Litany of New Beginning
Rogation grips my
tongue today, & I stand
like a priest before an altar.
I say the year will not
know barrenness like
a seedless spruce,
& the thorns of seasons
past will forget their route to
the root of this fertile soil.
& in time of harvest, may the
year welcome the huddling
of footsteps with open arms.
To peel the skin off the fruits,
may we knife them neither
too lightly nor too hard. May
our tongues drown in their juice
& their succulence melt in our mouths.
May our desire for more harvest flow
into rivers of new beginnings & unceasing abundance.
We Forget the Way Home
Somehow, the depression is still finding a way
to seep in like splurging drainage.
Despite days of therapy, the body
never absorbs healing. The wound remains open,
naked, sore spot buried inside me,
still festering. It hurts as the evening unfolds,
as the night widens its mouth to gulp me
into the jaws of death. But tonight, I nurse
my depression with a symphony of sounds.
Nostalgia stir in the melody of the music,
drawing me into the beautiful memories of the past.
Sometimes, we lust after things
that work for others & overlook the paths
that beckon us home. We forget
that many doors can open to the same room.
You cannot use someone else’s map
to find yourself.
(The last sentence “You cannot use someone else’s map to find yourself” is a quote by Michaela Angemeer.)
BURNT OFFERING
Tonight, a man breathes heavily beneath
a cross—not of wood, but of claws, tearing
him into confession. His clothes hang like
a second skin shredded by the talons of
men who have gulped justice to stupor.
The mob—gathered from closed corners—
raise their scorn like priests in a dark mass.
They crown him, not with thorns, but with
a garland of torn tires, their harsh hymn
becoming a clumsy dirge of “thief, thief”,
renting the night air. I step into this temple
of rage, my heart turning into a fragile
chalice, to snatch the sacrificial lamb
from the altar of flames. For what?
A pocket robbed of a few naira,
at the mercy of survival.
But even if his hands dripped with silver
or gold, would this purging be just? I wade
into the sea of faces, & I feel tides of wrath
crashing against me. The cheerleader’s
scowl burns hotter than the combustion
of anointing pouring to cleanse his sin
with fire.
And when ignition yawned over the
dripping flesh, the man becomes the
Messiah, engulfed in a thicket of roaring
flames. His howls knock the door of heaven,
& the world around him is unmoved, watching
as ashen smoke rises up into the sky.
Emmanuel Somtochukwu Ferdinand, Swan XXI, is a young emerging Nigerian poet and essayist. He has works in Wingless Dreamer, Eboquills Magazine, Brittle Paper, Arts Longue, D’ LitReview and The Nigerian Voice. He is currently studying English Language at Lagos State University. Connect with him on X @EmmanuelSomto17.
Cover photo: Yevhenii Deshko