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CAUGHT IN THE NET 88 - POETRY BY JUMOKE VERISSIMO
Series Editor - Jim Bennett
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Hello. Welcome to the next in the series of CITN featured poets. We will be looking at the work of a different poet in each edition and I hope it will help our readers to discover some new and exciting writing. This series is open to all to submit and I am now keen to read new work for this series.
You can join the CITN mailing list at
-
http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm
and following the links for Caught in the Net.
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Across and wide, above and below Where rivers met, I went there My desires sat in a liquid strength My course flowed into your snare
from; I leave, River Lone by Jumoke Verissimo |
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CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
Divorce
Lillehammer
The Fable of This-certain-land (For a place called home)
I leave, River Lone
Memoirs on Lake Ohrid
Separated
Vigil for the sun
…Stood up
3 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY:
Jumoke Verissimo
Jumoke Verissimo was born
in Lagos, Nigeria. She has worked as a journalist, copywriter, sub-editor and
editor. Her award-winning collection of poems, I am Memory explores and
experiments with the idea of memory on personal and societal levels. She has
been a guest poet at the 48th Struga Poetry Evenings, Macedonia and 15th
Norwegian
Literature Festival in Lillehammer, Norway. Some of her poems have been
translated into Arabic, Turkish, Mongolian, Macedonian, Japanese, and Norwegian.
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2 - POETRY
The city
lover
In the tales this city would tell newcomers
Yours would have a place, maybe first among
Those who thirst for love but own no lover
Or those who like to make love a tidy piece
And leave passion wandering on the streets
Gobbling streetlamps and sending anon gifts
Whistling at street corners to signal attention
Routing friends as spies and writing letters
Of a city where two should turn into a pod
And in the theatrics of these performance
You find a lover, and begin to woo survival.
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I dance naked in the rain
Yet no water touches me.
Agitation makes sweat
But that is not rain, like rain is not piss
Each time,
Waters soak the ground. Soak the root,
I remain a dry petal.
Am I the only one under the eaves?
That as earth mops water and drunken soils
Commune with roots,
I become hope waiting for raindrops to stroke my corolla,
Until I glimmer with water drops.
Being thirsty, does not mean one deserves a drink?
Under every tree are
Dry leaves lying prostrate cowered, fated to be swept
By wind or broom or scavenging legs;
I hope for a raindrop and feed on rooted mercy;
Better a petal dreaming to be wet
Than wilted in the sun.
we parted
we met
we parted
we met
we parted
we met
we melted
as memories.
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Lillehammer
In the cold of its sun, summer slept with one eye
I flow with Lake Mjøsa as it advises the newcomer:
“Strangers are at home in this land.”
Early May is home here where the sun shines warmly
On the land’s teeth.
Where green blows a kiss
Sun rays are inward
Blue night sky winks
Lures hearts into a confrontation with time
“How dare you deny me of sleep?”
I think, awake in sleep
Relaxed in the arms of a land that lights dusk
Small land
Harbouring mountain secrets.
“Do you wish to know what has happened here?” It asks.
Oppland Mountains splash pictures of the past
Steady streams of legs walk into an episode
Of dreams
Heading with vengeance for perfection
Out. In. Out. Almost In. Almost out…
Strangers leave as owners
Here someone else’s memory parts with everybody
I go home. With you?
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The Fable of This-certain-land (For a place called home)
Once upon a time in this-certain-land
there was a stream which served a people
now this stream will not flow its course,
for stumps, rocks, sand, shit, held it in a puddle.
This-certain-land was in a liquid mess,
across its borders, as the world turned a village
its stench reached into that of global infamy
This-certain-land rose to the status of a hit flop
as its moon ran a full circle – fifty whines;
their stream’s filth ate up the sun. Dark days
descended on this-certain land.
Years passed, not a soul could stand the stink,
all that was left were a mass of dreamers,
that lived reading the famous Greek myth. One day
they caged their gods and sought the Grecians’
they prayed for the twelve labours of Hercules
and soon they dreamt up a sin for
some man who is a god who would come down,
and as Hercules clean, their Augean stable—(stream).
but there were too many gods to pray to,
for many a man were themselves a god in the land
and so when they came to asking for a
one who would help their stream find its course
they hoped that fate would make their choice
for faith was something they carried as burden
they prayed – hoping some god had open-ears.
They kept praying but were also throwing
more stumps, more rocks, more sand and shit
into that river which would not flow in its course
their own gods – Soponna, Sango, Amadioha, and
a host of others, disowned this-certain-land, and
relocated from the stench that kills even gods.
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I leave, River Lone
I have visited many rivers
None has brought me to my knees
Even Styx gave me no quake
The waters of the world say I’m soul
Across and wide, above and below
Where rivers met, I went there
My desires sat in a liquid strength
My course flowed into your snare
You knew my name before I arrived,
Isn’t that why you disowned me thrice
Said without me, you would be deprived
For my boundaries flooded your waters
You wished to keep me in you, I see
Yet you knew we lived in a world apart
Your grip has paralysed my legs
But on these bent knees, I depart.
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Memoirs on Lake Ohrid
On this lake one is two: a spent tourist, a distorted dreamer.
Me is a mass blue lake eating sands
drinking mirage of balkanised twitters
bathing suits on aroused shores
memories arriving for departure
from Balkan feuds, uniting into rhetorical bliss.
Lake Ohrid has pretty wrinkles
stories en masse with blues
episodes of cares floating
paraded like a labour of idleness
Shell pickers bedding tales
One of me is twins, two is one;
Like brows meeting to be untogether.
One of me throws stones into the waters
Into ripples of blues that thaw depression
It’s like a union of all the seas I have never
known, felt or met; sealing me into a wish;
as two of me should be one of memoirs,
nostalgia, ambitions and those things that make Ohrid a Lake.
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Separated
These are not days women go bathing in village streams
bearing a pot on the head; levelling the shame of seeing
a lover; with the fame of peers applauding a carrier’s poise.
In those times we talked, I’d see granites, washed white by waters
in high spirit. My eyes also saw us on top a tree’s shadow, loitering
for a parting kiss before the voice of mother splits our talk-talk.
But what am I doing thinking of coconut trees we were forbidden to hang
around, for its owner felt every teenager was a fruit thief.
These days, when I dream of the first time we touched, I’m seeing the
Osun River flowing, meddling with our feet, though we are not there.
I sit back, watching time; knowing a stream is a long way from my longing.
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Vigil for the sun
In this gloom
Owls hoot a calypso
It is cold
Everywhere is quiet
Our eyes wear a droop
We are awake, though
Our beds sink into snores
We gather to pray
For light
When the sun sinks to the east
The moon takes the place of day
There’s near-light.
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…Stood up
My soul hangs loosely down
Though no one gloats:
A woman apart: sitting by a table, me and me
Wandering into otherselves
In half-eaten cakes, empty cups
I pick leftover conversations
On ruffled napkins, grains of rice
Soiled plates and
My attention sprawls on the table
I sit still, I don’t order food
As the waiter comes, I leave.
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3 - Afterword
Email Poetry Kit -
info@poetrykit.org - if you would like
to tell us what you think. We are looking for other poets to feature in
this series, and are open to submissions. Please send one poem and a short
bio to - info@poetrykit.org
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are Transparent Words ands Poetry Kit Magazine, which are webzines on the Poetry Kit site and this can be found at -
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