your lust
seeps into me
it forgets that I’m
your child
testes muddied in
their needing
excruciating pain
in the pursuit
of the relief
the path
the supposed cure
a boy stuck in
an old man’s dress
wanting for his father
your lust seeps into me
its scent the secretion
of adolescence
heart curt with the leaving
a fixed youth
weeping indulgence
a boy stuck between rehearsals
wet behind the ear
for his father
Tochukwu Ezebube is a passionate poet and founder of Poem Collections. With a deep love for African verse and a commitment to sharing diverse poetic voices, Tochukwu curates a rich tapestry of poems that celebrate the beauty of words from Africa and around the world. Join him on this poetic journey at Poem Collections, where the magic of language unfolds.
“The Soweto I Love” is an anthology of poems written by Sipho Sepamla. It was first published in the year 1977 as a direct response of Soweto Uprising in 1976, but the poem was, however, banned by South African Apartheid regime, which considered it as protest poems. “The Soweto I Love” contains 35 poems. “How…
Understanding a poem is an enriching journey that unlocks the beauty of language and emotion. As you explore the depths of poetic expression, embrace the art of interpretation. Learn how imagery, symbolism, and rhythm may be magically infused into lyrics while examining the personal ties that give them life. Explore the mysteries and appreciate poetry’s…
Women of Africa, Women of the Revolution! You will rise up to apex You will journey endlessly At a walking pace of the social Revolution, To the rhythm of cultural progress, In the train of economic boom To the great and beautiful city Of the exacting ends And were in leading Your brothers, your husbands…
Sheets of tin nailed to posts driven in the ground make up the house Some rags complete the intimate landscape. The sun slanting through cracks welcomes the owner After twelve hours of slave labour. breaking rock shifting rock breaking rock shifting rock fair weather wet weather breaking rock shifting rock Old age comes early a…
The mirror hanging on the wall, where I sometimes see myself in passing… is a dead pond brought into the house. Corpse of a pond is the mirror: Still, rigid water containing in itself remnants of color, remembrances of the sun, of shadow—movable edges of the horizon burning, passing by in circles, returning, never burning…
