Adedayo Adeyemi Agarau is a human nutritionist, documentary photographer, and author of two chapbooks, For Boys Who Went & The Arrival of Rain. Adedayo was shortlisted for the Babishai Niwe Poetry Prize in 2018, Runner up of the Sehvage Poetry Prize, 2019. Adedayo is an Assistant Editor at Animal Heart Press, a Contributing Editor for Poetry at Barren Magazine and a Poetry reader at Feral. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Mineral Lit, Glass, Jalada Africa,Linden Avenue, and elsewhere. Adedayo was said to have curated and edited the biggest poetry anthology by Nigerian poets, Memento: An Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry. His chapbook, Origin of Names, was selected by Chris Abani and Kwame Dawes for New Generation African Poet (African Poetry Book Fund), 2020.
….One can see that Adedayo’s has screeched and lucid his heart and thought by enlightening us his decision what made him choose reading and writing literature, pouring words in different forms and delight style. Adedayo’s has made a lot of sense from his book “For Boys Who Went”. Our pleasant moment of discussion started on Twitter 6th August, 2019. And am delighted to welcome him into our interview section. You’re welcome Adedayo. How was your trip? Now to our questions for today….read more
Konya Shamsrumi: If any of your poems could literarily save a person’s life, which poem would it be and can you describe the person whose life you think it would have saved?….read more
After “At Willard Brook” – Adrienne Rich
What is a country if it takes you to slaughter;
Abram lifting a knife without the name of Jehovah.
The difference between blood and water is
one leans against the other’s tongue.
A knife speaks into a boy’s throat
& the first thing he felt was thirst.
I open your wounds & God’s eyes probe
into mine; your skin was too soft for a knife’s healing.
A country saddles its lineage home;
the skin does not translate to salvation.
Today, at close range, three policemen
were shot. Instead of blood, they bled water.
Instead of water, they bled fruits,
everything aching all at once.
Lift up your heads, O ye gates
— Psalm 24:7
Have you tasted of your god’s anger?
Seraphs leaning into the morning with
swords, we name our house by the blood
of lambs, god’s children hiding the light
of someone’s son under their bed. Am i
still kind, or a long lost mirage of rust?
Pharoah’s disobedience blooming in God’s wrath.
I come from a lineage of rebels. Men
whose wives were queens in their dreams,
whose firstborns are god’s dinner. I bless
my father’s courage, the frog in his throat,
I bless his croak voice, the music of anguish
musing the morning on mourning, the silence
that folds his mouth as someone’s boy dies.
The lamb does not remember the house of its shepherd.
Moses, is this the price of freedom or God’s anger
when he thinks of the coming death of his Son?
My childhood of twilight is caught in this moment.
As a first son, the olive withers and kisses me goodbye.
After Michael Ondateeje’s What we lost
My lover called me a dog because my nose is wet with fear.
In a dream where all is night and nothing is near, I stand
by the shore watching you wreck. A battalion of stars sinking
before the sky. So if God decides to let it rain, I will be feeding you back
to dust, O fear! I wear my father’s dress to war. At the battle,
we dance with names in each other’s mouths. I say I am little,
and you say you are fire. There is power in a mouth that knows
what to say. I am burning the house my father built the night
he crashed against my mother’s sea. Sopona o.
Every road out of your mouth is a fresh ruin. I sit inside.