Wild Dream
For the man who loved— the soft clumped earth
in the moss' net of tightened tender roots,
the green carpet sod underfoot,
the dew & wet brown leaves falling together
on this bed, here & there, here & now,
& now the trees, & now the wind flinging wings
wide to open, coming & splintering
between his fingers, to beat against his face
in tandem with the ripples of his veins—
his eyes widens in recollection of raindrops
that rose through taproot, through bird beak,
through the only exhale of the body,
through & through until a funnel arose,
a gray, swirling, floral pole, patterned in twirls,
roughly hewn from rocking breath & wet.
& he witnessed it all in his breast,
laid awake dreaming of it; how it carnaged,
madly moved, how it seemed to stare from up high,
its very loft, as if wanting an answer for pain,
as if trying to tell him to restrain himself.
& this man is spent, his days are no longer young,
his energies dissipated into violin songs,
wooden now inside & outside,
a wrinkled tree, hollow at the stoop,
where the thrush nests & nettles graze,
where beetles rasp & butterflies veer,
where wild flowers frolic naked & unashamed,
as a lethargic stream struggles by
wild as a dream, as eyes roaming
beneath eyelids, as wonder paling, fading,
lets go of his hands & of his heart,
the last stages of atrophy & then, he is stone,
carved into the nook of a soft pasture,
nosed by root, big & small, brown & green.
Clouds sail away, hemmed with golden threads
& distance; a disturbed rumbling, a righteous
returning, that cold loft
opening itself to swallow
only to find the man empty, a body out of breath.
When The Moon Went To Sleep
Lowering the wick of the oil lamp
in the sky— the struggling sea drawn
by fireflies— the withered voice
of her breasts crouches in whispered
urgency of grief & fondles my tongue
with rough fingers. The ashes
of the day draw bandages over
her eyes & the sinew thin earth
chips the rainy night. The ground & I
float, & the moon goes to sleep;
body caught by light. In the flat water
of the mirror, the calabash of my body
opens, sacred as any junction
& the curve of her stomach leaves
a tender wound without language.
The soggy tissues of dusk flowers
with dew, the breeze traps
the circumference of sky & weight
of clouds. I touch the moon's white
bone, a bleak candle flame drinking
shadows & her waist beads sing the call
to prayer. Come, lover, into the silver
sparks of my spittle, under couplets
of rain & poem these wet seasons.
Olokun has all the water; I have all
the thirst. I lick the salty seaweed
& at the door mouth, the softest shape
of want. Have faith, she says.
I step into her & drown.
BIO:
Osahon Oka is a Nigerian, Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominated poet. He is the winner of the Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest June, 2017 and a winner of the Visual Verse Autumn Writing Prize 2022. His poems have appeared in Libretto Magazine, Neocolonial passage, Icefloe Press and elsewhere.
For the man who loved— the soft clumped earth
in the moss' net of tightened tender roots,
the green carpet sod underfoot,
the dew & wet brown leaves falling together
on this bed, here & there, here & now,
& now the trees, & now the wind flinging wings
wide to open, coming & splintering
between his fingers, to beat against his face
in tandem with the ripples of his veins—
his eyes widens in recollection of raindrops
that rose through taproot, through bird beak,
through the only exhale of the body,
through & through until a funnel arose,
a gray, swirling, floral pole, patterned in twirls,
roughly hewn from rocking breath & wet.
& he witnessed it all in his breast,
laid awake dreaming of it; how it carnaged,
madly moved, how it seemed to stare from up high,
its very loft, as if wanting an answer for pain,
as if trying to tell him to restrain himself.
& this man is spent, his days are no longer young,
his energies dissipated into violin songs,
wooden now inside & outside,
a wrinkled tree, hollow at the stoop,
where the thrush nests & nettles graze,
where beetles rasp & butterflies veer,
where wild flowers frolic naked & unashamed,
as a lethargic stream struggles by
wild as a dream, as eyes roaming
beneath eyelids, as wonder paling, fading,
lets go of his hands & of his heart,
the last stages of atrophy & then, he is stone,
carved into the nook of a soft pasture,
nosed by root, big & small, brown & green.
Clouds sail away, hemmed with golden threads
& distance; a disturbed rumbling, a righteous
returning, that cold loft
opening itself to swallow
only to find the man empty, a body out of breath.
When The Moon Went To Sleep
Lowering the wick of the oil lamp
in the sky— the struggling sea drawn
by fireflies— the withered voice
of her breasts crouches in whispered
urgency of grief & fondles my tongue
with rough fingers. The ashes
of the day draw bandages over
her eyes & the sinew thin earth
chips the rainy night. The ground & I
float, & the moon goes to sleep;
body caught by light. In the flat water
of the mirror, the calabash of my body
opens, sacred as any junction
& the curve of her stomach leaves
a tender wound without language.
The soggy tissues of dusk flowers
with dew, the breeze traps
the circumference of sky & weight
of clouds. I touch the moon's white
bone, a bleak candle flame drinking
shadows & her waist beads sing the call
to prayer. Come, lover, into the silver
sparks of my spittle, under couplets
of rain & poem these wet seasons.
Olokun has all the water; I have all
the thirst. I lick the salty seaweed
& at the door mouth, the softest shape
of want. Have faith, she says.
I step into her & drown.
BIO:
Osahon Oka is a Nigerian, Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominated poet. He is the winner of the Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest June, 2017 and a winner of the Visual Verse Autumn Writing Prize 2022. His poems have appeared in Libretto Magazine, Neocolonial passage, Icefloe Press and elsewhere.
