Nostalgia

There is a scene in season finale of season 1 of Mad Men where our protagonist Don Draper described Kodak's photograph slide projector "The Carousel" He talks about it being able to take us to a place we 'ache to go to again' and that is what inspired this poem. Nostalgia, Don says, in Greek means 'the pain of an old wound'

That sentence struck me, it's a pain that we still yearn to have, a sadness that somehow produces contentment, a metaphoric death that reminds us of life. I was in bed when this poem came to me, trying, but unable to sleep, and the words just seemed to come one by one leading me to rush out of bed, grab a notepad and write them down. Nostalgia for me is a bottled memory, a perfect instance in time, a moment of happiness and peace that I can always return to but never reproduce, and this inability to replicate that happiness is the sad part, Nostalgia is bitter, yet sweet, mournful, yet euphoric. These feelings are what informs this poem. I hope you like it

"Nostalgia"

Now memories are my comfort

Now sleep is my succour

for dreams have become my reality

Fantasy has become my truth

Pain has become my pleasure

Loss has become my gain

The past is now my future

Our yesterdays are my tomorrows

Nostalgia, my sustenance

The tragic romantic

Cursed to forever reach, but never grasp

Forever love, but never loved

Julian E. Obubo

August 2010

Stay This Way

Stay this way
Immortalized in a frame
Your snapshot smile
forever beams on your face

Let us stay this way
Eternal in this frame
Our warm embrace
Tight...secure

Stay this way
Timeless in this frame
Our dreams and hopes
Young and free

Stay...today
Though pain and strain
may tug and pull
Say: "With me"
"We will pull through"

You stayed that way
My pleas and tears
fell silently
on deafened ears

Stay this way
Forever Smile
Forever Young
Forever Mine



Julian Obubo
March 2010

You can't see the future with tears in your eyes

She grabs my hands
I can feel her cold palm in mine
We've been here for about an hour now
We haven't said a word
I look into her eyes
Like I've done countless times before
and in them, I see something essential to my survival
She doesn't complement, No, she completes me
a peculiar sum, one plus one equals one

The train pulls up
I can feel her grip tighter
tears roll down her eyes
down mine
There's no good way to say goodbye
I'd rather time froze
forever
.... you can't see the future with tears in your eyes

Alone.

Alone, I stand on the concourse
as she pulls away
into the arms of the horizon
... if you see the future, ask it if I'm there.


Julian Obubo. Nov 2009

I've been getting a lot of visitors from Denmark checking out this particular poem, can any of you Danish visitors please tell me why this poem is so popular. Thanks

This is a Black Poem or These Are Our Heroes

Inspiration comes in many forms. I haven't written a poem in months. Yesterday while on skype with the little sister- Laura, we were discussing black poetry and the meaning or lack of meaning of some poems. I came up with an idea of parodying poetry by writing a nonsensical poem and seeing how people will react.
However after I had written the first line, inspiration hit, my creative juices flowed and I could no longer just write a mocking pastiche, I turned it to a commentary (if you can ever call poetry commentary) of African-American victimhood, stereotypes and symbols while placing 'black' food as the centerpiece. Anyway, here it is, it is called 'This is a Black Poem' or 'These Are Our Heroes' whichever title means more to you, so it shall be:

This is a Black Poem or These Are Our Heroes

I reach for the rainbow
Bending its arch toward today
what is to be found at its end?
A Pot of Gold?
or a Pot of Big Mamas Chicken Soup
Aunt Jemimas Pot Liqour
Cooked by Harriet Tubman
Seasoned by Sojourner Truth
I sojourn for the truth
Searching under nooks and in crannies
Emancipating black cooks and nannies
I yearn for better days
Better ways
Chicken, collard greens and rice
Made by Uncle Bens and Fredrick Douglass
Drizzled with Booker T's hot sauce
This is the Kentucky Renaissance
I yearn for that essential blackness
That undeniable cool
That steadfastness
and vigor
The strong black back
Withstood the slave-masters whips
and the water-hoses of policemen
in Alabama
spraying little children
and they Mama

She

This is a poem I wrote about a year ago, and recently performed at a Variety Show in my brother's university- Bradford. Enjoy and leave your thoughts

"She"
You are the manifestation of beauty
I try to acknowledge
But I simply am not worthy
I'll damage your innocent cocoon
I'm worldly
You are the modern equivalent of ancient Aphrodite
I try to talk to you
But I simply cannot
You are a Godess, I, I am but a Man
You are perfection
You are not my perfect woman
For by me being imperfect, I cannot concieve perfection
But you:
Flawless
situated above others
Floorless
No tongue spoken by any man can come
halfway close to describing the effect your face has on those-
on those who view it,
Your presence nullifies despair
You have no name
No, wait
Your name is 'She'
She is You
You are She
She is Bathsheba
and I am David, transfixed by your celestial beauty
She is the Queen of Sheba
and I am Solomon, your satisfaction is my duty
at your feet I prostrate
Oh!
Venus Incarnate
You are She
She is you
Who is She?

Happy Poetry

It has dawned on me that my recent poems have always been gloomy, talking about the dark part of humanity, and the nasty aspects of people. Not just my poems, but that of people in my circle of poets.
So I put pen to paper to write a poem that was happy, or at least about happy things, what else brings as much joy as the great Sun.
Ladies and Gentlemen I present to you my latest poem:

Sunshine and Daisies
by Julian Obubo

The bright rays of the Sun
they beam themselves through the slits of my blinds
I, blinded by the light
make my way to the window
to let in the Sun
Vishnu has awoken
Amun-Ra asserts his presence
Peace on earth
The little plants begin photosynthesis
That's what our teachers tell us
The Sun
Source of all Power
The earth is but a little sphere
hurridly making its way around her
Great Hot Mother of all
and at night, rest she does
so her children, the stars, come out and play
under the watchful eye of their sister: Selene
Morning will come
Morning always comes
and rise she must

and as for Daisies?
They are pretty