Five Poems by Anselm Eme

 

NZÓCHI-IMI

(The Day of Closed Eyes)

 

For the record, we saw nothing.

For the record, nothing happened.

For the record, the man in power is innocent.

The paper shines white.

Only the thick black lines speak.

They speak louder than the truth. 

 

In theory, light protects us.

In practice, thick curtains are pulled shut.

A name is erased to keep peace.

Another name is printed to take the blame.

The guilty adjust their ties in the morning,

And walk back into their offices smiling. 

 

A woman tells her story.

Her voice shakes but does not break.

They say there is no evidence.

They say the file is missing.

They thank her for her courage

And lock the door behind her. 

 

In the old tongue they say,

“Eziokwu bu ndu, ma onye zoro ya egbu onwe ya.”

(Truth is life, but the one who hides it harms himself.)

Still, the black marker moves like a small god.

It covers dates. It covers faces.

It covers hands that should be in chains. 

 

A young clerk finds numbers that do not add up.

He clears his throat. He thinks of his children.

“For safety,” his boss says softly,

And the numbers change by morning.

Silence receives a salary.

Honesty receives a warning. 

 

When every page is cropped,

When every mouth learns fear,

When lies sit on the chair of evidence,

We clap because the speech sounds fine.

But tell me, if we all close our eyes,

Who were these cover-ups truly protecting?

 

 

ÀLUFA ÌRIN-Ẹ̀RIN

(The Priest Of Wandering Laughter)

 

I woke up laughing today,

Not because life was easy,

But because my shadow slipped and fell,

While trying to follow me too fast.

Even the ground seemed surprised,

That laughter could come before reason.

 

My neighbour greeted his goat like a king,

Bowed his head and said, “Good morning, Sir.”

The goat answered by chewing louder,

As if wisdom lived in dry leaves.

We both stood there, very serious,

Until our seriousness broke into laughter.

 

My grandmother once said,

“Ẹ̀rín kì í tán lójú ẹni tí ayé fẹ́ràn”

(Laughter never leaves the face of one life loves).

Then she laughed at her own missing teeth,

And called them “retired soldiers of soup.”

I laughed too, though I did not understand life yet.

 

Today, I argued with my own pocket,

Because it was empty but still proud.

It said, “I carry hope, not money.”

I said, “Hope cannot buy bread.”

We both kept quiet for a moment,

Then burst out laughing like old friends.

 

Some days are heavy like wet wood,

But even fire cracks when it burns.

So I laugh when my slippers break,

And wave at people who are not there.

Let them think I am a little mad,

Madness sometimes is just joy without permission. 

 

If you see me laughing alone, do not worry,

I am talking with the small child inside me.

The one who finds a festival in nothing,

Who turns hunger into a joke and survives.

Because in this wide and serious world,

Laughter is the softest way to stay alive. 

 

 

ỌGBANJE N’UZU NDỤ

(The Child Who Returns With A Cost)

 

The street is too quiet today.

Even the dust walks slowly.

Doors are open, but no voices come out.

A shoe lies by the roadside, waiting.

No one remembers who left it there.

 

I carry a cup that is not broken,

But I do not drink from it anymore.

The water tastes like yesterday’s fire.

A sound, just a small bang in the sky,

Still makes my heart run without my body.

 

We used to greet each other by name.

Now we greet with eyes and silence.

Neighbours count who is left, not who is coming.

A laugh sounds strange here, like a mistake.

Trust has packed its bag and travelled far.

 

In my village they say:

“Onye kụrụ ọkụ n’ọhịa, ọ gaghị ama ebe ọ ga-akwụsị.”

(He who sets fire in the bush does not know where it will stop.)

Now the fire has passed,

But the ground still remembers the heat.

 

Yesterday, a man returned smiling.

They said he was a hero.

At night, I saw him wash his hands again and again.

The water did not change colour,

But his eyes refused to rest.

 

I thought survival was a gift.

Now I know it is also a weight.

Some doors open, but not for walking through.

Some names are called, but no one answers.

Tell me, when the noise is gone,

Who carries the truth?

DAREN DARIYA BIYU

(The Night Of Double Laughter)

 

The night did not knock.

It jumped in like a goat that broke the fence.

Boys wore perfume like they were going to fight angels.

Girls walked in like soft thunder, slow, proud, shining.

One boy tripped before even greeting anyone,

And said, “I was testing the ground.”

 

Music began to shout like a village gossip.

Even the shy people forgot their names.

A girl laughed so hard she forgot her drink on her head.

A boy danced like his bones were arguing with each other.

In the North they say:

“Wanda ya yi dariya da yawa, yana ɓoye wani abu”

(The one who laughs too much is hiding something).

 

Food was there, but nobody respected it.

Plates waited like patient elders.

Someone said, “I am not hungry,”

Then ate from five different plates like a secret thief.

Another said, “I will not drink much,”

And began speaking English that even English could not understand.

 

A boy promised love to three different girls,

Using the same smile like it was rented.

One girl collected all the promises quietly,

Like a farmer gathering eggs she will later count.

Somebody’s shoe got lost in the crowd,

And became a story that will live longer than the owner.

 

Then slowly, the night grew tired of us.

Sweat replaced perfume. Truth replaced style.

The fine boy was now sleeping on two chairs,

Like a king who lost his kingdom to soft drink.

A girl looked at her phone and whispered,

“Who was I dancing for?” 

 

Morning came without music.

Faces became serious like unpaid debts.

Some laughed at their own foolishness,

Others walked quietly like secrets with legs.

Because every wild night has a second face,

And it always waits for you in the morning light.

 

 

"THE FIX"

Every new year knocks like a boss.
It shouts, “Change Now”!
New Body! New Plans! New Face!
It says who I am is not enough yet.
It calls rest a sin,
And hurry a virtue.

My mornings become crowded.
Alarms! Rules! Lists! Noise!
Drink this. Count that.
Move faster. Sleep less.
My body feels like a task,
That never gets a tick.

They turn my life into a project.
My pain into a weakness.
My tiredness into failure.
Hustle now wears “Holy Clothes”!
And promises peace,
If I work myself thin.

One day I stop listening.
I sit with my breath.
I eat without guilt.
I wake without a race.
Nothing breaks.
The world still turns.

I learn I am not broken.
I was only human.
My worth did not begin this year.
It did not wait for improvement.
I do not need “Fixing”!
To deserve a place here.

So I walk slower on purpose.
I choose “Being” over “Becoming”.
I let my life be “Rough” and “Real”.
Not Perfect! Not Polished!
Just “Mine”!
And that is enough.

Anselm Eme is a Nigerian writer, poet, banker, and independent financial consultant. He is the author of Eleven books, including WHISKERS, OUR KIDS AND US, AWAKE AFRICA!, SAGES IN PURSUIT, and SHRIEKS AND GIGGLES series. Blending finance with creative storytelling, Anselm writes with heart, clarity, and purpose. His work explores identity, culture, social justice, and human resilience. Rooted in African experience but reaching global souls, Anselm’s words invite readers into honest reflection and lasting inspiration.

 

 

Two Poems by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

 

Lost and Found 

Let’s get lost   you said 

forget this place 

Just go   you said  

Go anywhere  but here   you said 

No  I said    Let’s not   I said 

start over  I said  

go back   I said 

Back to that place over t-here 

the place that remembers 

that never gets lost 

Back  to the beginning 

the   origin   

the   root of the matter 

Back to the core  the cortex 

that anchors us to the earth 

that links us to the stars 

that embeds us in this sentence 

the stuff that dreams are made of 

 

How to bring to light 

to untangle the unique  

from the familiar 

Light filtering through 

the subterranean tunnels of my mind 

always scratching at the surface 

  

I am    like the helix   

the spiral staircase 

both ascending and descending 

I am the squiggly question mark  

I am every woman who twists and turns 

the feminine mystique    

the unfolding Madonna 

the murmuring of the moon   

the mysterious longing  

I am Everything   and Nothing 

All that I want is here 

hidden deep inside 

my mother's smile   

my father's voice 

I am the fertile soil  

and all that I inherit  

 

One day 

i will decipher the codes    

connect the dots 

I will resurrect  

the deserted streets   

the desecrated cities    

       of forgotten memory 

I will find myself in you    

In all that is reflected  

But where ARE you?  my mathematician 

still looking for the square root of one 

 

Roots may seek out other lands  

or grow where they are planted 

Multiplying    unto themselves a solution 

Unlike your equation where centuries are lost 

roots find their way back in the dark

 

Double Rainbow

They try to tell you  

it's somewhere over   

                             never under 

It’s either     

in    or out   

                  good or bad 

never or always   

A difficult concept   

for me to   sometimes grasp  

I   suspended

                         in wonder  

a dreamer   

who blurs the fine line  

    between   

this and that 

who wears a thin veil  

      both 

night and day   

Winter and Spring 

living and dying  

who likes to glimpse  

a bit of Heaven 

on every horizon 

  

With my feet   

on the ground  

my roots in the sky  

I am   

both floating   and sinking  

sleeping and waking  

I am   

all the tones   

the varied hues   

every nuance  

of the moving landscape  

My own poems  

a wasteland   of words  

wandering whole sentences  

and paragraphs  

the mouth of my river 

opening wide 

  

Like   

the arc 

the helix    

the spiral staircase  

both ascending and descending  

I am that mysterious longing   

for that indefinable   somewhere  

a bridge to other worlds  

  

Every day   

I wait for the sun  

to drown in my reflection  

Every day   

I offer myself to the Mirror--  

the iridescence of my being  

my grey clouded emotions  

surrendering to the unknown  

 

Every day  

the miracle   within               

passes through me like rain  

gives birth to creation  

Offers my eyes --  

these dry empty sockets  

these weeping wounds  

a reason      

               to burst      

                              Into  light

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary James Meary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few.  After his death, it was his friend, the late great Kathleen Raine, who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish.  A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, and a former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion, she is widely published. She has been a featured guest at Shakespeare & Company, as well as performed or read in other literary venues in the City of Light and elsewhere. Her work has appeared in (among others) XXI Century World Literature (in which she represents France), Jazz and Literature and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the recipient of two grants: one from Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg was a co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award for her outstanding service to international writers through SpokenWord Paris where she is Poet in Residence. Her selected poems On the Way to Invisible was recently published by The Opiate Books. Her selected poems The Looking Glass is now available.