By Martin Ijir
I Toil Through the Deep
Come, let’s have this shower
These October rains flood ridges of veins
Dark and fluffy the moist raised hearts
Dear lover, the beer in this wine order
gasped upon our shoulder
Our waist felt the gruesome torture
As tortoise, we slime through, wet and dry
Come, let’s have this shower
For the rain is about saying farewells
The joy of this parting breaks in nine months
Dear lover, see clearly the veils in this coffee
The expressive notes that saviour provides
Holy, these rhythmic falls and rising stairs
I grub through, steadily in arch-pains
The muses of scenes in this art play
Forms the creation strength of man
Wiring the nectars of evergreen boughs
Are the radiant rays of after- joy manned at afternoon
The poet recollects the recipient’s recipes
Like the licenses of broken rules, I toil through the deep
Love is a Moth That Embraces Every Dire
Two maiden wearing silky eyes
Cladded in the fetishes of times
The bright light in her gentle shirt
Sleeveless as the crescent moon
O rosy of swooning swan
Like daffodils smiles and swims
Their eyes rise as waves in the sea
life buoying friends each day beat
Underneath a reticulated dross
The webs of love chain their heart
The poet in their heart reminds their Sun
They form a cocoon and reprimand their urn
It burns steadily inside them as crying martyrs
Love is as a moth that embraces every dire
In distance moon they appear
When you see their butterfly soul
Rising as a first moon, crystal foil
Breaks their crystallised gems as rare charms
A bleached voice that breaks all bounds
In love the lump in their heart melts
Many wished to resuscitate them
As ashes they burn inside a cistern
Happily, their muse becomes as mockingbird
Flying into the abyss as raven in a coffin
Death-hands, let go for eternity lies in them
Love is as moth that embraces every dire
With its sleeping conditioning is broken
One defeats the monumental loss
The shirking leaves became nourished and wet
The dew in heaven makes her evergreen
Ochre-conditioning
Those who are held in the barbs of time
They screamed under the torturing bats of their tsars
Throughout the night the bludgeon waft
the ceiling of hell steals their purgatory soul adrift
One cry in need as a lion pouncing on life
The shudder in barbs bears jeremiad tea
No care the deepness of thy traversed sea
A movement you either surf through or sink
Like the constancy of tendrils waiting for a stalk
How can you buoy through to a bough when held?
Each shout bangs to untapped door of silence
A bleached taste that takes your sanity & voice
Here in this coastal dungeon, I swim and walk
Like a thousand dunes denied of birds and waters
I am attracted to these dark-rays that stink
Countless stars covered in a cloving garment
The voice of the lames in a recycling coffin
The nails of my incarceration make me free
Like the breeze I roam around this trough
Freely, the shore of ochre-conditioning became broken
Martin Ijir is the author of Jeremiad: Sepulchral Energies. Winner of Arcs Prose Poetry Award 2020, his poems feature in ANA Review, Rock Pebbles, Langlit peer review journal among others. Martin Ijir is a social entrepreneur, teacher, mystic, poet, social & right activist, editor, humanist and thinker. His voice has appeared in various anthology which included ANA Review, LangLit Journal, Rock Pebbles Journal, Azahar Spanish Magazine, Arcs Prose-Poetry Magazine, Amritanjali Quarterly Journal among others. He is also the author of The Vulture And Eeries Of Silence. Winner of 2020 Arcs Prose Poetry Award, a finalist of Sentieri diversi Associazione Culturale Poetry Prize, winning premio internationazione d’honore in 2018 and 2019 respectively at Italy, he loves walking, meditative prayer and music apart from writing. He lives in Karu, Nigeria.