Inimfon Inyang-Kpanantia pours himself unreservedly into these three poems; “sky as a portrait of rebirth”, “Papa”, and  “Three Dreams and a Thing or Two on an Entomology”. It is such a delight to share these beautiful poems because they are so personal, yet so relatable. They explore themes such as renaissance, memories, and rejection. You will enjoy every piece in this suite of poems!

Kwaghkule Jacob – Contributing Editor (Poetry)

the sky as a portrait of rebirth

can you tell how the skies bleed? it starts with violent virgules fissuring the indigo as you are c rac k ed open against your will. you can match the cardinal points where this extraterrestrial blanket lays itself bare. raise your rosy hands and catch the stars








down from the interstice. part it from where it gives and plant a spring of wild omens there. watch how hope wrings into a feathered storm. paint with your breath the rhythm of jeremiads. go ahead and scribble with your eyes the image of a flowered woman, half-wilting. animate her frame with a tap on her forehead.

this is how a foreign body learns the trick of repossession.

as the angels glide by, forge a trumpet from your chest and remind them to take you to the place where sweet memories wing against gravity.






with them.

learn to live again, weightless.


There, is a picture of my baby self, bibbed, cherry-pink and fashioned like a wrapped miracle.

Papa plants a kiss on my cheek and here is the root of my banyan connection with his spirit.

In another, I sit on Papa’s head like a wild current and pluck mangoes from the skies for my reverie.

His eyes was a well of wondrous things and when I stumbled upon a pebble and fell in my tottering days I

Would first look there to find a spectre of courage against this cruel world and its hindering stones.

Then, I could embrace the world through him, arms spread wide for all it had to offer.

Mama told me he went away for a while on my fifth birthday. And on my seventh when I screamed the world down, she melt like a weeping candle and spoke parables beyond my comprehension.

Full description when I had grown a nasty beard and slept outside for four days. I was 16 and fully rascal like

The thieves that stuck a bottle in Papa’s carotid and left him to flow like a crimson fountain.

These days, I stare into pictures and caress the roots of connection on my cheek, pluck ripe mangoes from the backyard or simply stare into space

and I find nothing

but the many ways to wish this life away.

Three Dreams and a Thing or Two on Entomology


This dream is of a writer in flight or a scripted butterfly —

wings spread wide like two halves of a parasol.

The handsome minibeast glides on the wind of acceptance &

after rejection chokes on a wish, then bursts into vanilla paper.

Oh how poetic! To have precious time littered in a basket,

sheets torn on repeat & rewritten.


This dream is deep passion —

woody, venusian, so alive I turned a katydid by the piano the next morning

scoring Adele & Legend. My buggy thorax thrown into a harmony

till I aimed a peak note with my throat already burnt at C4.

I always thought katydids were magical

with enough wizardry to invoke Grammys out of thin air.


For number three, I am a bee refusing the bitter nectar of failure.

Fed five patients penta &

watched three die. Wore a stethoscope and filed the folders. People still call it progress.

Yesterday, before this poem was birthed

I popped a lonely grey hair & the follicle scented forgotten fantasies &

silent hope.

Contributor’s Bio

Inimfon Inyang-Kpanantia is a young writer of Ibibio origin. Vacillates between poetry, prose, music, and medicine. Is mostly a boring personality with minimal humor. Likes falling into routines such as siren exercises and tedious stretches of relentless reading. Finalist for the K and L Literature prize, shortlisted for the Awele Creative Trust Award, 2020, longlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize, 2022. His publications can be found in the Kalahari Review, Mausoleum Press, WNDRRng, and elsewhere.

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