7 London Poems Poem by Ifi Amadiume

Past The Despair
Isn't it another way to say,
A yearning for freedom,
Fresh far beyond,
Past the despair,
In silent ways,
To get away,
From dot com and a name,
A done-in bunkum silly-com.

To be in motion,
Is more like it,
Without realization,
When even every bit,
Every real space in reality,
Speaks to unimagined annoyances.
Annoyances in broken promises,
Annoyances in promises not kept,
Annoyances in Promises reversed.
To get away,
From dot com and a name.
A done-in bunkum silly-com.

Keeping in motion,
Is more like it for now.
It isn't to say,
Not thinking.
It is more to think in motion.
Words not sticking,
Not inside words,
Bad outside ones,
To be blown away,
By the moving hot air.
It isn't to clear the mind.
It is to get good thinking,
In moving fresh breeze.
To get away,
From dot com and a name,
A done-in bunkum silly-com.

The sky looks clear,
Even the green landscape
Seems healthy,
Leaves look comfortably full,
Even big-headed,
In their own
Busy rustling movement,
Like millions of waving fans,
Dancing approval,
Urging a getaway,
Forward movements,
In motion against a pulling back.
To arrest the decay of regression.
To get away,
From dot com and a name,
A done-in bunkum silly-com.

(Ifi Amadiume, London, August 10,2017)
 
Spacing
This way out,
This getting away,
From it all,
Would seem to do with
Seeking wider spacing,
Seeking,
Not necessarily aloneness,
For one who loves,
Loving to love.

Living life immensely,
In intensity,
Seeking warmth,
That ignition to life,
That sparkle,
Shining in ourselves,
Glowing from others,
Babies thriving from it,
This life light we shine,
See how they oogle, guggle,
Bubbling first smiles in life,
Oozing milk and cream,
Seeking attention,
Wanting to be touched,
To be caringly caressed,
Learning to love.

Feeling this life giving force,
Slowly,
To grow slowly in life's first stages.
I see babies doing it.
Our responses sometimes cold.
Even so,
Slowly,
Babies keep smiling,
Babies keep oogling,
Sometimes,
Like me,
Insisting on a response.
Hey, see how that baby smiles,
For you,
At you,
How can you not see it,
This magic,
Then tissues fly out,
Wipers wiping,
Extra milk oozing out
Tiny smiling gummy mouths.
Hey, not a hug?
Not a touch?
Perhaps that's only for close family?
Thankfully,
African strangers don't get inhibited,
Quickly smiling back and more,
Quickly caressing baby and more,
Quickly smiling back and more,
Then lifting and hugging,
Tears of affection
Oozing out of loving eyes,
Mixing with extra oozing,
Baby milk and cream,
Loving to love.

Oh, the first compassions of life.
When I was a child,
I did childish things,
When I grew big,
I did...
Babies outdoing a space moonwalker,
In determined quickness of pacing,
Learning first steps,
In fun open spaces,
The straightening of back,
The quick taking of steps,
The drawing of attention,
To say how am I doing?
Then to hear it said well done!
And I joining in,
Slowly,
Feigning learning!
This magic and more,
As a toddler goes even further,
Daring more steps as in life,
In response reaction.

Getting away,
This other way out!
Through more humane spacing,
We seek in life,
Learning life's steps,
Loving to love.

(Ifi Amadiume, London, July 31,2017)



An English Autumn
Imagine a big tree,
Full of quite broad leaves,
Yielding only one tiny red blossom,
Not a Cherry, not a Holly blossom either.
It is Autumn, yet just a tiny red seed.
Surprisingly,
Yet unseen by birds,
Even tiny ones didn't quickly see,
To pick it.

Maybe me too, I am looking out
Too early to see its changes.
It could also be that
I do not see it coming at all.

It's nothing to totalizing
As yet.
A few colorations
Here and there,
Looking more like
Messiness.
A road obstruction by
Patches of earth-dirt,
Annoyingly like litter,
Randomly scattered
On the streets,
Sees me
Hopping and leaping up,
Here and there, wanting
To get past.

It's me doing things,
Not cats,
Not pidgins,
Not crows,
Not magpies,
Not even squirrels,
Not so much doting dogs,
Except a couple of
Dainty small ones,
Maybe once a great dame,
They look in,
Not doing fascinating things.
Well, sort of,
Nothing like my animal friends
In my other place.

Maybe, I miss already
My ozone-environ-mental
Other place landscape.
As I see here,
No headiness of colors
Causing that
Satisfying
Feeling of drunkenness.
Not yet, I should say,
Give it time,
If the rains would let off,
Give it time,
Let it spread,
Let it fill out,
Replacing all this
Still greenness
With its own
Variety of colors,
In autumnal changes,
To stun the senses,
In celebration of
An English Autumn.

(Ifi Amadiume, London, September 21,2017)
 
Cut Down Too Soon
It is simply that you
Are not one of the lucky ones,
I would have told you so,
As I waited and waited all of
Spring for if you recall,
The red thing I once saw
Unexpectedly in the wrong
Season time, as I watched
The slow awakening of the birds
Returning in their pairs and groups.
They seem to know the
To-do list, as we can see
Intricate nests appearing
On selected trees,
Some even daring at summit
Places, so high.

The trees knowingly are welcoming,
I see two others,
One in front of you,
Another at your back,
Branches shooting out, reaching
Widely in a pretend greening,
Scattered here and there.
They know to do the needed
City-space-hustle.
They know to do the needed
Quickie yield,
They answer to the optimization
Rushing call.

And you thinking differently,
Like a cunny tortoise,
Retreating inwardly in to-do reverse.
I would have told you of city
Impatience, were I still near.
You did not do your
To-do list like the birds,
To fill out your greening
Quickly enough,
Early in springtime.
I would have told you
Of fleeting city timing,
Of city people, of their short
Attention span,
Refusing you filling out time,
Cut down too soon,
In prohibitive acts,
Covered in lies.

And you like a cunny tortoise,
Sprouting anew.
I hear you were doing
Your to-do springtime list
Far deep beneath the lines,
Shooting out roots,
Spreading who knows what
Under the surface
Of things!
All of the impatience of
City people that cut you down,
Thinking it's all over now,
But I hear you still
In the rumbling bellow!
I hear you still more loudly!
Your stump, standing,
Rounded like a steady
Native drum beating,
Now the waiting is over,
In a new transformation,
To sound forever, not just
For the greening in springtime! !

(Ifi Amadiume, London, August 1,2019)
 
A London Summer On Wheels With Kids Kick Scooting
Grannies are working hard theses days,
What with toddlers tugging at their legs
For balance,
Some scarcely walking try riding tricycles,
Others are doing the kick scooting,
Practicing out their balancing skills.
These three-wheeler, two-wheeler
With rounded tubal plastics, well
Placed for the safety of our dearly
Loved ones,
Something very much in vogue
It would seem, everywhere now
To be seen in our London Summer.

A kick here, a ride along there
On a board with two front wheels
For a scooter
On a board with two back wheels
For a tricycle,
With a bicycle helmet in hand,
No matter the age.
See how they ride on sparkling wheels,
Shined up to deceive, to please.
Some even pause distracted by
A standing inviting light pole,
In new smoothness and not so tall
That it looked out of reach,
Not frighteningly live wired either.
The children respond with clasping hands
Around a rounded smoothness that calls
Close to gladdened hearts,
Hands and legs on poles,
Rolling round and round on standing poles,
In that moment scooting and tricycles forgotten,
They roll round and round, circling
On poles in ecstatic joy!
Gran stands by just smiling,
Time to pause, rest for a while
Before they jump back on to
Kicking, the hip hopping
Along with one foot, trying to
Strengthen their thighs, I am told.

Some do the high speed flying
On single wheels.
Now truly that is how to scooter,
Letting it roll you along in a flash,
No holding on to slowing Gran's hand,
No tugging, no clutching Gran's legs,
Just riding along, rolling along,
While Granny gets some rest.

(Ifi Amadiume, London, August 12,2019)
 
Carnival Comes To You
Surprisingly they jumped me on a standing train
Seeing me colorfully suited to the sounding of the day,
Dressed to the drumbeat of Notting Hill carnival.
Even then nothing like seeing girls covered in beaded
Scanty tops, deliberately made elaborately intense,
Beautifully tattooed smooth black skins suited for it.
The body knows itself what fits it.
White girls seemingly quiet at first,
Faces dug into open books, soon losing focus with waists beginning
Slowly to move, breaking rigidity as entire carnival whiners
Jumping me on a circle line train as if to say if you don't
Go to carnival here we are,
Carnival comes to you our African Sista,
Saying it is just once a year,
Come see what we've got,
Round and round in endless circles is not
The place for we,
Come walk and whine the waist with we,
Steel pan of steel band calls,
Mangrove Mas band calls,
Wind, wind, wind the waist with we,
Boom, boom, boom, shaking the earth.
Me taking to the train looking to unwind,
Hear me now saying see you all at Notting Hill Carnival.

Then I see this one that must have been coming back already from
Notting Hill Carnival,
His flower patterned shirt now running redder in front
Hangs loose on saggy pants once something of a fancy pant,
Disheveled hair like spikes dyed jet black shooting up
In the air,
The body says it all though in new decisive swagger,
Showing Carnival giving him back something purposeful
Of his own,
Stronger now for a new day to again confidently
Walk these streets,
Streets usually somber these days,
Beaten down by endlessly lying politicians and
Their punitive austerity measures, we find a bit of
Fresh air to fill up our empty dry lungs,
So you see us exuding new energy dancing, shouting,
In awakened streets again reassured by daring moves,
Boom, boom, boom, shaking the earth,
Not the assortment of DJs, not the mountainous
Giant sound systems,
Just I and I the natural self giving off enormous
Vibes, energizing an entire train all the way
To Notting Hill Carnival!

(Ifi Amadiume, London, August 26,2019)
 
Boundless
For when we were
Young and playful,
Our joyous laughter
Rang out echoes through
Every street,
Enlivened by our boundless
Youthfulness.

For when we were
Young and playful,
We would jump buses
Standing or moving,
Ticketless to nowhere
And everywhere,
Knowing no limits,
Knowing no particular
Place to get off.

For when we were
Young and playful,
I met a stranger then,
Caring little about
His looks,
Just being young
Curious and fearless
On a moving empty
London bus,
But for us restless
Young and playful ones,
Filling up, No,
Taking over an
Empty London bus
To make life anew,
Posing, loving us
And strangers in
Boundless youthfulness,
Knowing not,
Caring little
What we were,
What we are
Going to become.

((Ifi Amadiume, West Lebanon, September 11,2019)