Magnifying Glass

Nothing is greater than a poem aware of itself. 
Not too gimmicky, like my editor thinks, 

just playing around, you know. And am I not 
allowed to have a little fun? The world already 

is a place too dark and hungry. Especially 
my world, flooded with oceans of black teeth. 

So can I not dance while the water burns 
everything around me? Let me swing 

my limbs as if mocking the ruin. You slow 
wreck. You haven’t reached me yet? 

Until then, then. I am going mad nevertheless. 
Whether the ruin reaches me or not, will

something else not raze me? It is only a matter
of time. Always a matter of time. I have 

studied the clock and all of its matter. Three 
hands that reveal nothing about my fate. 

But what do I want? Do I really desire to die
or am I just nonchalant about what is inevitable? 

Because, truly, it is not about desire. Death will
eventually arrive whether you throw a rock at it

or not. Again, a matter of time. So shall I not pre-
occupy myself while I can still occupy? I am in 

my room keeping the architecture company.
After all, what even is a house without 

my presence? I am so significant I can lie 
about significance. I can pretend that when I lay 

in the sheets, the silk gives a damn about my body. 
My body, whatever that is. A death of skin. 

A dearth. I am too poor for literature these days.
Not a hyperbole – only the rich write poetry now. 

I am trying to afford my life. I have no time to feel, 
to pull out the intangible thing that is emotion

and ask how it’s doing often. My misery, my art 
won’t feed me. It has been a long season of 

barrenness. Silence has moved through me like 
a bell. I have planted seeds to save myself, 

but the earth has made them forget me. In return,
I try to also forget. When grace finds me, let me 

be stunned. If grace finds me, let me be stunned. 
It is hopeful or foolish to live in certainty. Outside,

something is working tirelessly for your doom. 
The water and its diligent blaze. Its teeth blading 

closer and closer. I see the oceans crawling with
their mouths. What do you mean you cannot hear

them approaching? My paranoia, my madness 
is purely rational. I am so significant, something

out there hungers for me. It must be peaceful not 
to be desired. The noise of the hunt, a quiet latitude.

I am sorry, my friend, but I am jealous of your joy. 
Forgive me, but I wish it were me the light covered.

The Cynic

Doubt the flowers. They could be anything
but flowers; garland of teeth camouflaging, 

garden of literal blades. Not paranoia, only
severe desire for safety, the need to be absolute. 

Interrogate all that is with breath. Ask the heart
what it thinks. How much joy is enough joy? 

Small enough to fill a room. Large enough to
swallow a mount. I cannot afford the bareness 

of any ignorance. For months, nothing in my
chest moved, everything stood like some wet

vine. Tell me, is this stillness, too, joy or just
nonchalance to acknowledge its absence?

Interrogate, interrogate. Place a garment over
misery & check if it is still present. Bend 

before the fabric, listen for the old jaguar’s jaw.
If silence is as violent as the noise it drowns, 

then how truly safe are the sheep? My white
wool waiting to become the colour of wine. 

How happiness is never secure, transient in all
of its offerings. We spend our lives chasing it,

only to be crushed by its impermanence. So
much disappointment we shelter has cleft out 

cynics from our hands. If you deliver me any
kindness, I will peel off its skin, searching for

the end. I do not know how we got here, unable
to consider a lotus before its fossil. Maybe we

are too demanding of our joy & grace departs
because once we find it, we are too wild, we rip 

it apart. Beloved, let us now be gentle with every
gift. & when it arrives, even little as a housefly, 

we must cherish every part of it like a miracle.

The Witness

What is the use of learning anything new 
if I’m just going to forget it anyway? 

Something is dying inside my head. 

The past, a ghost running away from me. 

I like to convince myself I am not doing 
enough, that I am not intentional with memory. 

I try to listen more now, 
be more present in the world around me. 

I look at the trees, the birds with new,
mechanical eyes. 

A manual absorption. 

When I sight the firefinches, there is an intent 
behind sight. When I spot the hibiscuses, 

I witness every crease. 
I am trying to live more in the details.

I must admit, it bores me. 

That is the problem with consciousness.
To be aware of so much is a curse of volition.

But I try.
I treat everything like a journal now.

Tell me your name, my beloved. 

I will write the letters on my arm so 
I won’t forget once I’m home. 

Are they unorthodox, my mnemonics,

my methods of remembering? 

I have to try different ways to keep 
things from slipping away. 

Beautiful woman with eyes of clear water,
I remember your name.

But I forgot to keep my sleeves rolled up.
White shirt stained with smears of ink. 

I can never win, can I?

Strangely, nobody assumes it is medical. 
Why should it be? I am young, full of life. 

Maybe I exaggerate my suffering?

Maybe I exaggerate my suffering. 
Again, a matter of effort. 

I am not doing enough. 
I am not doing enough. 

Anyway, other methods help with remembering.

The tongue is one tool. I repeat whatever 
until the ritual is sculpted in muscle. 

Again, another chore that bores. 
But I try.

Catch me singing about my duties, making music 
out of a theory I just learnt. 

I will turn anything into song just to preserve it. 
I will keep anything in a poem to avoid extinction.

Often, my friend reads my writing. 

(What a misfortune, I think.)
I love how your mind works, she would always say.

As if I house a motor crafted by angels. 

It is you who should be envied, not this body 
where language comes to die. You who can 

keep the world inside the polaroid of your eyes. 

Yes, I have a beautiful mind. But gardens are 
not enough. 

The entire house is burning. 

Of what use are the stupid roses?

Samuel A. Adeyemi is a writer and editor from Nigeria. A Best of the Net  and Pushcart nominee, he is the winner of the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize 2021. His chapbook, Rose Ash, was selected by Kwame Dawes and Chris Abani for the New-Generation African Poets chapbook box set, 2023. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Palette Poetry, Frontier Poetry, 580 Split, Strange Horizons, Chestnut Review, Agbowo, Isele Magazine, Brittle Paper, Jalada, and elsewhere.

*Image by Gbenga Onalaja on Unsplash