Isaac Aju writes from Nigeria and is now published in UK and US journals. His poems are about storytelling and the artist’s response to pain.

Bodies Not Out Our Own

Just like God came down and clad himself in flesh,
That is how storytellers wear bodies not their own,
That is how they shift their own pain to take up the pain of another person.
Sometimes storytelling can be painful,
Just like it was painful for the Almighty when he wore the flesh.
He cried.
He wept.
He was hated.
He was persecuted.
He was crucified.
Storytelling on the other hand, is a calling one cannot run from.
It is impossible.
At the time of maturity, the stories you are meant to tell start looking for you,
Whispering into your ears.
It gives you access into its mysteries,
Into its different realms.
It draws you into solitude,
To tell a story.
To reveal a secret.
You wear other people’s bodies to tell some of these stories,
And it’s not often an easy process,
But you do it.
You have to do it.
You have to take off the burden.
So when we write, we are not only writing about ourselves.
We are wearing the bodies of millions of other people, born and yet unborn.
We are conversing with the universe.
We are talking to the universe.
We are writing about different worlds.
We are restoring dignity to places.
We are giving voices to the voiceless.
We are treading upon the serpents and scorpions of this world.

Art And Pain

Pain is the bedrock on which an artist sits to work.
Art is the artist’s response to pain.
When he’s assailed by pain
He sits down to make something out of it.
He sits down to talk back to pain,
To hold a conversation with pain.
He sits down to give pain his own blows,
The blows don’t have to come from pain alone.
The artist wants to fight back.

He wants to give out his own punches,
Blows…
He wants to pummel pain.
Give pain some slaps.
Give pain his own ‘I dare you’ responses.
He wants pain to know there’s still a long way to go.
He wants to shame pain.
He wants to belittle pain.
You think you are going to harm me
But you are actually exalting me

Dear pain,
Thou exalts me!
You think you will make me cry.
But I’m carving beauty out of my scars.
I’m carving beauty out of my bruises.
I’m carving beauty out of the lashes you gave me.
You gave me a ladder to climb into creativity.
What else could the artist have done?
How else could he have coped?
How else could he have understood what was happening to him?
What was happening around him?
How else could he navigate through the myriad of questions?
He simply turns to art
He starts to paint
He starts to design
He starts to write
He starts to create
He starts to carve
He starts to raise the dead in him
To heal the blind in him
He starts to rise
He starts to sing
He starts to dance
Where is thy sting, O pain?
Where are the chains you brandished?
Because they didn’t get me
Your chains did not see me
Because I leaped

Dear pain,
I jumped
I transcended thy limitations
I have flown into the skies
I have spoken to the world
Where is thy sting, O pain?
Because I will continue to sing and fly into the heavens.