Haruna Adinoyi Yusuf is a prolific writer who writes a lot about anything and everything, ranging from poetry to fiction to screenplays. He is the author of several poetry collections, including darkwhite, Fragrance of Your Love, and Wild Rose. In this episode of The Poetry Experience, Haruna Adinoyi reads 4 of his poems, including Baritone Voice.
Baritone Voice
there is a baritone voice whispering outside my window but I do not know why it is there and what it is whispering.
there is a baritone voice whispering outside my window but my wife and children say they do not hear any voice.
there is a baritone voice whispering outside my window. when I go to look who it is, there is no one. just a firefly dancing near the orange tree.
there is a baritone voice whispering outside my window but when I ask “who are you?” I get no answer. just the male voice whispering, whispering, whispering.
there is a baritone voice whispering outside my window and I think it is the wind, but the wind is calm tonight. not even a leaf dances tonight. pale moon, but no wind.
there is a baritone voice whispering outside my window and I think it is our cat, but he is right here in bed with me. as if to clear my suspicions, he meows and places his head on my chest.
there is a baritone voice whispering outside my window and my wife says, “it’s the fever. look you’re running a temperature!” but I know the whisper is out the window. it is not the fever anything.
there is a baritone voice whispering outside my window so I say, “okay, you scumbag. go on. whisper all you want. it is your time and energy you are wasting, not mine. we can do this again tomorrow. haha!”
I pull the blanket up to my chin and close my eyes and then the baritone voice outside the window stops whispering.
Untitled
I stay in bed and
watch the sun rise.
today a song burns at
the tip of my tongue,
a new song to help me unlearn
that which we were taught
in classrooms and altars,
or uproot the seedlings of
half-truths sown in our hearts
by parents who silently blame
us for their failures.
I’m left with this question:
aren’t we all taught to accuse
the other side of that
which we are guilty of?
the birds have moved on.
the veil has fallen.
reader, silence burns
like a thousand knives.
the hurting kind
I love you/ because I don’t want it/ any other way
– Nikki Giovanni
the hurting kind—
rise and float
along
constellation route
with
all the flowers kneeling
against heaven.
the year the city emptied—
these trees, those leaves, this flower, that fruit.
real phonies and genuine fakes
sow pain in the air.
return flight—
museum of objects burned by souls in purgatory;
do you know where you are?
the kissing of kissing; you can be the last leaf.
a poem about love
I reached for the bread
and you dipped the biscuit in honey
I sang the chorus of magic
and you plucked stars from the sky
you touched my white shirt
and I sniffed the scent off of your bra
I went into the garden to plant melon
and you drank coffee while reading the sun
in the morning I pulled down the moon
and you counted the grains of sand
you brushed off the kitten’s soft paws
I forgot the Ebira word for eloquence
and you shouted “shame on 45!”
I dreamed of a new car
and you wrote a new poem
my radio makes a lot of noise
and so does the refrigerator in your kitchen
I said—
and you said—
I—
and you—
