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
Poetry from Shawn Nacona Stroud
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.
Poetry from Laura Kaminski and David Subacchi
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
Poetry from Patrick Ward
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.
Poetry from Yi Wu
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
Poetry from Russell Sivey
Insane Intimacy
She phrases it so violently, “I love you,” just like a large moose fighting for dominance of a bog that has food, enough for the winter. She pierces the eardrum with her scream, keeping the eyes direct onto my chest, hoping for the hairs to draw up and burst on fire. But alas they don’t, and she grieves for her inexplicable loss of the battle of wits. Her timely burst brought upon me a segment of fear, brought by the words of intimacy, but so stated with anger and disappointment. I know my love for her has been erratic, and she certainly deserves more, but going insane is not the solution I try to say. I bring this to her attention with the utmost care and concern, but she yells intimate phrases of jubilation between kicks and wails of fist throwing. I cry for her. And she jumps off the deep-end by flipping me off and complaining about nothing, I follow her masterpiece of craziness landing another head jarring scream off the top of her lungs, just saying, “I love you.”
From Russell Sivey
Essay from Ann Tinkham
Waiting at the Wrong Track
I perched on a tilting café stool next to my fiancé, trying not to taste the greasy McChicken sandwich I washed down with a bitter double espresso chaser. We were dismayed that McFood was the finest culinary experience the St. Charles train station had to offer. In the foreground, sleek bullet trains bound for Paris screeched in, loaded up with sun-kissed Mediterranean vacationers, and zipped away from Quais E, F, and G. Assuming our train would leave from one of these tracks, we settled in.
As I tuned out rapid-fire French spoken at adjacent tables and broadcast over the intercom, I overheard a language that carried me home. The slow-moving dialogue was peppered with wide open vowels and harsh R’s, the consonants of Des Moines, Boise, and Wichita. My eavesdropping tendencies kicked in; I became a stealth voyeur, comforted by an oasis of familiar auditory cues.
A twenty-something American couple with backpacks and roll-away luggage in tow, was also awaiting a train over delicate white espresso cups. She was pale with dark wavy hair framing her baby face. A scarlet-colored Euro-tied scarf draped around her neck. He was part punk rocker, part frat boy with cropped hair, blue jeans and a black sweatshirt. Upon closer inspection, I discovered a baby stroller among their sea of luggage. They had started early, determined that their bundle of joy would fall in love France as they had.