Monday, May 17, 2010


There is irony.

Blessed under heat of stung palms,

Red and beating like goat skin prized it,

This should not surprise us again.

Woven in breaths taken, not swallowed,

I will not take the venom in,

I will not make my melanin lose faith in itself,

I will not pretend to accept that women

Are treated as any flesh of yours,

Barren your days will be,

Shrivelling spines with brittle bones,

there is no going back

for me.

I will not be part of your colony,

Naming ceremonies,

and semblances of freedom,

Hold your own flag,

call it what you want,

Chant your songs,

Beat your drums,

Fall in love

With the call of your own voice-

Over and over again,

Folding, falling back on itself-

Over and over again,

Sleep with your own echoes

every black night in your beds,



This is my end.


© 2010 Arielle John

Friday, May 14, 2010

40 days.

I came to miss your mischief

Like it wasn’t morning anymore,

Like daytime settled lazy

Among pillows of cloud.

There is no pillar shrouding the sky for me

To predict the walk of my wakings

Wind would hush the dreams in my eyes,

Down the sheets of collecting lids,

The wilderness would wish for rain like today.

Tapping everything in me awake,

Till my colours come back.

Till thunder returns to my chest,

Until memory learns how to sing again,

I will wait.

© 2010 Arielle John.