OJO TAIYE - POEMS

Ojo Taiye is a young Nigerian who uses poetry as a handy tool to hide his frustration with the society. He's a twenty- three-year-old microbiology graduate from Tansian University. He lovea books and Anime in that order. Taiye, has some of his muddled thoughts published and forthcoming in a few e-magazine such as Kalahari Review, Tuck magazine, Lunaris Review, Elsewhere, whispersinthewind33 and so on.

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         Motif of Pain


​the scramble letters of
life, converse in diglossia
that its dead weight
mutters two syllable:
salty puddles, or
combat.
 

        
                                                            Memory and grief


Some things mama left undone:
a suckling who needs an urgent un pair
a galley attendant
a cotton ball to 
cleanse
Papa’s ichor

Some things papa left behind: 
a red bank note 
a tattered monument 

all the things they both left behind:
memories marinated
in a bowl of grief

                                                               Untitled
 
​
the silk threads of agony
that ties throbbing wombs
to flaccid phallus
 
eyes that have lamb
in drooling dreams
eyes that spliffs
to drown boredom
 
after many visit to craggy mountains
to offer incense
to unpacified spades
that roams the orb of your dwelling place
to allow your udders swell
and wipe the shadows underneath your eaves
​

                          ANTHEMS FOR THE SUN


​Countless days and night
Need you not?
For the dead weight of breathing
Makes the vault a scary nightmare
From the cradle,
We constantly navigate the maps
Of the public square
In the streams of creative insomnia
Thirsty for the purpose
Of dance and wine
Thirsty for the purpose
Of love and grief
Thirsty for the purpose
Of dreams and becoming

                            Old love song
  

​
Love is a wicked girl
Love is a furious storm
Love is a passing wind:
It smothers, swaddles and track trails of grief
Love is the mirror wand that resurrect dead movies
Love is the shadow of your dead lover’s soul
Love is the interstitial space in your skin
The choking breath that refuses
To be putrid stench
Love is the old songs that makes you night walk
Into rusted galleries lying gnawed
In the dust of history
Love is the muffled voice in your forest
Reciting the mutations of your habits
Love is religion:
The pelting knees at the cross of passion