Martins Deep is a poet and photographer/artist. His works have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Lolwe, FIYAH, Rough Cut Press, Barren Magazine, The Sandy River Review, Eunoia Review, Agbowó Magazine, IceFloe Press, Rogue Agent, Claw and Blossom, Harbor Review, Covert Literary Magazine, and Kalahari Review. In this episode of The Poetry Experience, Martins reads two of his poems: ‘Tell Grief’ and ‘for so long, you’ve saved your kiss for a gravestone.’ He tweets @martinsdeep1.
Tell Grief
In a prison of glass, a stone
is the hand of God. when
it shatters these walls
to p i e c e s, the sound filters
into the ear
a tickling flutter of freedom
With trembling fingers, i’ll skein
the rays of this lamplight
into a tongue
to shred this darkness. i’ll say, “light, be”
& become
where fireflies go
to form a North Star
Tell grief, the hand that writes on the wall
& chalks the lintel
of my room to mark a water level
for my drowning
now plays a violin
moaning as mother’s ghost
gardens my body
into a rich seedbed of benedictions
Tell grief everything b r o k e n inside me
is fallowed ground
for the coming of rain.
for so long, you’ve saved your kiss for a gravestone
i knew your body’s map/ enough to blindly throw myself
trusting it’ll land safely in a lake/ a body
of water for drowning/ the things that tusks/
a suicide note /from the cliff
of my tongue /to unfold on my mother’s lap/ in the dark/
i placed my ears on your chest /& heard your heartbeats
as footfalls of exiled ideas/ it was after that long walk
back from burying your broken violin /whose strings
your father’s pliers bit apart/ but your veins bled, staining
his teeth/ i stood there, playing /a helpless witness
in a script/ i wanted to be a hero/ that evening/
i remember your body cold /against mine
your head on my shoulder/ i’d later realize/
was the mold for the headstone /of your dead dream
i’ve beaten my forehead/ into the shape of an ode
to what it cannot have/ meaning, i have hit & hit
the walls in my room /with this part of me
aching with a longing/ to mirror yours /to bear
the brand of your lips/ and not just the stain
of your lipstick that’ll wash away/ in the shower
it’s our eight date tonight/ & i soften my lips
in the petrichor/ & moonlight after rain/ i draw them to yours
only red /only ripe with a longing/ for the gravestone
of a man/ whose name you overwrite /with ‘trauma’
in an invisible ink
