Search This Blog

Friday, March 1, 2019

Poetry: In Memorial


I bet nobody out there can dispute it
When I say parenting is a role;
And what a huge role this is for no dodgy souls;
It is also not something to be emotively measured
By the dichotomy of sex that vex sometimes;
But about who put their soul more in the role;
No disrespect to mothers world over
For all the love and attention you showered your babies;
Is it about the pains of pregnancy or childbirth, especially?
For which you naturally edged it from the heavens;
Is it about being a bundle of delicate intuitions?
Even though it is largely unknown and untapped;
But it takes a little extra that not everybody can give;
That's why I love more who does it betters for me unabashed;
Of course, that clearly is my dad! Like all real men,
Always, he was likewise pregnant with my mother;
Because he felt and cater to her pains, irritableness and anxiety;
Once more, blessed be his benevolent soul in glorious ascent;
He was a gallant battler whom I will forever adore
For his ridiculous parenting ethics;
Parenting for him was an exercise in unrestricted joy;
And not an endured tour of routine domestic shores;
It was all encompassing I should say,
That no one could measure it round about;
But is there a child with a father and not mother?
Then, Mother, forgive and forget
What may look like my contemptuous overlook;
And for this long,
I could easily have been taken for a son ungrateful;
That, among men, I should talk less and less of you,
Like you are nobody;
Yet, there is no deity, say the Yoruba, like a mother;
And I cannot begrudge them their proudly mother's sentiments;
Now if but in the graces of poesy,
I must hasten to bring you this long deserved expiation
For a goddess that you are;
You brought me safely into daylight;
And so deserve more than some accolades;
You could have flushed me out
Like one of those monthly circles;
As restless sea washed up the dead and unwanted
From its stream beds upon the sandy shores;
Your love till date is unsurpassed by any woman I know;
From the break of day till dusk your ways are fair;
Your works are well cut out for you too;
And you perfectly reigned in;
You are my sweet guardian angel;
Watching my unpredictably tottering steps
Lest I fatally stumbled;
I was a bundle of joy
Continually fastened on your back with *Aran Strap;
Indeed fruitful you are,
If tabooed to count and number your children for you;
It would, however, be remembered
Your womb brought them forth
In hundreds of ten thousands;
And marching on they are
To possess the gate of their enemies;
But how I wish you live long enough, Mother, to see
Many of your children's children;
For beautiful and lovable they are to behold
And your love would not have been withheld from them;
To see your clothes bathed with expensive perfumes
And adorned with the finest of precious stones;
Your feet stride with lion skinned shoes;
To give you rides in choice luxury cars;
And your last days spent in the most splendid of houses;
To my regrets, this is where your fate
Is eternally bonded with your beloved half;
In whom I must say, unequivocally, love and care
For children, his children are most perfected!
Yet, it was in him
                                              The talks of children being insurance for old age perished



*Dedicated to the memory of my mother,Mrs  Olaluwe. She died in 2005.

Glossary of difficult words: *Aran is an expensive fabrics popular among the Yoruba of the South West, Nigeria. it is usually referred to by mothers to indicate how much they treasure their kids.

Criticism of the piece is welcome from anybody who's got a knack for poetry.
>

Random Posts