the intensity of the wind

Isaac O. Daramola



there was a foreign box in my room

breathe out. in

and just like yesterday when i opened it

texture of the thorax:

trapped metaphors and antitheses crawled out from its compartment

up and high, down and low

papers of a million sonnets filled the inside of it

the visual of air hitting the curtain.

with each poem a tear of its own.

another torn curtain now mops the floor

it was the box of the last evolving poet.

poor blue drape with the pattern of a lady on a canoe.

years ago, they ordered the execution of all poets

my curtain is the vocal sac of a horny frog

leaving a world with moderate comparison to exist without them

if the hand of the wind is strengthened

but today, a million lives would taste the beauty birthed by ink of these poets

the sudden current of the curtain would whip my cup over the desk

these evolved, dead poets

and feed the lady on the canoe with water to mop.

because these sonnets are flying the world

this is the link;

as i allow the wind to carry them

how the state of the poor, and the rich, plus our knowledge of poetry depends on the

intensity of

the wind


Isaac O. Daramola (he/him) is a poet, writer, and a Biomedical Science student at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria. He’s currently working on his debut crime/thriller novel and a poetry collection. His work has appeared in journals such as Cephalopress, Mineral Literary Magazine, What are Birds, Pangolin Review, and the University’s Editorial Board.


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