Poetry

Adedamola Adefolahan

By  | 

THE PAINTING

He stood before the white board –

His face emotion-less and watery;

Brush in his hand, pain in his soul,

He started painting poetry.

With every stroke,

He spoke

Words of mystery hidden in coats

Of paint and pain.

Again and again

He brushed past time;

Eyes closed in genuine solitude

As he looked for a sign.

His hand moved with his mind,

Mind moved with the soul

Soul dived into spirit

And the sun became cold.

Yellow, blue, gold

Colours made love and birthed history,

Eyes still closed in poetic death,

He caressed the skin of mystery.

He painted dreams.

Dreams so young, they dwelt in sleep;

He revived memories

That had been buried so deep.

On the soft, lush tip

Of his painting brush

Lay words unsaid

And tears unshed;

He stripped nature naked

And kissed the petals of her virginity,

He took beauty to the hills of poetry

And left her there to be seen.

Where tears had once been

He painted and drew,

Where angels had stood on

He planted and grew.

Songs sprung up from barren valleys

Of brushes and paints,

Beautiful sin resurrected

From the graveyard of saints.

Some were bold and some were faint,

Colours kissed and became rainbows

On a sky without rain.

Some were cold and some were hot,

Tears fell from the painting

Of a life he never sought.

He opened his eyes

And met with poetry so pure and so raw,

That was the last element of beauty

That his eyes ever saw.


 

POETRY

I painted a picture

I created a world with a word.

I took a sense from nonsense

In my heart, I wrote it on

I used intense sense to change tense

And ‘win’ turned into ‘one’

I had a different a-gender

When I mentioned having sex;

When pen makes love to paper,

What happens next?

The paper becomes pregnant

And gives birth to poignant words;

The words become hungry

And they’re fed with metaphors.

I sketched a beautiful world

With the pencil of imagination

And I stenciled my agitation

At this beautiful world.

I saw a fellow painter

And took a dive

Into his fantasy,

I was alive

In the ecstasy

Of that wonderful painter.

So I painted a picture,

I created a world with a word…

And I called it poetry.

Adedamola Adefolahan

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