About Me

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 iAmDiipo

That kind of summarises it but there is always more to a poet than meets the name.


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The Bent Backs of our Fathers

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Proud warriors in ancestral savannahs...is this your back that is bent.  ~David Diop Sweat shed on ancestral savannahs Blood from our grandfathers' labours The bent backs of our fathers The pains of the proud warriors And the songs of our grandmothers Have all gone to ciphers We are history’s refrain, a  tragic chorus of cycles This is not a disease, yet Our backs are bent like those before us This time from the toils we choose Our ancestral warriors in awe Watch us writhe in new pains Only this time not on the plains But in the cold gloomy northern winters Where we forget the songs  of our grandmothers  Who will save us now that we have gone too far Beyond the reach of our mother's voice and The long warm fingers of the sun.
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Out of the Woods came a Score of Four-Year-Olds

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It was a sunless winter noon I sat on a stump by the woods' gate Hoping the sun will shine through the dreary clouds, Then, out of the woods, came a score of four-year-olds Little boys and girls, in leather boots At first, I had my eyes fixed on the sky Still waiting for a glimmer But then the brightness of twenty pairs of shiny eyes Were about to light up my ennui  One of them, a gentleman, winked His boots were shinning and black He almost does not belong in the crowd His coat was fancy and neat As the others were soiled and wrinkled He was followed by a girl who looked guilty In muddy boots, coat and obliqued eyes—a recipe for a future politician Next were a couple, a boy and a girl who held hands And chatted endlessly without a care  Dirty as charged and looking like soon-to-be famous YouTubers They walked past me in no hurry or pattern I took a long ponderous look at each and all And can tell you that among them were the future priests  And sinners, poets and scienti...
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There is a Bermuda in my Room

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There is a Bermuda in my room I would normally have kept this under the rader But my stuff kept missing First it was the left leg of my favourite socks Then my earpiece and then my red scarf The triangle kept taking my belongings like a huge hungry monster I've kept mum all along  Hoping one day it might get filled and I might get to see those things I once owned and loved But it seems that's not to be And I am resigned to my fate  Such that sometimes I pray  That I may not fall into the darkness of this triangle  Where the odds of my socks  My orange rain pants   My yellow saphire wristlet  And my green comb All went without trace And I still would have kept it under the wraps But now I've started losing my mind Pieces of it are falling in a hurry, into that same Bermuda Tried as I might, they wouldn't come back to me Last night, I forgot the name I gave my dog.
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