deathsdreams,

dulland the

inbetweens

by jendella

Copyright © Jendella 2013

The right of Jendella to be identiied as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

First published in Great Britain in 2013

Printed and bound in the Netherlands

All rights reserved. The digital edition of this book is available freely for digital distribution as a whole entity, unedited and unaltered from its original state. Individual poems or extracts from this book are not permitted to be reproduced or published in any form, digital or otherwise, without the express written consent of the author. The print edition of this book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

Design, images and photography by Jendella.

thank yousjoanne, sarah, benson, lowand Yahweh - Giver of Life, Fountain of Inspiration

dedicationfor anyone who has ever been

misunderstood

pouring my soul out toa crowd of

is not conducive tomy development as

“Une Artiste”

my bones are too fragilefor such a baptism by ireand i don’t doubt thatstronger hopefuls have done thatbut iam not one of them

after i picked myself upfrom the loor of aconcrete corridorafter crying to no oneabout nothingand hiding a weak momentbehind a ire escape(a real life ire escape)i vowed that i wouldnevertouch stage to recite poems to

i have no fan club to ill the audienceconjuring pep rallies from the shadowsa hangover from my shy stateor hermit statusor ingrained fear of opening up tostrangers

Disinterested Strangers

Disinterested Strangers

l’artiste

page.

we meet againso quiet and attentiveready to hang onto my every word

(yet there i stood doing exactly thatas if a spotlight would protect me)

every ounce of performance has left meno more hot airjust a crumpled bag full of wordsthat will not stop writingso i reacquaint myself withmy irst love-

i sold myself down a lonely river

if they ask where i amdirect them to the bags of bonesloating face down

swollen

choked on chipped shouldersand broken hearts

bloated

and if they ask what happenedtell them it was the parable ofa girl who triedbut could not do it alone

what brings you back herethe scene remains uninishedthe script half writtenthe ending hanging on a set of ellipsesyou can see the charactersthe conversation you only half hadyou remember the taste of the words onyour breathyou can recognise the colour of the skythe way the sun shinesyou walk the same earthbut you’re not the same personshe’s walking a few steps behind youyou can recognise the bridgeand the benchand the pathand the lakeyou walk the same earthbut you’re not the same personshe’s walking a few steps behind youher footsteps growing lighter

lashbacks

i have never seen a sky so red beforei have never seen destruction painted asbeautifullyin all my lifeas that night we lay side by side in singapore

two pitch black twistersframed by the iery cloudsfought it out in a tug of warthey two-steppedback and forthcharting a terrible courseacross the horizontwo columns of spiralling black passionmeshing together then pulling apartthe sky beats red in the backgroundthe bloody red of everbeating heart

that night i understood thatturmoil so epiccould only be the result ofsomething so pure and preciousonly something so beautifulonly something so delicatecould result in a spectacleso earth shattering and tremendous

i was excited by the doomof it alli must admitapocalypse so closedestruction so amissi squeezed your hand tight and knewi'd never loved you morethan that night we dancedas hurricanes in singapore

hurricanes in singapore

her marks

she left her marks on youinvisible, indelible ink curledaround your neckand your wristsand your anklesher carefree cursive

i bet her lips traced the capillaries of your veinsi bet her name is hand-stitched in the folds of your heartthat’s why you won’t let me look closelyi can sense the indentations of her ingertipsacross your collarbonei can see the lines she tracedin your hairon an easy summer’s afternoonthe world as spectatorthe blades of grass as witnessesto your calm, collected affection

i can see the look in your eyeswhen you have to remind yourselfthat i am not herand you are a new youfour rotations stronger than how you once were

my love is not a vice and i will prove it to youi will leave no markno scarno burnor blisteration

only traces of sweetness on your tongue

it is a curious thing to walk this earthwith unrestrained arroganceknowing that you own itand everyone owes you somethingand if they don't give ityour history is to take ityou walk with conidence of your entitlementdisdain coursing through your veinsyour blond eyelashes barely hidecenturies of contempt

i don't know how they did itbut your fathers taught you wellyou're only ten years oldthey really taught you well

letter to ben

heart disease

this city will give me heart disease

between choking on the aroma of ‘the big smoke’and choking on the panic that rises in my throatthis city feels like it will kill me

crush me

underneath the weight of expectationi’m rubbing the lamp ‘til my knuckles are red rawgive me three wishesinstead of a sink full of dirty dishessoaking in hard waterthese bitter pills are hard to swallow with aglass of hard water

i sit in a train carriagesuffocating with claustrophobiamy heart beats in my chest trying to smash through my ribsit’s screaming for open pastures and still watersbut for now it seems i’m dining with my enemies

awkward silenceheavy lidded irisesheavy laden limbsa furrowed brow

deliver me from my enemies

i drag my trolley case of burdens behind mepulling the weight through streets steeped with heartbreak and isolation

this is my islandseven thousand emotional miles from blood kind or kindredi’m in a city illed with bodieswrithing and dyingbut every moment is spent alonemarching to the sound of sighingthe sound of silencethe same faces, the same quietblank stares and strange choirssinging the same refrain over and over

i sit and i wait

i wait for the wait to be overfor the next chapter of my life to beginto remind me why i’m hereand why i cameto this city of giants and heart disease

posthumous studies show thather heart was sewn to her wristsin riddlesplain as day for those that searchedbut why would you?

cryptic cries for help

longing

longing is:

the hollow in my heart where i keep my most recent memories of you

the dip in my collarbone where your chin would rest

the space in the small of my back where your hands would clasp

the gaps in my sentences waiting for your inish

longing is:

a vacuum shaped likethe curve of your lipthe arch of your browthe timbre of your laugh

i fear i may collapse upon myself from the inside out

kissing

kissing you is the remedyfor a drought i never knew i sufferedyour lips on my neckare two golden lines that emphasisemy whole existence

this moment is realit's happeningand i never knew what satisfaction wasuntil i cradled your head against meour chests rise and fall togetherbreathing in timethis is the sweetest poetrywatching you sleepknowing that your head is illed withthe best of intentions and dreamsabout our future

i know your touch when i'm half awakei can feel you watching mea tender smile playing on your lipsno one can fathom our intimaciesthe depth of a glancethe knowledge in a smileprivate jokes played out by my ingertipstracing secret scripts on your forearm

you are my hidden masterpiecemy own personal mythologya book of possibilities gifted by God Himselfwords will never be enough to communicatewhat this isbut i hope you know that each timemy heart pumps blood around my bodyit's like my lips saying i doover and over again

detached

the spaces between the words of the

conversation we never had

have driven the gaps between our eyes

further apart

a smile from a distance only half

crosses the void between our two hearts

and i swore i would never show you my

heart again

so it is of no consequence to me

really

i don't know if you will miss me

or the idea of me

the idea of who you thought i was to

you

and even though i will miss you

it will only be the idea of you

what i thought we were

what i thought we had

my friend

betrayal is an irrevocable thing

my friend

i forgive but i don't forget

i cried myself to sleepand i woke up baptisedwith a new visiona new seeingnew cataracts left in my eyesformed in the chrysalis of pain

crying myself to sleep

when she left

i woke up to the sound of drumming, someone singing in the night. she was saying that she was leaving this village, she would depart this soil. she sang, she screamed, they danced.

i was too scared to run out after her, i knew in the darkness she found her domain. so i slid myself further into the covers, wrapped in a sweaty mess of tangled sheets that stiled my sobs and reasoned that i wanted her to go, she came with too many complications and she couldn’t take everything because surely she hadn’t given me everything. but when morning came nothing remained.

i don’t know what she expected me to do that morning as i dragged my heels through the dust. she really had taken everything, even that which i had thought was mine was really a gift from her.

our lake lay barren and empty. only my frustrated sweat ran down my forearms to the ground, dripping between my ists which angrily punched at the dirt. the little beads curled and mixed with the swirling dust. not a sign of the so-called life that was there before.

i looked towards the shimmering horizon and remembered the long summers that we spent swimming in the cool waters of the lake. i remembered the dangerous days caught in the rapids of many rivers, twisting and turning, being churned through the bends and dragged along the bottom.

i would claw my way to the surface for air before being cruelly dragged back down by my ankles and when she stopped from her games and tired with her play, she would spit me back into this lake, the small piece of control she gave me, where i would wallow and bask until she dared me to dance again.

“well those days are gone,” i sighed with either relief or resignation, but i wish she had just left me the lake, our lake, my lake, my comfort. she couldn’t leave without her spite cutting me like a knife one last time. i think she liked the taste of blood more than the water, perhaps a shark in maiden disguise, but “still waters run deep” she always assured me with a smile.

i’m not sure how long i knelt in the dust, the oppressive heat eventually suffocated me and i passed out. i’m not sure how long i lay there curled up on my side, but when i awoke with sandgrains coating my lips and my eyelids, i saw him walking towards me, like some form of mirage. his white clothes seemed to glow blue against the reddened landscape, his golden skin so pure against the faded horizon. at the very sight of his kind eyes i cried tears i didn’t know i had. they lined my face clearing a path through the dirt in my cheeks. i cried that she had left me and i always knew that she probably would. my throat croaked dry and rasping sobs over and over, “she took all the water,” i croaked and i cried, “she took the lowers and the grass and the ish and the lake.”

he looked at me with knowing eyes, drawing from his side a sword, it’s blade l at and wide catching the glint of the hardened sun. i cowered in the dirt as he drove it into my side and water gushed forth, my secret stream. it poured onto the ground, washing the dirt from my clothes, my tears mingled with the l ow, a sweet taste on my lips, refreshment was mine.

i ran towards him and hugged him, i danced and i sang and he laughed with me with those knowing eyes. as water l owed from my side soaking the cracked ground, hope once again swelled within. and i will dance and sing and tears of joy will be cried, as long as water l ows from my side.

it still lows from my side.

christianity is a feminine religionthe men told me thisbefore they grew their beards and bowedtheir heads facing east

christianity is a masculine religionthe women told me thisas they massaged my templestwisting thick braids of knowledge for my crown

i like the poetry of arabic on my tonguebut i’ve hidden vanity in my hair and refuse to be shroudedi ind comfort in the solid arms of my sistersthough they may never accept me in my scriptured state

and my christianity is neither masculine or femininecontrary to their calculationsit is wrapped in divinityirrevocably fastened to my human heart

christianity

that’s what it came inthin pages edged in gold smoothly bound in black leathertwo satin ribbons sandwiched between the ivory paperencased in a modest box made of reinforced cardsmartbut hardly concise

a box

what i’ve never known

i've never known religion

religion that hangs over my headits claws curling around my throatto choke and inhibit my mind and my freedomi've never known that religionthat would bring me to my kneesand keep me there grovellingcrawling through the dirtbloody shins and ragged kneecapsi ngernails caked with mudlips coated with dusti've never known that religionthat would strip me of my dignitypeeling back the skin on my forearmsfor unbearable scrutinya religion built on whispersand crooked humanitylying tongues and mute justicei have never known that religionthat i see people dance tolike they're treading on eggshellslike they walk on hot coalsthat unpleasable deitywho draws blood from your childrenthat comes out of its idol or paintingto strangle you with its bare handsthat religion where the backs of women are bent by burdensthat belong to their fatherstheir brotherstheir husbands and uncleswhere men are stretched l at by expectationslittle girls are foot-bound, wing-clipped and kept insidelittle boys l ogged with strips of manhood and other people’s pride

that religion that binds a family together until they are bleedingthe rough twine of words cutting through dermis and bonebarbed wire fences around heartslittered like minei elds in a pious home

i will never know that religion

but what i do know is Love

what i know about Love is 66 books longtwo millennia strongit is made up of love songs and repentance psalmsunrightable wrongs righted by the Sonit is a thorned crown and a borne crosshumanity’s gain and one Man’s lossit is a loving and perfect Goddespaired at man’s plightdebased Divinity, Righteous Sacrii ceit is truth and narrow pathsjustice and avoided wratheveryday acknowledged grace in my sullied imperfectionit is the certainty of resurrectionpatience in my deceptionit is the words we avoid like sin debt holyit is moving from a position that was once lowly to now approaching Eternity boldlyit is the beauty of the words

‘ C h r i s t h a s f o r g i v e n ’

this is all i know of Love and religion

immortal longings intertwine with slim cigar smokesipping liquor from a stranger’s cup between tokes

at night we don’t slumber- we wanderdancing out the paths of joy ridden hondas

hazy memories of the good timesbut we remember the alibiswe have complex stories to cover liesto disguise bruises and glazed eyes

our existence is based on metaphorslyrics philosophise our anticstell me what’s living if your heartbeat’s not frantic

we don’t know regret yet

the sublime conidence of youth

when i was younger i saw in technicolourand the rainbow did not mix and blendeach colour stood solidly against the other black and white black and white

we took bites of green appleswith white teeth and red lipsand red lips told white liesthat were exposed in the whites of our eyesand our irises traced yellow pathsthrough a purple world described with black wordsand those black words didn’t change unless we moved from graphite to thick bodied berol pensin royal blue the colour of our imagination

but now i’m older and there are no boundaries anymoreapart from the full stop of our educationwhere they told us that black was the absence of lightand white was the sum of the spectrumbut they never once explained greyor its childrenthey never explained that grey is not simply the middle parting of polarityor that it does not simply sit on the fencethey never explained the way it spills over both sides and coats our retinas and lensesor the way it lines the insides of our mouths and pools at the centre of the cerebral cortex

grey

they never explained that as i walkedi would cut swathes of grey in my strideor that i would pass by grey crumpledon a street cornera thousand untold stories in grey eyes

what prayer do you pray for the homeless?what words hold weight in their grey pockets?what do you pray over a man on death row?what words will cut hope into his eye sockets?

how can i carve truth from the grey that’s settled around my neck?

see there is no such thing as black or whitejust intermittent shades of greyi banished grey prayers from my grey lipsin hope that when i cut grey panels from my grey chesti will ind a heart that still beats bright red

one for your children

dem-dem say we no care about politicsbut i sure say we dey more political dan most of dem - abeg!

now dis one na for una pickin

i was born in a countrywhere politics boiled over from oga's meat potand ran through sun-hardened streets as rivers of bloodblood ighting bloodbrothers dey bi enemiesfriends dey bi foescivil war an biafran woes

i was born in a countrywhere we don see military dictatorshipsi sat at de feet of my fathers an unclesmy mothers an auntiesan listened to how dem dey yarn aboutbabangida, abacha, generals and military coupsi sat at de feet of my fathers an unclesmy mothers an auntiesan listened to how dem dey yarn aboutfailing infrastructureembezzlement and missing aid moneygeneral fatcat and chief owollaowollabighead

i was born in a citywhere muslims an christiansdey ight with axes an torches burningwhere de neighbour to grandmamma dey don beat am black an bluetil no more her eyes can she see throughdis na politics i grew withwe don belle full of pepe

now dis one na for una pickin

we dey live in a countrywhere politics be ingrainedin the membrane of your melanindepending on your colouringdem no go learn to talk to usdem talk over our heads like say we be small pickinwhen we dey see more grown tins dan dey seewith de whole collection of dey jaded eyeballsmy politics be ingrained in my mindframei no dey interested in your plump po-lie-ticiansdem no answer my question when i go ask it of amdey dance around my question like dem wear tap shoedey go dance ajasco torontodrowning out my question with inconsequential tap-tap-tappingdey yarn big grammar with dey off-white teeth

but now dis one na for una pickin

mama tell me say from when i be small smallthat life would be harder because i am a womanand a black woman at thatdis she no learn from a feminist handbookdis i no go learn from a citizenship class in school, abi?dis na fact of lifeborn from the experience of my mothers and grandmothers

my aunties and cousinseach one a testimony of political hardship and activismthat started with simply doing wetin dem be wan dopaying no attention to ye-ye unspoken rules

an now dis one na for una pickin

me i don need your politics at-all at-alli carry enough politic for headwhen de police dey call my mothercoloured namesan knock on my door with handcuffsfor my innocent brotheri have enough politic under my armwhen dey riot in de street colour against colourwhen a whole family dey toss am outblack bags an sad belongingsde bailiff calling“make dem clear commot!”an teacher tell another kidwhen dem hear of dream big“eye go come down!”because dem no go make ampast paroleuntil you go carry my politic for headuntil you go wave lag for a real causeinstead of running to ightcapitalist political warsfor de big man with de big eyecorporate begging for more dan dey lotbut dem-dem go leave us with bottom-potor we just go chop garimy friend, e don douna it keep una politicsand me, i'll ight for my own

jendella is a writer and photographer. deaths, dreams and the dull inbetweens is her irst literary publication, following on from time and distance and where the devil won't go, two volumes of photography work published in 2011.

she lives in south london with her husband and collection of cameras and fountain pens.

jendella.co.uk@JENDELLA

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