Four Poems by Visar
The Vehicle Park
bullets of headlights, streetlights
phones and their sudden sounds.
Streaming dandelions, pollen on wind.
I see distance in the night
Cloistered and close
Distant in the night
Dongoyaros1 are tall apparitions
against the gloomy horizons.
A giant spread itself like a mighty parasol
on the middle of the road,
Through oblique trunk,
Undulating three million leaves.
While chilly breeze brush
through my skin,
Red, yellow, white starlight
to Friday’s end of the weekly wool.
Apologetic faces, moon
oversee this cold weather
and beside me is a guy and a girl
whispering; a form of hypnosis.
1. Dongoyaro is a local name for the neem tree among Nigerians.
An Ode to Abandoned Places.
That’s everything .
Everything is a clean space
Cobweb or fine debris.
The ghost of the housemates don’t haunt us here
Nor do raped girls1
Interfere with our sleep.
The louvres and doors are skeletal memories.
Ghosts of these places.
1. At the abandoned buildings I wrote this, there were once issues of rape and assault.
Winds; Harmattan, and Aves.
Waters discover the world
Dragging their feet across mud.
On this dusty star;
a fog is fated to precipitate.
White Egrets go,
Come sing about what they discover,
Songs about worlds away towards home.
A fog is fated to roam
Of anonymous dogs bark at autumn winds
Songs from my backyard are as clear as windshields
through our superstitious fog
Now, the world turns cold.
between many handshakes. Dust and breeze
Impose their rule on the street.
The sun laps her tongue on water.
But between the coppicing and setting aflame
Wetting of the world
you are fluid that cannot be grasped. Fluid
and an insatiable soul.
Thirsty At The Fountain
The weather is an ambience
Grey, oddments of fire
With leaves. Sodden and bold
Quietly hang on trees.
Ears are filled with pullulating
Automobiles, machines. They roar,
Beasts of alloys and fuel, vibrating
the ground, splashing mud. My black trousers
When I checked are no survivors.
Ten of them, bricklayers
and engineers, disperse
the construction site. Either lifting, digging
Or talking. Ten of them just standing
like the cement mixer that is oddly dead.
Shirtless, two boys play basket
ball, on one side of the court, while
Two more blast music, banter
among themselves. Tapping basketball
– systolic, heartbeat when I hear.
Nothing is happening under
This almond, save WiFi, concrete and leaves
A man in the park, mimes, tapping his knees
Effusively. Three girls climb each other’s backs
–Young girls, disharmonies, pink.
But as girls continue to appear
Twice as fast as boys do, nothing but kids
surround the Pepsi lounge, sit
On the Pepsi chairs. Davido songs, Carpark,
People, parkbenchers , still.
Then I see a man on a red tie – a reminder
Of the civil business, servants roped
to the will of another – this red tie extends
Dogmatically, pulls the brain
on its neck like a ram to the knife.
The centre of this same car park, two black figures
read separate tomes and are separated
between by an idle fountain. They face opposite
worlds, sitting on the fountain – myself, my other selves
are this beautiful equation:
We search distant horizons
For answers nearby and behind us.
Our backs are against the walls of our division.
We are thirsty at the fountain.
Visar is a 21 year old writer from Lagos, Nigeria. He is currently a student of Psychology at the University of Ibadan. As an art, nature and technology enthusiast, he enjoys taking snapshots of everyday life into his pages. He also writes short stories, haikus, tankas and songs.