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An Ode to Venus // Visar



It glittered all night

welders on scaffolding


soldering huge cylinders

at the kiln.


Constellations high

over blueprints laid in stone.


Cranes, technicians, and

Supervisors seeing by


the torches on their visors,

scribbling on notepads.


Sweeping the radioactive fields

like a geologist,


Beaming down on masons

with torches on visors.


It helped set the blueprints in stone.


It aligned the straightedges,

and captured the excavation.


Like a camera set on a tripod.

Like a geologist inspecting gaspipes laid underground.


A foundry's inventory rose above the barbed

fences like a knoll.


A warhorn blared at five am.


Darkness transformed a familiar neighbourhood into a burka of buildings.


Leaves wet with secrets.


Caterpillars crawled over

the chaosphere with ease.


Hammers and saws reshaped

the alloys.


But I woke up to recognize the star

outside my window.


A strange dog caterwauling the moon

in my yard.


And outside, the wind was quiet,

as if in introspection.


Beetles ran away from the light in my hand.


Cherubs of clouds and contrails adorned the darkness of space.


An airplane glittered but

it was not the same.


Because above the welders was a

light that didn't flinch.


Unending in magnanimity.


Orange sheen of the foundry

painted the slate roofs down the

street.


Soldering irons like white asterisks glittered

from the scaffolding.


And the sound of my footfall vanished in that experience.


Venus, looking down on me.


Above the almond leaves of January,

and the roofs of the nail makers —


Every flower was a dream


All my faults smeared with candle waxes.


Visar writes from Lagos. Author of Daylight (2018) on Ghost City Press. His works have  either appeared or are soon appearing on Mojave heart Press, Selcouth Station, Marias at Sampaguitas, Riggwelter journal, Picaroon Poetry, Nightingale & Sparrow, Agbowo,  Kalahari review, African Writer, the Gerald Kraak Award Anthology, Amethyst Review, 20.35 Africa Journal etc. Twitter: @rabiutemidayo. 


Image by Rob Glover

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