Bright Lights, Big City

I decided that today I would share a poem I wrote a few months ago. I plead with you not to be alarmed. I am not considering popping myself off. I wrote it in July, about 6 months after I moved back to Lagos and I was struggling with the constant noise and general stress. All I wanted was a moments peace and quiet but I couldn't get it so I decided to write a poem instead and this is what came out. It is actually meant to be funny, might I add. It is dark humour, so laugh!



Bright lights big city
Sad life, grief, pity

Lagos, unexpectedly
Saves us from tragedy
Gnarled souls who hanker
For a high speed train
Under which to end the pain

Damfoes not fast enough
No bona fide fast lanes
Butt to butt traffic,
Never ending pedestrian campaign

Third mainland is not guaranteed
The chicken driver may brake
Sapele boatmen beneath may break your fall
From a "minor slip, a mistake"

The emzor may be chalk,
And bring you round to rescue
Having dreamt of having died
Waking dry eyed to your mother's cries.

Prayer warriors loom large
Ready to do battle on your behalf
Arise arise arise!
Interrupting your peaceful demise.

*

Damn the lack of infrastructure
So restrictive in its absence
Forcing the tired to keep on trucking

In stressful, unfruitful yearning
For that last beautiful deer in the headlights terror
That finally signals the end

Bright lights, big city
Not a hope of suicide in Las Gidi.


Minjiba Cookey
3rd July 2012

I Came and Saw

I gave. The gore, I tempered;
dissecting precisely,
ten blade and scalpel
liberating caramel

I framed, discussed, conjectured
bleeping mental jigsaw
with pieces where they should go
Not where they are

Dammit, not where they are

I flailed, I thought, I pondered
rationalised and aware
chose the should-and-surely-must-be,
despite the fact-of-what-is-and-therefore-IS


*


Dear Glenn Lewis,

It is always too late
I will wait.
For it is lost already.

This love:
I came and saw, that no one can conquer.

Goodbye

Aretha says: R-E-S-P-E-C-T

The month of October is dedicated to something called Black History Month. Hmm. I have conflicting thoughts about the concept. Sometimes, I think it's a laudable pursuit, at other times, I feel like it's totally pointless. In all the time I've been here, I've always consciously refrained from taking part in any of the festivities, but this year, in the vane of trying new things etc, I thought I'd go along to a spoken word/poetry slam at the Museum of London. It ended up being very good, even though there wasn't masses of eye candy to feast on (tee hee!!). Why are all the men born short these days? Anyway, moving right along...


Breis, who works in English and Yoruba, both accompanied and accapella, was an amazing performance poet. He had this song where he pieced together snippets of 80s children's TV (kind of like a retrospective), but it was set to real high life music. It was like rapping to a Fela/Sonny Ade/Lagbaja/Black eyed Peas sound track. Hard to explain, but very entertaining. It's also quite funny, because America (the new flatmate) and I owe him a fiver each. We didn't have any cash on us, because queueing at the cash point would have made us late for the show, and we didn't think we'd be buying anything, anyway. But by the time he was done, we had to have his CD, so he gave us a copy each and said we could pay him back whenever his next gig is. We were like, are you sure? And he was like, are you sure, cos it's you owing me! So now we have fivers sewn into the lining of our handbags, so that if we spot him from a mile off, we can mow him down and pay. God forbid that we should be those two chicks who scammed some dude unintentionally!


Then there was Xena Edwards, who sang in Xosa and shared a new poem she's been working on. You could feel her through her work. With her looking like she was on the verge of tears, it was a very moving experience to watch her baring her soul. And she had this funny little instrument as well, which mesmerised you as she played.


Kat Francois made us all laugh with her parodies of the tube in rush hour. Her poems were accessible and funny, and she did these really cool voice manipulations to give life to her performance. She was funny, and I loved, loved, loved her work, but some stuff she did got me thinking. Or as Carrie Bradshaw would say, I couldn't help but wonder...


The only thing that I find a bit naff about all these Black History Month things, is the predictable way in which people use it as a license to level insult at other cultures. There were many anit-white jibes thrown out from the stage, which let's be honest, if the tables were turned, and a white person threw out those kind of jokes, we'd be calling them racist and boycotting their services. Granted, they were jokes, and they were funny, but I'm not sure that it's right to eat our cake and have it, in the respect game. We can't get people to walk on eggshells around us, and then the moment we get a chance, insult them with things that we wouldn't be willing to accept. D'you see what I mean? Only last week, that lady in the Tory party was sacked for a racist comment someone made about her picture. If a white comedian joked about a black person, it would be the world's greatest catastrophe. Yet, our comedians take the mick out of white people all the time, as she did at this event.


Without meaning to sound like I have my priorities screwed up (which I don't), I think it's something that needs to be adressed. Do unto others as you'd have others do unto you...Yes, we have different cultures, and by virtue of that, I know there are things we'll never understand about each other. There are ways in which we have different opinions about things. There are ways in which every group thinks their society/community is slightly superior to others. No one's denying that. My darling Canadian flatmates never got why I had to oil my scalp in the winter. They thought it was gross, whereas, for my tropical body, it was the only thing I could to to make sure I survived a dry minus 40C winter with a strand of hair left in my head, but there you go! I never got why they called their parents friends or tutors by their first name and not aunty/uncle or Mr/Miss/Mrs - I thought it was the height of rudeness, but like I said, there you go! Sure, we're different and all, but if we can't take disrespect, then we shouldn't be so quick to give it! Does anyone else feel like this, or is it just me?



So anyway, while we're on the subject of poetry, here is a poem by someone whose work I love. She's a good friend, and she just captures the meaning of things so well. You can visit her blog to see more. Enjoy!



And Almost At Peace

Don't wonder about me.
Don't mystify your mind with
the dark smoke of my psyche.
And should you decide to take
a swim in the deep dark water
of my personality at dawn,
you will drown, happily,
in the seduction of my melancholy.
But beware, here be sunshine
reflecting off this cavern's gleaming depths.
The energy of happy serenity is a fix I crave.
I waive the right to inhabit this place.
But it's warm and it's home
And every terrible moment is nontheless
comforting in its familiarity.
The question quickly comes: Am I
a single star in this place,
or another dark and glittering diamond?
Deep shit I know, this desire for expression
always verges on the dramatic.
In my cavern, it's silent.
I live, alone. And almost at peace.



See? Told you it was wonderful! Xx

Nightclub

photo from http://www.gordonbarker.com/new_images/nightclub.jpg

While I was in a club recently, I started thinking about what the space meant to the people who were there, what it represented, and why we had all chosen to spend four to five hours of our night there (apart from the 'obvious' pursuit of fun). I didn't go in there planning to go all Lefebvre and intellectualize a night out - that's just nerdy - but it randomly occured to me during a mini dancing time-out to catch my breath. As the idea occured to me in Kabuki (which means Japanese theatre) I had hoped the poem would be a Haiku (Japanese style of poetry) to match , but the words didn't quite work out like that. Anyways, here it is! x

Nightclub

Den of meditation
Nectarisation of desires
Boiling down, sweetening slowly
Like jam.

Space of mixed anthems
Consciousness individualised
Me, my, mine, to group dancing
Startling clarity.

Most irreverent of decibels
Sinewy lyrics, testosterone rhymes
Latent distraction a blank silence
To ponder life.

Subversion of curse
Wallflower to observe, flanneur
Crowd watching and cross referencing
Mental resource.

Cocoon of darkness
Shock of flashing lights
Subconscious epiphany brewing
Unlikely oasis.



© June 2007

A Tale of One City

Conglomeration of intellect and wit
With Billy Bryson in Foyles Bookshop
The sound of travel writing and jokes
Cheery bibliophiles high on the smell
Of new paper, varnish and ink.
Drunk on silence, queueing for autographs
While a nameless crazy scholar rocked on the floor,
Marinating in his own stink.

**
A stroll through Soho in the evening breeeze
Latent with distraction, ‘Dirty White Boy’
Emblazoned on Old Compton Street
Yummy cakes in windows, flip flops on our feet
30% off strawberry sauce and ribs
Rainbow artwork objectified the gay night
Their hands clammy in clasp, making a point
Gazes held slightly longer, longer in assessment.
**
Rounding the night up with music and drinks
Mojitos and shots of Absinthe are both green
So imagine my shock in Marketplace Bar
Where existential shit smirked from the walls
Taunting the Drum and Bass
Threatening sound barriers
WOOD stencilled onto wood in jest or silent reproach
Philosophy not love, residing in weird places.
**
Three stages of a night, in the womb of Londinium
Randomness and beauty, a tale of one city

On Being Still

This picture was electronically drawn by Erika Aoyama on April 5, 2003

Rhythmic beating of Conga,
Eyes toward the sun
The trek to peace continues
Till the earth be done.

We know the fingers of fear
Like the touch of a lover
Like the duvet on which we’ve learnt to rest
Roll over, roll over.

And in the silent waiting
We conspire with the dawn
Senses upturned and open
To hear the voice from beyond.

Rhythmic beating of Conga,
A wailing among the reeds
Gulping relief like water
Peace bathes us like the seas.



© May 2007

Words

This is the back garden at home. I used this image because it's one of my favourite places to write. Sitting under the tree, it's so peaceful and laid back. The only thing you have to watch out for is random splogdes of bird poo that occassionally come flying down, hahaha!

Why do words fascinate me so?
Both to listen and to speak.
Aren’t they so pretty?
Ledges on which to ponder
While gazing at the sky.

Or perhaps they are the sky,
Under which we wonder.
Up to which we aspire
Beneath where we burgeon and grow.

© April 2006

What Friendship Should Be

The nectar of humanity
Peeling back like a flower
Moments of absurdity
Residing in friendship’s power

Some blood is undiluted by water
Some water never sullied by blood
The complexity of disagreement
Demystifying the illusion of enlightenment

Cider ruminating on the past
And beer foretelling the future
Really the conversation should last
Until dreams are combined by suture

The accommodation of different music
Appreciation of another taste
Walking the mile a deux
When there’s only so far your legs can go

And why should Friendship get less than love
When from her shoulders, he launches his acrobatics
She's a firmer bottom line to have
The rest is purely semantics.

Minjiba Cookey © 2007

Wielding Dreams

Salvadore Dali: Woman at the Window

When I look,
it is not backwards or forwards
for those judgements, now
are beyond my reach;
not mine to make, to say, to know.

Over my shoulder, yet
precursor to the progress of my thought,
a rambling through delirium
Of questions, and probing
to the achievement of nought

Perhaps I lie.

Through looking back, I see
where I would really rather be.
Too wrenching to visit those climes
whose intensity recomended them
to a forthcoming day – minus woe -
that hasn’t yet come.
Not yet, no.

Sadly,

in sculpting the future,
snippets of Before insist
quite staunchly on inclusion:
‘Ode to me, be governed by this.’
The bastard past
of scalding, in a warm cradle of fleece
that I must insist
should persist no more.

But do I desist?

Ready as ever, rat pee on a factory tin
I draw out my familiar canvas
of where your smile begins;
burned through your hollow cheeks
and your calves spring you up,
so ready to rise,
to jog your way free.

Oh the places you said
you would take me to see!
You are still my back drop
when now I want you not to be.

But my engine is creaky now.
There is a sad finality to my weep.
A bit of damp on the old cheeks.
And a cry so savage, the timbre is deep.

So.

That would mean a bye-bye
to you forever.
About-face on all our dreams
being lived out now by others.
Not ours to wield anymore, it would seem.
The time for youth has gone
and the sea of hard choice comes.

Two oars rowed to an island
and there were laid apart -
where one inquired of the sky
and gleaned nothing,
where the other atoned for the past
and gained nothing.
Where both, they breathed for a tomorrow,
and breathed some more
and are still,
in separate unison
Breathing…
Panting…
Choking…
Is this death?

Not in a nutshell, no.

But suppose,
Just suppose.
One dream uttered in two voices,
ventured by two agreeing minds,
is the sling from the past
which will haul us at present
into the dewy future?
Suppose it was strong enough
to make its defectors renegades?

What would we do then?