OUR HOME IS BLEEDING

And night comes like a thief, with a gentleness that caresses 
the eyes with a gleaming broken ray written on a brittle glass
disappearing into the horizon like broken sparks of flames,
and then night falls like stars ready to devour our hopes.

The afternoon is dead with barrows lurking in our palms ,
Our dreams down like a warzone burnt into ashes by the 
Bombings in our tongues and throats which our hearts can only hear.

It is a cold coming, our dreams of having a brick over our dangling head,
Ready to be broken into pieces by the muzzle under the bomb of bazooka.

Let there be hopes as the gwagwalada river flows in the tacit lust of 
Our cauliflowers_ drips of the night’s velvets on our sparkling rivulents.

Can we be pieces and faces bonded by unity and aspirations of better future?
Can we be the race with our wings not sunken with only dreams?

Can we be the home to the sweats and blood of our own self?

After this and thats, we could only cuddle our broken spirit in that cocoon
Buried underneath our blankets.
                                     
Let there be a NIGERIA with realms of aspirations in our blood,
Let the great labor of our heroes be not in vanity washed in pain.
Let there be a nation free from the cuff of servitude and pain. 

Tajudeen Muadh Bayo, lightening pen X, is a poet from Nigeria. His works appear forthcoming on magazines including Afrihill Press, Scars Tv and others. He’s also a member of the Hilltops Creative Arts Foundation.

The Way I’d Like to Die

When my folk penned the lines

“The way I’d like to die”

Short but as a hero

With gold amass, laid dead on them

Then I posted to myself how I’d like to die

And my heart pondered a whit

I’d like to live wealthy, abound

Enough to acquire my desires without a sigh,

For that makes life easier.

I’d like it long and old

Telling tales of yesteryears to my grands,

For nothing more refreshing than that.

I’d like it calm and tranquil

With faces of loved ones to gaze at,

Without them, life is a misery.

I’d like to live on, ages ahead

In the minds of men, both acquaintance and aliens

With my footprint seen on the Niger

For that’s the greatest achievement ever.

I know no death bad, for none which is good

But I fair not as a dog on the road

Neither like a prey to a predator

Yet when at last death did me seek

I’d like it gentle and fast

Peaceful, with little regret behind

Then I’d have the rest I crave

Only then would death be a release

Song Title: Take The First Step
Genre: Pop

Chorus
Take the first step  (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (3ce)

Verse 1
They say ‘the journey of a thousand mile begins with a step’
Yea, taking a step could be very herculean
Fear of failure would suffice as the rationale
However, taking the risk is worth it
After all, failing forward is better than not stepping out
The journey of success begins with taking the first step
So, take the giant stride
Take the first step!

Chorus
Take the first step (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (2ce)

Verse 2
Discouragement is a part of success
Success is a journey, not a terminus
Determination without conception is like reaching a destination without intention
Consistency is inevitably important
Life is what you make of it
Walk your talk to see your worth
You learn those only if you take the first step
Now, take the first step!

Chorus
Take the first step  (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (3ce)

Verse 3
The first step in life is uneasy;
It’s like you taking the bull by the horn
It’s similar to how tasking it would be putting the crown on your head
The first step is a lesson that would give room for further learning;
It’s like getting past the hurdles of life
It’s similar to taking away life’s road blocks
The first step marks the road to your freedom
A great feat it would be when you take the first step!

Chorus
Take the first step  (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (3ce)

What the Man who Laughs can Tell us about Masculinity
By Jaylan Salman

Silent cinema is a mystery to generations that have gone way past the missing dialogue and artistic expression. But as the filmmaking process progresses and avant-garde art dominates a rather dull cinematic world after the introduction of online platforms and networks that exist purely in cyberspace, seeking different and more experimental forms of cinematic experiences has become -strangely- more mainstream.

The origin of the Joker character started in the silent film, giving it a hint of popularity. However, the idea of disfiguring men playing roles that hover on the verge of sympathy vs. non-sympathy could tell a lot about modern society when seen through the light of a politically-correct-driven cinema.

Lon Chaney and Conrad Veidt were two actors recognized for their aggressive masculinity that existed between machismo and the dream-pop verse of soft boys. In their roles, they played dark men, haunted and wounded by society’s addiction to normative beauty aesthetics. As part of the interloping male/female gaze, beauty ideals demanded that Lon and Conrad become misunderstood monsters. They had to play the classic man-monster trope in a Classic Hollywood setting without missing the romanticized touch in the later films. To use Conrad in the classic film version of “The Man Who Laughs” is to subvert our vision from his heinous features to what is more or less masculine representation onscreen. Chances are, man-monsters have been a fascination for centuries. In worlds such as Victor Hugo’s novels, man-monsters are deformed masculine figures, usually crossing paths with fragile, rather petulant women who either defy their independent aesthetic “ugliness” or seem undeterred by it.

“The Man Who Laughs” is not an exception to what Hugo considers ugly, encouraging readers or viewers to judge these characters for their looks, even if their qualities usurp the physical. His cruelty in creating the malformed men-beasts of his writings encompasses a more nuanced analysis of the social and political contexts in which his stories existed. 

Enter “The Man Who Laughs” L'Homme qui rit, a less popular novel by Victor Hugo which uses the bored French noblemen and the absurd playfulness of the aristocracy as a social critique of classism, aesthetics, and in many ways, ghoulish masculinity which dominated novels of the romanticism era. This essay tries to draw a comparison or rather a constructive analysis of representing the main protagonist Gwynplaine in the silent 1928 film and the 2012 musical version through both actors chosen to play him and what that tells about modern masculinity and bestiality. 

In other films where the human monster appears, it’s through the lens of the bizarre, this carrier of a penis wreaks wrath and fear into the hearts of the fine ladies of the black and white (or silent) cinema. He is feared, despised, and “othered”. The monster is the mutant anti-hero to the chiseled chad. For Batman, there’s the Joker and the Penguin. For James Bond, there’s Alec Trevelyan and Le Chiffre. But in the 1928 “The Man Who Laughs” the mutant man-monster is seen through a sympathetic lens, played by Conrad Veidt, a German Lon Chaney who specialized in the physically displeasing characters who reigned the German Expressionist films in the 1920s. 

The demonic grin and crazy eyes contrast with the enforced laughter and mirror Gwynplaine’s abstract torture of being forced to live with his expressionist face while using his eyes to try and reveal his internal agony. Veidt could not be a better actor to embody the brutal fragility of Gwynplaine, his eyes trapping a thousand emotions, all suffocated through his emblematic Glasgow smile. As a silent-film performer, Vedit uses extended poses, stalled gestures, muscular control over the fluency of movement, and extreme crookedness in posture followed by sudden, erratically paced movements. His performance is an extreme expression of the character’s inner conflict conveyed through eye contact, body quivers, facial tics, and a body motion that oscillates between the stifled and the frantic.
Veidt’s Gwynplaine is a rare breed of masculinity, one that does not comprise a menace to society. It is neither inviting nor appealing, it off puts rather than revels in the charm of the ugly. His relationship with the female protagonists. In 1928, the love story between Gwynplaine and Dea feels like a gothic dream; bestiality turned into romance.  While in the 2012 version, the plotline that involves their love is more nuanced and erotic, using both actors’ sex appeal in their favor, creating a story that is both poetic and earthy.

The 2012 French adaptation has clear Tom Tykwer vibes, although directed by Jean-Pierre Améris. The influence of color and atmosphere, as well as the larger-than-life exaggerated depiction of the English aristocracy, has given it a different dimension than its silent 1928 counterpart. It started with picking the actor who played the main protagonist, Canadian androgynous heartthrob Marc-André Grondin as Gwynplaine, and through the complete transformation of the main protagonist casting choice, the film took a dramatic shift toward an undeniably interesting -if a bit less mystique- angle. Grondin is handsome, dark, gender-bending, and homoerotic. 

Jean-Marc Vallée’s c.r.a.z.y, a coming-of-age tale that saw Grondin being the archetypal dreamboy/softboy within an LGBTQ context, solidified his softboy and fluid form of masculinity. Grondin as Gwynplaine had nothing to do with Veidt’s. This 2012 version of Gwynplaine was handsome in an “imperfect way”, taking the film narrative afresh.

The 2012 Gwynplaine was fragile, emasculate, beautiful, and scarred. The movie portrayed his love story with Dea in an ethereal, dreamy sense, unlike the 1928 version where Gwynplaine was fearsome, appearing to emerge from a nightmare, his face a work of art that hid behind it layers and layers of repressed fear, torment, and agony. In the 1928 version, Gwynplaine could barely move a facial muscle. In the 2012 version, Gwynplaine could reveal himself through his semi-deformed face, the spectrum of human expressions “happiness, fear, sadness, and love” evident on his features regardless of his mutated cheeks and lips.

The silent film medium of 1928 created a symbolic meaning of how Gwynplaine was used and abused by the haunting presence of the people around him. It glorified its freakish looks, unashamed of being attacked by a better understanding of the language or depiction of a non-normative person regarding beauty standards and aesthetics. 

Using words like “ghoulish,” “freaky,” and “ugly” with liberty to describe this silent version of Gwynplaine in which director Paul Leni reveled in his protagonist’s disproportionate features that defied what it meant to be wholesome and complete. But in the 2012 adaptation of Hugo’s novel, Gwynplaine had a voice and thick luscious black hair and dazzling eyes, his Glasgow smile merely an afterthought, a meditation on what it meant to be freaky and not freaky, as if Gwynplaine walked the thin line between normalcy and bizarre. 

To say that one version is better than the other is a mistake or -for better lack of terms - a problematic way of evaluating cinema as an art form. The Man Who Laughs conjures a sense of French cinema with the grimness and intolerable cruelty of Victor Hugo’s politicized commentary on aristocratic society. This separates the art from the artist, the film interpretation and adaptation from the heart and soul of the filmmaker’s intent. The Man Who Laughs might not be a timeless story, but its adaptations are a revelation and necessary for lovers of film and art worldwide. 
 

Therapeutics 

It is misting this morning.
So, I open the door to my mouth,
unattired, bring out my tongue,
to kiss waters, undiluted.

And this is a great healing:

Our village market has so many routes.
I mean there are ways to live
in places where air is not measured 
with a needle’s eye.

And this is a path to life: bonding––

bond to what gives you hope,
to what gives you a clan,
to what or who calls your name
each time a gusty wind makes itself known

and news about broken things hover around.

So I ask: when harmattan visits,
will you take me as your tropical plant
and spray on me fine droplets? Will you?

Calling for Waters

Because I know darkness is a pebble in search
of a home within me, I call for a drink of water
be it ice falling from heavens,
morning misting on leaves,
a drop of tears from rocks
or the salty sea enclosing borders
to flush them beyond death chamber
before they know the sweetness of success.
Because every day knows the hug of night,
I mean to say light is a man
and darkness is a beautiful maiden
standing along the lane to our home,
waiting to mould us into victims of fate;
(but fate is not a living thing)
I call waters from the depth of holy well
for cleansing. So I would sight only white angels
chanting my name into unending life.
Because I discover my demons are sour salts,
I poke the rock holding me captive.
What proceeds out of it I call fluid, 
you can call it waters from within me.
So my demons would know the feel 
of body melting into pain, into grief.
Because I love the sound of the drum echoing: 
life is a lollipop in the hands of a toddler,
I call upon waters to heal me, in every way possible.

Become Waters

There is fire burning beneath my skin.
It is ruthless than the kind of fire
your clergy makes you see on worship days.
Do not imagine this. Some caked bread
are better not shared––I’ve swallowed this one.
This is not me displaying my pains on a 5D screen.
The smokes erupting from my body is the reason 
the neighbourhood’s nose breathed questions.
And yes, this is the answer you seek.
Forgive me. I am stingy with the spirit.
Let my body alone be filled with it until I am 
reduced to fine particles on the palms of earth,
until I become the regalia of ash worn by wind.
Be alive, yes live in a peaceful piece
but become waters––water is life. Become waters.
Be alive. Be life itself. Friend, I shall burn.
A cut of this fire said so in a foreign tongue––
it took me a while to crack this hard nut.
Forgive me I did not tell you soon enough
that I am the brown pigment on your roof.
In a flash, be waters––hug me into life eternal.
You live. I would leave and live in you.

SJ Fowler is a writer, poet and performer who lives in London. His work aims to encapsulate an expansive understanding of what poetry and literature can be – exploring the textual, visual, asemic, concrete, sonic, collaborative, performative, improvised, curatorial – through 40 publications, 200 performances in over 40 countries, 4 large scale event programs, numerous commissions, collaborations and more. His work has been commissioned by Tate Modern, BBC Radio 3, Somerset House, Tate Britain, London Sinfonietta, Southbank Centre, National Centre for Writing, National Poetry Library, Science Museum and Liverpool Biennial amongst others. http://www.stevenjfowler.com