Brigitte Poirson writes

I pledge affection

To the united loves

Of my heart,

And to the tormented realms

For which it weeps,

One universe over God,

Invisible,

With empathy and caring

For all.

Brigitte Poirson writes

SONGS

Songs? 

Songs, obdurately slithering sounds 

Creeping between silent voids, 

Sleekly sickening, sleazy sounds? 

Songs mouthing true lies 

Which appeal to your too complacent, yammering pasts,

And bellow words that will hold untrue for the rest of time 

After their penetrating meaning 

Has pierced you 

And opened a space roomy enough 

To host another soul? 

Songs that leave you solidly empty, 

Just brave enough 

To drown into your own weakness 

Throughout the dirge of life, 

Subliminal messages that sublimate 

Your solitude 

Into phantoms of an empty future? 

Songs you hearken to 

Not with your heart, but with your bowels? 

Songs that defile you 

Below word level? 

Or songs shared, 

Elaborate illuminations from voices hailing 

From the other side, 

The other ride, 

Songs that heave into hope sight, 

And take you to a friendly heat, 

Flank to flank, 

To leave you gasping for love, 

Panting from love? 

Calabar Dancer -- Jimoh Buraimoh

Brigitte Poirson writes

THE NIGHT MARE

I am the night mare. 

I neigh nigh, eager to graze your hair.

Zip, zap, zoom through the dark site, 

My hooves hover over the sombre night light.

When I shake my mane and snort for your cue, 

I draw in the sky another scary curlicue

On the screen of your nocturnal air. 

I am your night mare.

I am the night mare. 

My fiery eyes flare!

Your most obtuse phantasms I will peruse. 

I will rear up and muzzle your muse!

I paw your brain for your wildest dreams, 

Fidget about your mind for your screams

And gallop wherever you stare. 

I am your night mare.

 

 The Nightmare -- Henry Fuseli

 

 

Brigitte Poirson and Tanimonure Richards Adewale write

A MUM AND SON DUET, STARRING Brigitte Poirson AND Tanimonure Richards Adewale

DRINK, SINK; THEN GLASSES CLINK.

MY AFRICAN SON

You are the very definition of ‘is’, 

You, whose sizzling life fizzles and whizzes, 

You, the rejuvenation of your forefathers 

And regeneration of my foremothers, 

The one who once sucked and breathed my blood and brain 

And injected the sun into my pallid vein, 

You, the dark epiphany of my colourless flesh, 

The luminous spirit that lights my mind afresh, 

The one who will forever plead present 

Even if a whole hemisphere claims you absent, 

You, the other half of my half-earth, 

The one from whom I have run away to from birth, 

The odd node of my bodily abode 

Whose smiles crack a heavenly code, 

The crest of my soul, its brightest spume, 

The continent of my womb, 

The forelove of my loves, 

My African son.

                             --Brigitte

Momma Dearest, 

Indeed, I am the bliss of your 'is'! 

I sizzle fizzles of breezy whizzes, 

Growing billion likes and loves strong 

In silently loud heart-falls and want-calls, 

In loudly silent dreams and screams of a fond bond.

I am proud, loud in wide wows of bows 

To the legendary rejuvenation of my forefathers, my word fathers, 

And the ageless regeneration of my foremothers, my blood mothers, 

Whose spirits, like the Holy Spirit and Jesus Christ, 

Deep drowned me, cream crowned me king of ink, king of link. 

And I go and grow in glow of wonder word blows, 

Punching bangs of blasts of killing lines, 

Stoning dumb and numb a number of reads, deep drinks in feel, 

And the thrills and chills of self kills of motherfucking plagiarists.

Yes!!! I have sucked your blood and brain, Momma! 

I have sucked them sweet and neat to be poetically fit, 

To breathe life of fun, joy and wholesome wisdom 

Into every clay who gulps the pulps of my rainbow word juice,

That they may go, multiply, and dominate in style 

The earth of poetry, as many a word factory!

I am your unborn African son 

Who injects sun into your pallid vein, 

Who lights you afresh with luminous spirit, 

Who forever pleads for a hefty, dread-filled present 

In the lies of this hemisphere's absence, 

The dark epiphany of your colourless flesh, 

The other half of your half, complete in complement.

I am proud and loud, Momma, 

As the acme of your soul, the brightest white of your spume, 

The great African continent of your European womb, 

Forelove of a sea of loves, glowing you cool, good and true.

Yes, I am your African Son.

                                --Adewale