Poetry

Marial Awendit: A Possible Induction with My Creator

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay (modified)

A Possible Induction with My Creator

In this dark cage, only a few cramps
And about nine months
To prepare you for a lifetime,
Which expiry date I will
Let you know, just be patient.

A giant mummy. A fossil. A stumble.

Do not edit this body.
The Universe is all here at your service.
Sin or holiness,
All need a body to grow in.
Absolutely no Magi.

A mind can be both hammer and wood
-There are some things you may mend
By ++++++ breaking.

About keeping my things with you, I did that already.
Pain, learn it. Sometimes it chisels.

The world is a dark room and your soul a bare foot,
Be prepared to ask your parents
If they broke glasses or scented petals on the floor.

Do you need the half-light?
Pull air into you, even when wind breaks trees.

By the way in 2014, you will bury your brother.
I almost forgot your father. Do you agree?

Oo fear, fear also needs blood to grow in.

Learn its benefits & purpose.
Play everywhere but the rule is simple;
You’ll never be left alone.

Break one holy grass stem and I may please send
Somebody +++ break +++ any part of yours.
I can even use +++++ you!

————-

nobody told us

(-written on 9th August, 2018, a month before a plane crashed in Yirol, Lakes State)

nobody told us
where the sun is
hiding its fears,
but we know home
is where only the bees
make the sweetest honey.
this home now misty
trying to dry my skin
is a sign of rain
that may not fall
for all things.

i am here
today rehearsing
only for a finale.

i stray alone,
in quest to magnify my existence.
once i tried to hang my pains
upon a shoulder of a statue,
at the mausoleum.

yes, the rain fell
and i could feel
its tears thinner
than my skin.

maybe we should exist as statues,
with the rain’s absence
bringing home more strength.

home, where only air
has most freedom.
freedom that lets one fly
off a tall building.

one may get a lucky fall
into a moonlit coffin
laid with white sponge,
and blue perfume
loud enough to not hear.

in Yali,
maybe grass has grown now,
to tell stories men command
their voices to hide.

about the things we tell by their absence,
no air there is deep enough to hide me.

the trees hid their speech
before arriving,
and cannot tell between jumping
and a plane crashing.

————-

In Which Language

In which language is death sweet
And enjoyable, like a flower shedding off honey
Or just say perfumed mist flooding the earth?

I try to simulate how I dream
Myself dead but wake up to a living.
Still, I am not sure about the dreams of the dead.

In which land is death trivial,
Like a feather falling in the wind,
While the whole world dances to azonto beats,

Or just say a flea flying behind my back
While an elephant treks past my feet?

————-

If the Two Fronts

If the two fronts face;
Cameras cocked and
Bible pages blasting.

++++++++ In the wind weighty with silence,
++++++ Chalices rattle on a shelf far away.
Is heaven toasting bread?

++++++++ Then a rain of flashes.
For every flash of a shot;
A meadow of flowers falls,
++++++ The air is ripped,
A flag bleeds,
Trumpets call,
++++++ Ammoniac whiff bends in the air
And the buzzards run for cover.

————-
Poems (c) Marial Awendit
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay (modifird)

About the author

Marial Awendit

Marial Awendit is a South Sudanese poet and essayist. His poems have been published in Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, African Writer, Praxis Magazine Online, Best New African Poets Anthology and elsewhere lit. He won the 2016 South Sudan Youth Talent Award for the category of Best Poet and the 2018 Babishai-Niwe Poetry Award.

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