Written By: Jamiu Ahmed
For God so love a girl, he named her Rose…
Rose is a sanguine bud — the rudiment of tomorrow’s Queen-flower — a fruit-bearer en-wombed by series of onion layers.
The garden is a home — the reflection of a graveyard where Rose lives to grow. So, when they ask, who’s in the garden? The response will be a sharp one: “A little fine Rose.”
Rose is a rare gem in the garden — waiting to shoot her stem —waiting to unfurl her silky petals like a pennon — waiting to spread her star-spangled banner up to the sky — waiting to become a tree of endless fruits.
Rose is a growing Eden — the promised land with timely-forbidden fruits. Rose gradually wears a new body of nectar-spine & a fragrance of sweet-scented bouquet — the odorous air of June from the orchard. Rose is a rose-water.
When butterflies & insects come seeking nectar — they whisper of rosy future — they say look at the world through your rose-colored glasses to see the rose-quartz therein — they say life is a comfy bed for Roses.
XVI, Rose isn’t Mary — but, an innocent flower girl — with maimed hymen & blood-stained garment — with Maidenhead despoiled by lewd fingers, that defies her prime. Her time is now a point in parenthesis — encased Period.
XVIII, Rose is a growing plant —nursing the unsolicited fruit of her labor — a budding tree grooming another bud.
XX, Rose, a tree harboring parasites — a mother of many flowers — worthy of being smelled but unbefitting to grace the golden vase. Wake up & smell the rose they say.
XXII, Rose is a pot of honey-beans. With wands & flies in line — taking turns to savour & steer the rosy juice, then lick-spittle, spite, spit & shit on the pot.
XXV, Rose is a bespoke & beloved flower with a cracked vessel — the broken water-pot from the flowing river — an open jar with amputated faith. Her shadow now limps behind her.
XXX, Rose is a roadside weed — growing in an unwanted field — bruised, battered, trampled upon & crushed by life’s heavy boots.
Rose, a once beautiful flower — now an embittered kola, tattered, withering & wearing off with Time — her life cycle. Period
Rose is now a fossil grain fading into dust & ashes bit by bit, till she hits Time’s Magazine.
Rose is a little fine girl growing in the garden — her home — her graveyard.
So when Rose dies, what do we place on her grave?
Jamiu Ahmed is a Poet, Playwright, and Civil Engineering Student of Yaba College of Technology. He lives and writes from Lagos. He’s a lover of art, Nature, bridges, and Towers. Some of his Poems have been published in Anthologies and by WRR Publishers and Poemify Publishers.
Photo Credit: Pixaby
4 minutes ago
We don't know one writer who has so mastered rejection that s/he doesn't feel bad when a new rejection letter arrives inbox.
True that editors are becoming kinder and picking their words carefully to ensure they do not crush a potentially great writer whose talent is just in its budding stage, but rejection hurts, anyway!
We guess it makes the writer think back on how much time they spent working on a particular piece. The research. The reshaping of characters. The editing of hundreds of sentences. And all these make it even more difficult to swallow.
But then, your "best" might just not be what such and such editor wants. This is why every writer must be patient with themselves because what you consider your best just might be like the prodigal son who left home with everything and returned with nothing.
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