Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan

 

Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan
is an emerging writer from Ebonyi state, Nigeria. He’s a penultimate medical laboratory science student who explores medicine in the day and worships literature at night. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in several literary journals; both online and printed. He was the winner of 2018, FUNAI CREW Literary Contest.

 

The Cold Psalm of A Clueless Sailor

In this poem, I’m a lost sailor 

drowned by the violent tides of his tears.

If life is a journey proceeding through water,

I’m a boat sailing through a troubled ocean.

 

My body is so close to raging water bodies/ 

very prone to flood;

a muddy soil partying in a waterlogged horizon.

everyday breaks into a heavy downpour,

to contain these, 

my soul becomes a streamlined trunk — adaptation 

 

Or am I not floating upon this blue brine

with my legs & head camping at the top of a humidity 

beyond the sea level 

while my hands flip through the stratum/layers 

of this ocean in search of a firm grip?

 

My birth does not come with a compass.

to wedge these storms/skip these rocks 

& embrace a tranquil dock,

I must spread my worries into a map— spur

 

I don’t even know when(where) this journey 

will end— clueless,

but I know I’m a balloon pregnant with still air,

a leaf of cocoyam sitting upon this ocean,

I’ll not drown

I’ll float for long

I’ll end somewhere far from here.

 

 

Limbless Sun

 

Because the sun is limbless in Africa

its footmarks are shades gulping shadows

the same way a boy is a darkness swallowing

grief, I wish to lend time feet, to lend 

an arm to the sun & stretch these black tongues

into a gravid litany; the kind that lures mercy.

To these bare & blunt blades— our bodies,

may we stop exhibiting strength around dead animals, 

after we’re done stripping the tooth of time its scathe— the lips;

I fear what the rain will do to it

if we keep naming sunrise differently

according to the time each man wakes up.

 

 

Colourful Figurines on A Black Canvas

 

Yesterday, hell sniffed our bodies into its nose

as scents of tobacco.

Hades collected our salty tears as soured rain 

with a keg designed for holding

liquid bodies.

 

We’ll raise a monument of prayers.

We’ll rue such colourful figurines.

 

Today, another man is smearing the moon

with the blood from his daughter’s thighs;

transforming the vast center to a tapering tail,

like how a highway narrows towards its apparent end.

 

Tomorrow, a mother will fetch a pretty protea

with her baby’s umbilical cord;

trotting visions away without guilt 

like the hands of a clock moving.

 

They’ve drowned a monument of sanity.

They’ve ruined this colorful figurine.

 

Two days ago, a boy’s body became a pilgrimage center

where people visit, yet barely know; 

no one cared to know how his smiles 

toppled over his hidden tears.

 

Two days later, a girls heart became a cemetery

where venoms drifting from broken boys are buried;

we built a cemetery by adorning a chapel.

 

We’ll raise a monument of prayers.

We’ll rebuild this colourful figurines.

 

Last year, many tripped into slumber when the vodka of life

hurt their chests. 

 

This year, we’ll snub death by sipping more hope. 

We’ll paint our black bodies as pretty figurines. 

We’ll name it a beautiful nation.