Stanley O. Ayodeji


(poems 1-8  from ‘I Only Hate You Because I Love You’)

 
Short Stories Told In the Rhythm Of Poetry (poems 1-8 from ‘I Only Hate You Because I Love You’) Stanley O. Ayodeji Amazon Forest (a poem about war) As ancient trees twist ravaged, Gasping to produce life-giving air, Helpless hour by hour strangles What’s left of Earth’s community. In milliseconds, each split tick of time Splinters splendid ancestral rows by the stalk, Unceremoniously hacked from long roots Like foremothers and forefathers one hopes Are not buried and forgotten. The Amazon Rainforest bleeds dry, So the order of nature follows, anticipatory, Dismantled by heaviest hands of Man - His boundless efforts to strip each leaf, Killing last glints of seed one by one. The Rainforest’s fire-embers smoke protest As it bravely keels to a plot of earth, Kneels to its last; ashes to ashes, Despite its might, silently returns to dust, No more fighting, virtually overnight Igniting on the cusp of irreversible extinction, Like moments ancient past and lost. Lifelines culled in unnatural disorder As each strong stalk falls In no particular order, piled up Like dying soldiers Moved out of the sun. As Luck Would Have It. This poor soul of a girl Turns to sigh on her own, Hidden in a desolate street That looks like any other. She inhales the air, just Enough to make one last breath Before death says she should no longer Suffer through the motions. Then she toys with the idea of staying put But exhales effortlessly instead, Joining hands with the dead, Allowing her inaudible sigh To reach up high And mingle with the sky, As luck would have it. A to Z of Militancy. After Becoming Completely Disheartened Eventually Fighting Gave Hope. I Joined Knowledgeable Like-minded Militants Not Oppositional Pacifists Questioned Rules Statute Tyranny Until Victorious We Xcluded Yesterdays Zealots. Ball ache (a poem cut short). “What a ball-ache!” he squeezes, Manipulating and caressing Each testicle whilst undressing, Guilty at first as if he really shouldn’t be. He fondles his little ‘seed sack’ Along the front and round the back, Keeps the lump he’s found “Top secret!” Because “It couldn’t be.” The organ plays a sombre hymn. Six men carry his coffin in At the funeral. Unbeknownst to him, If he’d said something, it wouldn’t be. Bargaining Tool. Coming from his world of Pervading trouble and strife He chose to stab his enemy With a kitchen knife, Never thinking the intended victim Would be shopping with his wife New-born baby in his arms Representing life. He looked upon the weapon Held tight in his own bitter hand At the carelessly unsuspecting victim He was soon to callously reprimand, But in an act of REALisation He did not altogether understand He (somehow) walked away Knife tucked into his waistband. Boxer. The walk begins the moment the hour sings. Bloodthirsty fans rage and scream For the fulfilled prediction of a staked dream. Tensions rise. The P.A. system blasts out each song. “I want a good, clean fight. Protect yourselves at all times.” “Seconds out. Round One.” Gritted teeth bite into hardboiled rubber-plastic Moulded to complement the jawline like a glove. Shoved, battered with every hit, Making the perfect protective fit. Lurking behind a shell of soft cladding Bound in treated leather, folded fingers Hide controlled anger of death-giving fury, Formed fists poised to pounce (left fist, Judge) Wrapped by the ounce (right fist, Jury). Slick boots glint with silver tassels, Laced tight, comfortable thin soles, Ready-made to slide, tap, glide over a canvas Squared off by rope pulled taut. Crafted shorts out-shimmer embroidered gowns Embossed by nicknames in the spotlight glimmer. From a tempered skull Misshaped by a boxer’s dreams Invaded by just one whack too many, Sweat outpours in bucketloads absolute, Washing over old war wounds which never heal Or go away, gushing as if from a red rock Rained upon until softened permanently by water. Golden rich beads, sweat, emotion, blood, Dark depths of dedication, dolls for ring-girls, Ambition topped with brand new money, Branded old money, fat promoters, spongers, Black dresses linking tuxedos waggling top tails, Tricks playing tricks with stiff dicks and chancers, Ringside security, paramedics, cops, exotic dancers, stars, Sportscars over speedbumps. Media. Ex-champs. Chumps. Echoing shouts of ticket touts As ringside seats exchange in thick hands At three times the going price for a single, Four times for a pair, in this game anything’s fair. Alcohol permitted, steaming chips, warm pies, Hotdogs, burgers, corn on the cob, two for one, All-day Breakfast in a Bun, on the go eating, A bottle of coke @ 40% off is no joke to be sniffed at. The odds and sods at the top tables duped by cheating. The Golden Moment: Two majestic emperors Enter the arena chiselled and erect Nod in respect as gloves touch For a sense of weakness, Unable to relinquish By even this much Or be vanquished. Majestic statues, face-to-face, Sculpted from rock, god-like eye-to-eye. Bull-like necks are built To withstand the impact Of accumulative head trauma. Almost scripted, expressions gnarl on cue Into a flurry of distorted menace Legally hand-delivered in precise combinations That aren’t (as an understatement) very nice. Finely-tuned, rehearsed over and over Until released by memory, bad intention, Each pinpoint hit crunches with carnage Like the head-on collision of two high-speed trains. As new bruises grimace Old wounds frown and recoil, Pounding fearfully with relish, The challenge of a twist of a fist against bone As faces swell until broken blow by blow. Eyelids stretch discoloured Weeping over closing eyes. Still the heart goes on. An emperor tumbles heavily Against the canvas floor, semi-conscious. An unconscious crowd screams. He was majestic once, but no more. . Calm, But No Oasis. It is calm But no oasis. This shell of hers Discarded brutally Like nothing. A flicker of any life at all Is spilled easily Like ebbing water. It is calm But no oasis. This hell of hers Regarded posthumously Worth nothing. Life no longer flickers Like an innocent lamb to the slaughter. Checking Out. As I check out, let the flags out By silently unpeeling every creased fold. Send someone to go knocking on each door, To cover every inch of floor, within reason. Ensure nobody is missed, everyone gets told That I have grown old, and now, my friend, Have reached the end of my season. Ask them all to gather in a square One morning. Or take up space in a disused hall. When the idea of my absence is dawning, Here, in a random place somewhere They should tell each other funny stories, Recite unrehearsed poems into the night That rhyme, or not. Be oblivious of time! As their poetic chatter whispers in the air Even for just one morning, it will not Be that I have gone and that is that. I will no longer be reciting, but listening From a comfortable seat there at the back Not soon to be forgot. For every season, As you know, does come and go. Stanley Ayodeji (C) 2020