KWEE Liberian Literary Magazine Jan. Iss. Vol. 0115 Apr Iss. Vol. 0415 | Page 37

Liberian Literary Magazine Promoting Liberian literature, Arts and Culture His lupin fields spurn old Deceit and agile poppies dance In golden riot. Each day is Fulminant, exploding brightly Under the gaze of his exquisite Sires, frozen in the famed paint Of dead masters. Audacious Sunlight casts defiance At their feet. I soften peppers in a well-greased pan and make announcements. I say, in the afterlife we cannot allow a single particle of our light to diminish. I am not a woman-prophet but I know paradise. I have seen my soul sitting on grass. Maya Angelou There, I learned God doesn’t know shame, and after six days He allowed our atmosphere to make certain souls wince; Pierrot we crawl under its magnificence. Here, I can attain ordinary heavens. Here, I attend to my book of questions. What is love? Why does it say, “Allow me to mogul your soul?” Where does it keep what it takes? What does the prostrating shadow request? Why do rocks enslave Tsitsi Jaji Under the bridge there are stones growing smooth with the slippage of water and the smear campaign of silt. The moon floats closer and closer, dragging below the bridge. water? What is the slave’s poem? Does the sea favor its roar or murmur? The doll cannot answer. The furrow in her bottom lip suggests that entry into ordinary heaven only requires recognition of it, for the soul’s arrogance to weigh less than a mustard seed. Is it time or a limpid ripple of maize-silk swimming? And while we look away I am sorry for you, I tell her. You witness but don’t testify. Ordinary Heaven Hope Is The Thing With Feathers Ladan Osman Emily Dickinson I arrange a doll in a chair and wait for her to speak. 'Hope' is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all— I want to say, “Be!” but am an ordinary creation. I watch for the folds under her eyes to twitch. And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard— And sore must be the storm— That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm— I have many dreams, I say to her. In my dreams I’m better than myself. 37