My mother loves Saint Anthony,
\nthe patron of lost things,
\nincluding me who came back
\nafter years of exile in the West.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You\u2019re still the same<\/em>, she said. But I\u2019ve learned in humble ways: by clement and inclement weathers, I learned from the worms an unfinished poem, tweaks here and there, I know a thing about memory: But memory is not a dog. Memory is a flea I pluck you, flea, from behind my ear. To remember is to reach into a fire I let words, spoken with pain, What\u2019s human without memory? Christ have mercy on the youth We went to war swearing to defeat the world. Years on, did our wounds heal? What\u2019s human without memory? Warehouse of the past, <\/em>The past, if forgotten, pollutes My tongue turned numb When my tongue came to life years later I learned to speak like little kids. <\/em>There is no other. (So All the Time I Was Sitting on an Egg <\/em>– Lola Shoneyin)<\/p>\n\n\n\n Poetry is an egg. Eggs are always a mystery. I, too, sit on an egg As a child I had a pet hen that never flew. The Art of Loving What is Not Perfect<\/strong>
\nLike all sons in their moms\u2019 hearts<\/em>, I thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nI\u2019m not the genius she said I was.
\nNor did I become the rich man she\u2019d hoped to see.
\nI\u2019m her son, nonetheless, bruised and tempered<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nby loving and unloving strangers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nto wend my way in wet and dirt.
\nI know that any day could be the end.
\nUntil then, good Lord, I trudge on, I,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nand hopes <\/strong>it will one day give a stranger a smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Memory: a Parable<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
\nIt is a blind dog left in a distant city.
\nIt finds a home in a shelter, waiting for love.
\nMonths on, chance brings its master around.
\nAt the sound of his voice it jumps and barks
\nand whines and wags its tail.
\nWill the master reject it again?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nIt\u2019s a cat:
\nstubborn,
\nclingy,
\nquiet,
\npurring beside you
\neven while you\u2019re on Facebook or WhatsApp
\nor while you watch Nigeria play Brazil.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nthat loves you
\nbecause you are alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nI do not throw you away to the dust.
\nI hold you before my eyes
\nto remind me I am a mere mortal.<\/p>\n\n\n\nMemory: a prayer<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
\nto save a letter for you in a foreign tongue.
\nYou could be burnt again if it\u2019s translated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nbear witness to lives, lived.
\nI whisper them and pretend
\nthe dead aren\u2019t dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nWhat\u2019s memory that cannot heal?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nwho has never hugged a virgin on earth,
\nbut hopes for seventy-two in heaven.
\nChrist have mercy on me,
\nwho mistook war songs for love songs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nWe returned, sad that the world abandoned us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nOr did they grow numb coatings?
\nHow could I ever forget the silent groans,
\nor the many unheard prayers,
\nI, who saw Medusa\u2019s face and lived?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nWhat\u2019s memory that cannot heal?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nteach me not how evil others were to me;
\nteach me what I need to do
\nto be among the redeemed
\nwho wrote on their ancestral walls:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n<\/em>the village drinking well<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\nSpeak to me, memory <\/h3>\n\n\n\n
\nwhen I saw a man struck by a bomb.
\nHe opened his mouth.
\nI did not hear what came out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nI swore never to utter
\ntruths in the language of cherubs
\nor the shibboleths of the celebs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nAnd I say what I read on his lips
\nbefore his last fight
\nBoy, run for your life. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n<\/em>Not here. Not after<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\nSitting on an egg<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
\nIt\u2019s nothing without the care
\nof a brooding parent, the warmth of life.
\nIt\u2019s nothing without shells that ward off critters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nThey give birth to singers and stingers;
\nones with fangs of poison,
\nothers with wings of passion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nhoping that what comes out
\nwill have wings
\neven if it doesn\u2019t fly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nNow and again, though, it tried.
\nAnd I knew it never forgot what wings are for.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\nMy mother loves Saint Anthony,
\nthe patron of lost things,
\nincluding me who came back
\nafter years of exile in the West.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2147,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1754","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1754","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1754"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1754\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2497,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1754\/revisions\/2497"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2147"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1754"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1754"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1754"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}