a dance for the dead
the trees looked like matchsticks

waiting for the spark
to light up the night

& illuminate the living
& their dance

in spite of death

Continue reading →

Christened

For Laurie Byro and Laura M. Kaminski

Baptism by fire is more tenacious

than water. It does not run

down skin in tickling rivulets, vanish

as though evaporated from our minds—

it’s a brand that reminds

with an eternal searing. I was

five when christened beneath

the coals. My backside sizzled

with the sound of grilling meat.

It reeked of roast fowl. Even now

I can smell the stench of that day, hear

those embers frizzle in their fount

before toppling onto me. At night

mother would pull my white garments off

as one rips away packing tape.

No ointments or pills numbed me. I’d cringe

from her smiles while she labored

stripping my skin into something she might love.

Family

We used to be fused
like Pangea—
simply one shoreline, one
ocean pressing it all in. Years
have wrenched us apart. I may
now drift upon some other sea
but you still wear the scars
where you ripped from me.

Continue reading →

Jos Market

after another bombing in Jos, Nigeria on Thursday, 26-February-2015

it’s cold outside

in our house
close to the window
I keep a grand bowl

filled overflowing
with the children of trees —
mangoes, plantains
papaya

this bowl
is a sun
Nigerian sun
my sun

my arms and hands
wrap around the whole of it

my body
embraces it

mercy

mercy, it’s
cold

–Laura M Kaminski

A Mother’s Prayer

Will you allow me
To educate my son
As a mother does
Boko Haram
To give good example
To the sons of others

Or will you take him
To be taught
In your way
Boko Haram
To kill others
Without mercy

For God is merciful

The son of Ibrahim
Was spared
The son of Abraham
Was spared
No human sacrifice
Was required

In return for belief
In God
Faith
In God

For God is merciful

Be merciful to me
That is my prayer
Boko Haram
Not my way
Not your way
But God’s way

— David Subacchi &
Laura M Kaminski

Dust on Our Hands

It’s not straightforward
Or maybe it is
Culture, past and civilisation
Should not be erased
With sledge hammers
And power drills

The architecture
Of minorities
That has endured
Thousands of years
Should not be shattered
As an act of warfare
The precious treasures

Of an ancient heritage
Should not be looted
Fragile manuscripts
Should not be burned
To erase identity

A bulldozer
Driven by militants
Should not level
To the ground
Nimrud’s statues
Walls and castle

Far away in London
Curators carefully clean
The great stone lions
And magnificent bulls
That were taken in 1847
To an empire’s museum

You should not
Pulverise the past
In an attempt
To control the future
But perhaps we all have
Some dust on our hands.

–David Subacchi

Call Me Down the Rain

work-song honoring those attempting to return home
to territory reclaimed from Boko Haram

I must dance a circle
bring the monsoon
call me down the rain

pray like someone greedy
give me give me give
more than my share

of this year’s water
bring it bring it bring
the water, carry me the river

call me down the rain
and flood the plateau, bring
rags and buckets to me

you will find me on
my knees and scrubbing
more than red dust

more than harmattan,
I must scrub the northland
clean down to the bedrock

how can we return
to farm and village, how
can we plant new crops

in this earth from which
we’ve lifted the broken
bodies of kin and country

washed them, taken them,
them all, to mourn and bury?
how can we till land

charred from bomb-blasts,
how can we plant when
we keep finding bullet-

casings in the soil?
our lips will not permit
yam and cassava grown

in blood-soaked dirt
to cross them, our bodies
will refuse such tainted

nourishment. no. you
must carry the Benue
here, bring bring me

water, call me down
the rain so I can first
scrub the stains

of blood and bitterness,
scrub until there’s
nothing left but dancing

here, until the stain is
gone from memory,
from sole and soul —
call me down the rain

–Laura M Kaminski

David Subacchi studied at the University of Liverpool.  He was born in Wales of Italian roots and writes in English, Welsh and sometimes in Italian.   Cestrian Press has published two collections of his poems. ‘First Cut’ (2012) and ‘Hiding in Shadows’ (2014).

Laura M Kaminski (Halima Ayuba) grew up in northern Nigeria, went to school in New Orleans, and currently lives in rural Missouri. She is an Associate Editor at Right Hand Pointing; links to her published poetry are available at arkofidentity.wordpress.com

PLANTING BUTTERBEANS
When I was a young lad, I had the wonderful experience of planting something,

then watching it grow.

I’d drop the seed into the rich dirt, and let nature take its course.

The rain and the sun played a huge role in their natural growth.

So I sat by and watched God and mother nature perform their masterpiece.

Continue reading →

If Knot

Yi Wu

Spring has wiped clear last bits of frost to get an improved eyesight

Knowing end of a long queue before her is coming

After fruits have over-riped and frozen from daylight

Like how photos taken of untimely moments remain after lens is clean

Her first show gives snowy images, snowy images preserved in iceboxes

Where thermostat’s pointer swerves below thirty-two

Prolonged gaze, an involuntary one, gives a shadow, indelible

It is what it was

And I, followed by a contour, two-dimensional

And turning into darkness, fearful

Of standing up yet too weak to fall asleep soundly,

Similarly cannot run,

Like how rock stars fall from grace to the stage floor when shoelaces

Entangle with rings on groupies’ notebooks awaiting autographs, tripping loudly

In this noise of broken drums and sound systems, reminiscent

Of what children hear of an industrial city.

The shadow has quietly replaced me