Old loves

We’ve come to the point where
It seems
I Love Us

More than I love

You.

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The trees Told Me A Secret

The trees told me a secret.

“It’s okay to be alone.”

They know me all too well,

Every corner piece of my puzzle,

Every odd shape,

Those two faces.

 

You see I lost myself in these woods,

Anxiety ran away with me and never brought me back.

“Best friends look out for each other” he said, “and taking you away is the only way I can protect you”.

“Protect you from them.”

“Protect you from yourself.”

I watched them both disappear past the distant leaves, paralysed by the restless panic in my gut marching up my lungs and out my throat.

And I could only stand there, as the last bit of colour drained from my hands.

 

Since then, I’ve been wandering this dirt, missing what it felt like to hate myself.

You see the trees told me a secret.

“It’s okay to be alone.”

But each of their whispers is a reminder of my paper thin puzzle leaving cuts on my skin.

Pain… Pain is an emotion I knew.

Pain kissed me goodbye on that very same day.

So I downed my bottle of apathy, and stumbled onto this path,

Trapped in this nostalgic replay of the day I decided to colour my world Sepia.

So at least my hollow body could still feel at home.

 

Poetry part of bigger dance project that can be viewed here

The Trees Told Me A Secret from Isaac Ouro on Vimeo.

Set Sail

Quiet now my child,

We’ll soon begin our journey.

 

Listen to the crashing waves and let them erode your pain.

Let the rhythm match your trembling,

let the salt crawl through your skin, And the sun harden it.

It will be a long voyage.

 

Let your toes sink into the sand,

and feel the pillowing comfort.

Step

by step.

 

The sea awaits us both,

our voyage south.

Set sail my child,

my body, your ship,

my heavy heart, your anchor.

A near-death experience

Have you ever been asked if you’ve had a near death experience?

My pendulum mind still can’t decide.

Sometimes, I’ll say yes, and recount the day I reached for my older brother’s admiration.

 

It was a hot and sunny afternoon. And the clouds were doing their daily patrol over a southern coastal city. Lome, capital of the west African Togo, had a different air about it. Like it knew a daring feat was about to be attempted.

The wind didn’t have much to say that day, but quietly watched as a young boy dare challenge the might of his brother. I was faced with the most herculean of all tasks, inciting flames in my gut, and defiance in my eyes.

 

“Climb that mango tree higher than I have.”

 

My brother was always the quest giver, and I his minion, loving and hating the adventures simultaneously.

But that afternoon was the pinnacle of dares.

No longer would I need to look up to his broad shoulders to catch a glimpse of his teenage pride.

No longer would I trail behind his superhuman legs as his speed overwhelmed.

No longer would my scrawny shoulders crumple in defeat.

I could stand and meet his stature.

I could finally surpass his agile brilliance.

 

A rush of ego welled up inside me.

 

With nothing but shorts on, I stood at the wise trees roots,

the tree which had survived many a season,

the tree which had seen my mother grow from child to woman,

the tree which had seen my grandfather pass.

Yet it always stood tall. Unwavered.

 

I studied its shape and tactically devised a route.

My little nails grappled with the bark as I set my footing.

Right hand up. I clinched onto the trees hollow.

Left hand up. I grabbed a branch and pulled my weight up.

Right leg up. Nestled on the trees curved trunk.

Left leg up. Hoisted onto the branch.

And so I repeated the sequence, climbing higher and higher.

I passed some ripe fruits, wanting to stop to replenish my energy,

but my brother’s acknowledgement meant so much more.

 

Up and up I went,

till a simultaneous slip of my left hand and foot betrayed my resolve.

They say life flashes by in such a moment, but what could such a young boy think about?

I eyed those ripe, juicy mangoes on my descent, until the air jolted out of me, yearning for a soothing taste.

Time stood still in camaraderie with my lungs.

I could feel all of my muscles tense and reject any notion of relaxing.

Each grain of sand embraced my adolescent skin, refusing to release their amorous hold.

I could hear only murmurs as I floundered, struggling to feed my lungs.

I don’t know how long I spent on that ground, but it felt an eternity.

 

When I came to, I remember the panic on my brother’s face. His worried expression.

I remembered how unwavered the tree still stood, in expectant stature. Its decades of experience defiant of my challenge.

I didn’t look at my brother for the rest of the day. I couldn’t stomach yet another failure, and we never spoke of that day till many years later. When it became a nostalgic trip. When a boy’s idea of death goes beyond the lack of breath for minutes on end.

 

And sometimes, my pendulum mind would say no.

That was a harrowing experience, yes, but a near death experience, no.

I feel a con at having ever told that story, donning a false mask, rewriting history for the sake of a few gasps.

Gasps which have become the storyteller’s opium.

 

Gasps which have become the mantra of so many refugees.

 

3.3 million Syrian refugees are children. Mahmoud from Al-Raqqa, only 5 years old, survived his school being bombed. Omar suffered from malnutrition and could have died were he not rescued by Save the Children after fleeing Syria with his family. 5 year old Lara abandoned her home with her family, with nothing but clothes on their backs as bombs rested ever closely to their town. Hibaas, also 5, still lives in that war torn country and battles with survival every day.

Could my young self stand among them?

They who have survived bullets whistling sweet surrender,

they who have survived the song of gunshots and explosions, refusing to make it their generations sing-along,

they who have bricks and mortar for neighbours,

they who have hope in their sight as they set out in hurried pilgrimage, yet are met with more hate and cruelty,

they who are left to survive in worse environments to the ones they fled.

Could the defiance in my eyes weather the tsunami of tears Alan Kurdis’ parents were engulfed by? Could their grief be matched by my brother’s teenage anguish if I truly passed that day?

 

That young boy, on that sunny afternoon, with the quiet wind, patrolling clouds, and rooted tree as witnesses was not briefly visited by death.

He was not scarred nor scared. A smile returned to his face soon after, as the sun waved its goodbye and the capital whispered a hopeful “maybe next time”.

He was able to return to a normal life, with the incident only an afterthought.

 

I still look up to my brother to this day,

still chasing his superhuman legs,

still watching his broad shoulders to catch a glimpse of his aged humility.

But that day remains a stark reminder, that what I should have admired was that tree. Unwavered. Standing tall after witnessing decades of joy and anguish.

And the ones I should also be admiring now, are those children,

who fight to have to have the quiet wind, patrolling clouds, and an embracing sun watch over them as they struggle to retain their daily lives.

 

* Information from Save the Children

I just stalked a man

Please don’t be alarmed, it wasn’t that bad but

I think I just stalked a man.

 

I walked into fresh coffee shop, ordered my tea,

And sat with diary and pen in hand.

Ready to tap into my muse.

Only to be entranced by this blue collared man looking idle across the street.

 

I collared him with my pen.

Fixated on his every step, his lamenting body, his shifting neck,

his khaki trousers, his black shoes, his grey jacket,

his tense frown, his olive skin, his nervous skittering eyes.

 

A yawn escaped.

I noted the time.

19.19.

 

 

He stood under a “no loading sign” outside a chicken cottage.

My stomach growled so I took a sip of my tea, and quickly honed in on my immediate obsession.

I knew I was on to something.

I was sure my poetic hand would entangle him in a web of adjectives and floral verbs.

I could be one of those CSI detectives my sister so religiously loved years ago,

solving crimes one poem at a time.

 

His phone rang and he quickly answered. The air was tense and my pen gained a few pounds in agreement.

 

As his demeanour changed, relaxed,

so did I.

But my curiosity was having none of it.

Who could have such magical powers, to put two people at ease?

Albeit unknowingly.

 

A car pulled up and his face lit up.

 

As he got into the car, relaxed,

So did I.

Personified in my curiosity, clicking my belt on.

A voyeur on the backseat, ready for the adventure of discovery.

Unearthing the identity of the voice with LED eyes and a touchscreen scent.