Continuing my Notes to Self on the art:
Guard your Art with Diligence
They want your art to reach people and places you, the artist, can’t and wouldn’t reach.
It – the art – has to speak languages you don’t even understand. It has to get to borderlines of war and peace; of oppression and equity. It has to criticize and it has to judge (judge not that you may not be judge? Well your art has been judged!). Your art has to think and make others think. Your art has to trouble the waters and it must not sink when it walks on said-waters. ‘Peace be still‘ will be for your art when you arrive so bring it and most importantly, your art has to be on its own. Be able to live in another house from you, talk differently, talk back at you when you write, play lawn tennis with you even if it’s just you against the wall (pun intended!). Your art must set you against the world. If it doesn’t do this they (check previous post)don’t believe you.
You art has to have a heart.
Your art must fall in love and love others just like it loves itself. Your art must be ready to follow you for sacrifice even when there is no ram in sight (yes! remember Abraham and Isaac?). Your art must walk by faith and not by sight. You must teach your art to pray, to believe; to trust; to own itself because when you are gone, it would be left alone to fight for itself. Your heart must love but it must love you and this is very difficult because your art is a teenager every other day.
Which brings you to the tough one.
Your art must not be raped by the wrong ideology.
In fact your art must keep it’s virginity till… Well forever because if your art becomes a mother of anarchy, wrong doctrine and false perception, the wrong perspective and all the bad secenerios of the world today, you are a bad
Parent artist. So curb your art when it talks back at you but listen to your art when it is hungry. When it is angry, admit why and provide the answers why it shouldn’t. Your art is pious if you think it is and it is the best to see this too. On a second thought, your art should get pregnant at the right time. Good art brings good doctrine, wisdom and long life.
Your art has no gender but it is endangered.
Giant-Panda kind of endangered. Your art is not feminist, racist, Marxist masculinist, fascists and all that; you are! You are a bottle, your art is wine and ugly wine-shapes are because the bottles aren’t so beautiful. Not to state the actual scenerio. Your art is bitter because you are. Your art hurts people like knife piercing through the heart almost like a double-edged sword because you either are a swordsman or woman; that or you’ve been equally hurt. Your art is you but don’t try to be your art. It is dangerous.
To be continued
HE led me through raging lions and tormenting seas but HE kept me, didn’t tempt me. HE preserved me, my voice and gave me a choice to become great or become late.
My crossroad was the cross, the truth was my guide but I was a visitor so I carried little. This world was not my own neither the bread which used to be stone. These trials and hard times, these battles, these wars which were waged within were not mine, anymore.
I owned nothing but I owed nothing. HE was my pilot, my greatest lot, my vault of treasury, my salt and armoury. With HIM, I overcame the mistake of lying to myself, with HIM I overcame the stakes of dying to myself. I died and resurrected only by HIS name sake.
I bruised the heads of a hydra, even the snake which wielded the most abominable thing: sin. By HIS stripes I was healed but as HIS scribe my joy was sealed. This beginning smelt like the air was exhaled by tongues of fire, breaths of old beliefs broken because HE loves me.
I love HIM too, Jesus the CHRIST
I GIVE THANKS
Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots.
Luke 23:34 KJV
The people who ordered JESUS’ death, they didn’t know they were killing an incarnate of their creator. Then again, they didn’t want to know. Yet, He, going through the pain – the most shameful of that time – decided to forgive. I wouldn’t lie to you, if I were JESUS, I would have called a legion, just a legion of angels, to show them who they were messing with. I guess I’m still like that but we are all works in progress through faith in Jesus.
Forgiveness is trading hurt for love.
In the real sense, its letting go of the hurt for love to set in.
Jesus was wise…still is. He let off the hurt which grieving over their wrong-doing would cause him by choosing to love them. In other words, forgiveness makes you light and gives you light too. So instead of grieving over the hurt, no matter how deep, learn to heal by forgiving. Jesus did it, still does it with us.
Imagine Jesus doesnt forgive us (lets not go there). The devil has accused us on several occassions but thank God its forgiveness that always comes up as the verdict. YOU ARE HEREBY SENTENCED TO FORGIVENESS. THANK YOU JESUS. Be like Jesus, forgive!
But ye have an unction from the Holy One, and ye know all things.
1 John 2:20 KJV
From this scripture, it appears that when we come face to face with challenges bigger than ourselves, the first thing is not to fret or worry about the implication or the need for innovation but to simply remember God.
John reminds us that we have the ability and endowment to know all things and this comes from God. In other words, God doesn’t withhold things from us, we simply don’t connect properly to Him.
Sometimes, we doubt that we know what we know. We doubt His forgiveness, His Love, His presence always being with us. There is, therefore, no situation too big to be handled with this unction from the Holy One, no test or exam too hard, no responsibility too high, unreached. I challenge you today as I have been challenged, to uncover this unction as powered by the Holy Spirit and walk in the manifestation of one who knows all things because God reveals them appropriately.
So receive God today if you haven’t, come out of the ignorance and into the light of knowing all.
So, I found out that it was a mere crush – a better sounding name for teenage
love infatuation. It wasn’t love at all. I remember being told that love never dies and it’s not jealous. I tried to relate the way I felt to the way my parents felt for each other. For a moment, I thought they expressed their love in ‘old school’. But old’s cool you know…
The way I felt around you – the fact that I always wanted your body to touch mine, I discovered was not love. I would come up with a suitable name for it but at least, I have discovered the name it isn’t.
So, now that you have broken your relationship with Yinka, I know you are expecting me to run into the comfort of your arms as I hoped you would seek comfort in mine. I write to tell you that all emotions for you are used up, now waste and discarded. I wouldn’t want to sound harsh or think you cared, but I want you to know that your plan B is not possible. It would never be.
I have decided to keep my hands clenched, mind open, heart locked till I find wedlock.
I wrote you earlier this afternoon about how happy I was that I was progressing in my attempt to get you for myself. But tonight, I was hit and crippled by incredulity, I was drowning in sadness. I couldn’t understand this feeling. I was stupid to be happy over the feel of a single hug, to think that you were drifting away from your boyfriend; that the hug was a sign – the fact that you pressed your chest against mine, the originality of it.
I saw both of you tonight; I saw the way you smiled at him…looked into his eyes and at them. I have never seen you behave that way around me. At first, I did not really notice that it was you; all I saw was a happy girl in love. But I cleared this image from my head immediately I found out it was you.
Your boyfriend Yinka called me to greet me; I felt he said my name with trust and respect that I believe(d) I’m a fool for trying to betray him. Then, you called my name in the usual way which triggers my love, clicks in my heart and makes my brain reload to shoot memories of you into my head again.
Should I kill my brain’s control over my action, allowing my heart to take control? I’ve always heard that love comes from the heart, and that is where pain is felt. I do not know where I feel this pain any more. Does it come from the eyes I can’t stop from pouring down tears or my heart which skipped a beat when I saw you and Yinka and now beats in millions? Does it come from my brain which cannot currently think of anything straight? What is this silence I now feel, is it loneliness or pain?
This poem was first published on poet’s blog
Parents they say
Are meant to train up their kids
In the way that is just,
Expose them to the world
While shielding them from the evil within-
The father, the pillar of the home
The mother, the keeper of the home
Baba ni jigi
Baba has crumbled
And the opa of Orunmila stolen;
What then holds the family together?
Iya ni wura
Her golden eyes opened to the sins of the father
Baba’s eyes opened to the faults of the mother
As their love finite fades away-
They bicker like the Keeper and Hera
who in the beginning of time warred
until love drifted away from them
leaving a void in their hearts;
a veiling of their souls that kept them apart.
Now Father is sealed away (in the void)
To be afflicted by his sins
And the mother no longer able
To stomach the sight of her children-
for they remind her of Father!
So the children driven to rebuild
Cause a tear in the veil
Between both worlds
To release their father
And to make whole
that which is broken.
Osibote Andrew O. is a 300 level Accounting student in Babcock University, a lover of poetry. He can be reached on firstname.lastname@example.org and runs the blog poecticmotives.blogspot.com
Have you not seen those children
Who spit at the body
Of their mother
nude upon the streets
Which they built with her blood
Decorating the boulevards
With her widdering hair and
Her lips, soiled with curses
Have you not seen those children
Who glory in the under garments
Of their mother
Whose words are darts to the sufferings
She bore, building their minds
She swore, hoarding the pain
She tore, through fist and mist
And now, she is a score old
Unburied because she apparently knows nothing – dead
Have you not seen those children
Who whisper lasciviously
Boasting in the ravage of this land
Combed by those violent tributes
Where crude voices altar the praise
Of their mother’s pierced eyes
Her judgement impaled
I know you are watching them
By peeping through window holes
I know you are watching this brokenness
I know you know that it returns
This shame and neglect; I know you forgot