Gilded with gold, its lustre blinding the eyes beholding from below
On his back was a globe, and by it, the weight of the world.
Nearby, in front of a palace now turned museum
A man stretches forth an arm, mumbling under cold breath.
He asks for coins – a euro or hopefully two.
The hand, his left hand, the one with which he begs, the one
Not covered in a black wool gloves, bears all the telltale signs:
He's been up and down and a lot of places in between
Yet, he is here, begging for Atlas to carry his weight too
Wishing for a little chip off his gold lustre
But Atlas is stuck in a time loop, spiralling in his own mythology –
A vicious circle of renaissance.
Yet the man is here, before our eyes,
In flesh and blood, and a naked cold hand.
Golden Silence, Potsdam, 2018
Sleeping Man, Metro Anvers, Paris, 2018.
Night Ride (I)
Dark horizons
Cuddled in front seat, driver unknown
Breaking distance into crumbs
News of life, and of death
From Paris to Amsterdam, no borders
Only of the head – implanted when fingerprints were scanned,
implanted to make fear out of wind
This body, this new cartography
Retracing, erasing, replacing
It is deconstruction, not destruction
Restitution, not prostitution
Feet in the most unlikely places
Pillows of sidewalk pavement
Stench of lives lived in the open
Trembling fingers in baby winter
Eyes struggle under sleep's weight
The voice rings again: Daddy I miss you too
I knew I would write this poem one more time.
This body, this new cartography.
Night Ride (I), Amsterdam, 2017
From Today to Tomorrow
Let us walk Through the maze of life's splinters Of tastes and fates On which our light reflects - deflects Let us walk In directions askew And to a place called with no name Do you hear? The whisperings of the air Yes, a secret is shared Let us walk With the courage of a billion They can kill the man but not the idea Enjoy this banality Perhaps it's a play of words Let us walk Until our bones squeal And maybe we would have crossed over From today to tomorrow
From Today to Tomorrow, Amsterdam 2014
Here, the body becomes a shadow of its history (II). Foreigners registration office, Berlin, 2017
A Brief Meeting with a Sojourner
Like a piece of anything on a sidewalk
An accidental nudge. A question is born
It is on such sidewalks that the sojourner, having travelled for numberless miles,
stops to ask: S’il vous plait...la Chapelle?
It is on such sidewalks that expectations crumble to shreds
to be reborn in yet another question: Where do we go from here?
Over a shoulder is a backpack,
A backpack of little bits of unimaginable(s)
Like a jigsaw, they come together and point to a road – a kind of cartography
But who would listen to a man ill fitted for the weather,
no less fragile than Giacometti’s?
Who would listen to the woman struggling to tie a child to her back with a wrapper embroidered with signs and symbols from no where to be found?
Like a piece of anything on a sidewalk
Downtrodden, roughed-up by hurrying boots
A question is born
For those who will never lose their way.
A Brief Meeting with a Sojourner, Paris, 2017
Bus 43
At the entrance of bus 43 towards Gare de l’Est Three ladies chatter Blurbs of random events from the day's inventory Punctuated by dreams of a not-too-distant future they spoke in a familiar language, and accent, and gesture They spoke of a day when they would have their ‘papers' Marry the man of their dreams, live the right life. They spoke in a familiar language The language of a sojourner – whose fate is to make homes they would never take with them.
Bus 43, Paris, 2016
Golden Silence
Above, neatly perched on a baroque dome,
Against backdrop of a clear blue sky stood Atlas
Gilded with gold, its lustre blinding the eyes beholding from below
On his back was a globe, and by it, the weight of the world.
Nearby, in front of a palace now turned museum
A man stretches forth an arm, mumbling under cold breath.
He asks for coins – a euro or hopefully two.
The hand, his left hand, the one with which he begs, the one
Not covered in a black wool gloves, bears all the telltale signs:
He's been up and down and a lot of places in between
Yet, he is here, begging for Atlas to carry his weight too
Wishing for a little chip off his gold lustre
But Atlas is stuck in a time loop, spiralling in his own mythology –
A vicious circle of renaissance.
Yet the man is here, before our eyes,
In flesh and blood, and a naked cold hand.
Golden Silence, Potsdam, 2018
Night Ride (I)
Dark horizons
Cuddled in front seat, driver unknown
Breaking distance into crumbs
News of life, and of death
From Paris to Amsterdam, no borders
Only of the head – implanted when fingerprints were scanned,
implanted to make fear out of wind
This body, this new cartography
Retracing, erasing, replacing
It is deconstruction, not destruction
Restitution, not prostitution
Feet in the most unlikely places
Pillows of sidewalk pavement
Stench of lives lived in the open
Trembling fingers in baby winter
Eyes struggle under sleep's weight
The voice rings again: Daddy I miss you too
I knew I would write this poem one more time.
This body, this new cartography.
Night Ride (I), Amsterdam, 2017
From Today to Tomorrow
Let us walk Through the maze of life's splinters Of tastes and fates On which our light reflects - deflects Let us walk In directions askew And to a place called with no name Do you hear? The whisperings of the air Yes, a secret is shared Let us walk With the courage of a billion They can kill the man but not the idea Enjoy this banality Perhaps it's a play of words Let us walk Until our bones squeal And maybe we would have crossed over From today to tomorrow
From Today to Tomorrow, Amsterdam 2014
A Brief Meeting with a Sojourner
Like a piece of anything on a sidewalk
An accidental nudge. A question is born
It is on such sidewalks that the sojourner, having travelled for numberless miles,
stops to ask: S’il vous plait...la Chapelle?
It is on such sidewalks that expectations crumble to shreds
to be reborn in yet another question: Where do we go from here?
Over a shoulder is a backpack,
A backpack of little bits of unimaginable(s)
Like a jigsaw, they come together and point to a road – a kind of cartography
But who would listen to a man ill fitted for the weather,
no less fragile than Giacometti’s?
Who would listen to the woman struggling to tie a child to her back with a wrapper embroidered with signs and symbols from no where to be found?
Like a piece of anything on a sidewalk
Downtrodden, roughed-up by hurrying boots
A question is born
For those who will never lose their way.
A Brief Meeting with a Sojourner, Paris, 2017
Bus 43
At the entrance of bus 43 towards Gare de l’Est Three ladies chatter Blurbs of random events from the day's inventory Punctuated by dreams of a not-too-distant future they spoke in a familiar language, and accent, and gesture They spoke of a day when they would have their ‘papers' Marry the man of their dreams, live the right life. They spoke in a familiar language The language of a sojourner – whose fate is to make homes they would never take with them.
Bus 43, Paris, 2016
Emeka Okereke Projects
Official website for Emeka Okereke showcasing artistic works and projects