Jide Badmus is an engineer, a poet inspired by beauty and destruction; he believes that things in ruins were once beautiful.
He is the author of four books including Obaluaye (FlowerSong Press, 2022) and What Do I Call My Love for Your Body (Roaring Lion Newcastle, 2022) and several chapbooks.
Badmus has curated and edited several anthologies, and his poems have appeared in Agbowo, The Muse, Maroko, Memento Anthology, Jalada Africa, No Tokens, Afrocritik, Black Bough Poetry Anthology and elsewhere.
Jide has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net by Black Bough Poetry.
He is founder of INKspiredng, Poetry Editor for Con-scio Magazine, a mentor in the SprinNG Fellowship, and sits on the board of advisors for Libretto Magazine.
Jide writes from Lagos, Nigeria. He tweets @bardmus
@instajhide (IG) Jide Badmus (JBard) (Facebook)
Rapture
A boy searches for God
in swirls of sativa.
He reaches out to be held
by the hands of music—
to be ferried by sacred rhythms.
He will find light in the lyrics of fire
burning at the mouth of a stick
& float out of his sad skin.
Published in the Freedom-Rapture anthology by Black Bough Poetry.
verse
after Beth Brooke's 'Vase'
night is complacent
a plastic sun sits in
a vase of cracked sky
a poem bleeds, runs
down dawn's throat
the red cock yawns
cracked morn voice
beckons virgin light
we pluck a stalk each
a prayer & wild verses
Published in Duet of Ghosts anthology by Black Bough Poetry
Blindspot
There's part of you
shrouded in a mist
of metaphors—an
expression light does
not touch. Your heart
is hidden from view—
a garden in awe
of dew & sunrise.
Glass
This poem reaches for
my heart, exhumes
the remains of a song.
There is no sound.
I can't find a worthy
synonym for silence,
or distance, or bitterness.
How do dead things grow?
We tend to forget a leaking roof
until the rains arrive—again.
A grudge isn't wished away,
a grudge isn't washed away.
I'm tired of your blind axe
tearing me to splinters,
of burning in the
hell of your tongue.
there is an unopened
bottle of forgiveness
on my breakfast table
but there's only one glass
& i have lost my appetite.
from Jide's book, Obaluaye, Flowersong Press 2022
Dynamite
I'm a stick
Of cigarette.
Put me between your lips
Take a drag
And feel the flames
Burn inside us both
Feel me explode
Like dynamite.
From Jide's book, Scripture, Sevhage Books, 2018.
Danfo
etymology of hustle
beaten & exhausted
rugged, you breathe
through the smoke,
through the mist,
through the ghost
of gold streets,
thick black veins
loud on yellow skins
how to kill a man
take away the things
that make him want
to stand from his bed
at dawn. chew his name
& spit it at shame's feet.
break his dream's spine.
incite his shadows.
stir a rebellion
in his blood.
deprive him of things
that make him long
for his bed's bosom
at the death of day.
Surds
I.
In multiplication,
negative integers
are predatory.
Grief is polynomial
—a sum of losses.
II.
Darkness is infinite,
vast in vocabulary,
rich in emotions
but a particle of
light is voracious,
impeccably fluent.
Hope is a slice of yam
in a pot of salty tears.
Healing is an active verb.
A Sea of Desire
At dawn, boat of hustle,
I plunge into ebbing traffic.
Tide of wheels & soles
grab at shores,
grab at the heart
of a budding storm.
Mast of dream, I'm
drenched in salt—
tossed by ceaseless waves.
Taking cue from seaweeds,
I learn to stay afloat, survive
another day.
Green Zone
I.
The sun undresses
before lounging waters
as though for a swim.
Today, Lagos is soft.
Dusk fills potholes
with withering smiles
& a sliver of optimism.
But night takes
everything away.
A dream overheats.
A prayer is stranded
on wooden wheels.
II.
Heaven's clock is broken
& time is hungover.
III.
There's no place for tears
in the eyes of war.
No shield
for vocal slugs
from kindred guns.
No place for grief
on this manifest
& where we find repair
is where we call home.
First published by Afrocritik
The Fabric of Things
Your smile is cotton
wool dipped in spirit
—a miracle, audacious,
burning.
There's no molecule of lie
in the velvet of your light.
You laugh like a chandelier—
joyful, buoyant & sometimes,
wild like a rocking chair.
This denim of love,
over erratic seasons,
did not fray nor fade.
We share fluffy memories—
soft song nestled in a shawl
of time, cashmere metaphors,
silk scarf around igneous heart.
first published by The Amistad
Darkroom
I'm at the riverbank,
fishing for memories
but the line comes up empty
—not one moment of a smile
not meant for the camera!
Your love is twilight, tepid
—your anger,
a vibrant waterfall.
Father told me not to read
too much to the sun's temper,
to see light rather than wrath
But you're not the sun,
you are dry wind,
warhorse for sandstorms.
Mother said you are rain,
I should embrace you
like the sea—but
you beat me
with furious tongues
—I ripple in silence.
I'm at the riverbank,
fishing—it's getting late
& not one room of your
memory left a light on.
From Jide's Obaluaye, Flowersong 2022
Paper Plane in the Rain
I wrote my pains—the ones I could
give names to—on a piece of paper
& folded them into a plane—of miseries.
I hurled a prayer into heavenly planes.
But how do you spell salt in aqueous fonts?
How do you carry wilting sighs
on the wings of an ellipsis?
Fear is bad weather for a flight!
How can you tell if god is in a bad mood
& would send rain to crash your kite?
first published in a co-authored chapbook of the same title
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Your Ego as a Therapist
"Tell me about your scars",
She undresses you —
backs you into
a giant wall of water, into
soft barbs of memories.
Your wounds are self-inflicted,
you confess. The many times you
set home on fire & drowned trying
to escape from yourself. The many
times you allowed abusive lovers roll
back into your bed, beat your dreams
into nightmares. The many times you
let the war in your head run into the
marketplace—keen bullets, bold sins.
Your bruises, like ebony, are evergreen.
Joy is deciduous. Grief is prime timber.
Teeth fall like leaves at autumn's feet
—brown smiles strewn over pebbles.
Knees fall before mahogany altars—
prey to god's jack plane or sandpaper.
Hollow
Heart is safely tucked
beneath a lockscreen.
Lips persist in prayer
that this phone does
not find its voice.
I live on the outskirts of joy.
There's a hole where the sun
used to be. I fall into myself
each time the phone rings.
A con messiah
promises to forgive my debt.
Just pay the principal, she says.
I ask for grace & a beast leaps
out of her throat.
My boat of sleep is stranded
on an island of nightmares.
Night is a broken propeller.
I'm awake way before
the alarm sounds.
I now live on the outskirts of joy
& going back is proving difficult.
The day drives by & I'm no closer
to salvation.
Heart is still tucked
beneath a lock screen
—hardly safe.
Lips persist in prayer
that this phone does
not find its voice...
Paradox
time is legal tender
currency for being
but the vault of sky
can't hold the sun
you can't stash the
hour in a bullion van
manage your dream
or squander the night
each man gets to restart
with a coin of dawn
a moment is all you have
in your current account
no investment enriches you
enough to bribe death
Vista
I.
I gave everything
to obtain your love
itinerary.
Now that I have,
logic is on airplane
mode.
I set everything aside
to be with you on this
runway of hearts,
taxiing...
your hair in the wind,
your smile spreading
wings.
II.
Viewed from above
there's a pattern to
everything.
Through your window of eyes,
a city cowers beneath giant skies
—chaos morphs into beauty
Desire floats like clouds.
Packets of emotions
surround us.
Love is turbulent—
it shakes us, makes us
vulnerable over again,
swinging on the edge
of ecstasy. I kiss you &
your body shards into
a confetti of lights...
Beautiful Things Come in Pairs
Like poetry & music.
Your lips on the cliff,
reaching for a kiss.
The miracle of beer & banter—
you fall in the crack of laughter
& the hills dance on your chest.
I spill a smile on your thighs,
look into your eyes for consent
& light sucks me into quicksand lust.
Beautiful things come in pairs
—like love & ecstasy—
our bodies fused as one.
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