden wings in flight as the world is flitting away let life & death remain in one body
madam vera’s chickens
there were nine birds since february an agile rooster with five wives, three growing chicks in her wired cage. it crowed & flapped bright red feathered wings every morning to suck in the bleary sun for the household as she served their measured rations of shredded corn & wheat before mass. they did not join the fast of lent & pecked the patterns of her broom when she swept the compound, filling the centre of her lonely life all nine of them before it happened; ants infestation since last month she did not notice. the proud cock died on easter sunday & she wept, plucking the feathers in her kitchen. in the dead of the fevered night, a stranger hand robbed three hens, one stranded chick murdered by her neighbour’s useless dog. she dreamed of boys boiling their flesh, singing ‘we dealt with that old woman,’ the smell of chicken spice clinging to her sedate nostrils. yesterday one left, her most treasured hen. this morning she rose in summary of all their popping sounds & killed them all, crying as she stripped their bodies, longing a future filled with birds.
©2020 Hopewell Amana
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