Best Paraffin Poems
My Grandma smelt of peppermints.
Her kitchen of boiling bacon,
and margarine - it was always steamy
and 'welcomingly' warm.
The bathroom, off the kitchen,
smelt of carbolic soap, and a layer
of talcum powder dusted the cupboards
a reminder of its liberal use.
The garden, with a greenhouse,
had a glorious array of pinks
and Sweet Williams - it was always summer:
no winters here, always sunny, as I recall.....
The old corrugated air-raid shelter,
above ground now, was a haven
for childhood, childish games.
It smelt of paraffin from the heater.
My Grandma smelt of peppermints.
She would lick her hanky and
wipe my mouth if it was sticky
from the gingerbread she'd made.
My Grandma always looked the same,
never younger, never older:-
her memory etched in my cerebral
photo frame as I remember her ........
smelling of peppermints,
fingers deformed with crippling arthritis,
but smiling, wiping mouths, cooking,
or sitting in her little garden in a floral dress.....
She's been gone for thirty years now,
but still I see her there.
I see the tissue filled pockets in her
'pinny'and the pin-curls in her hair.
Yes, my Grandma smelt of peppermints.........
I lay in my hospital bed after giving birth, Could hear the murdering, raping
Hutus approaching my bed
My baby was no more. They ravaged me. Left me alive...........
Could hear the battle getting nearer
All I was worried about was my mother, Home alone...
My husband was away was he fighting, Was he alive......
Clutching my dead baby staggered towards home, The smell of blood filled the
air. Then I saw them, The valiant Tutu's, Fighting for us. here and now
The sound of machetes clashing together. Limbs flying through the air. Like
boomerangs.
The screaming ....The misery.......
When I staggered home. Found Mother in the water butt. Hiding from the
savages. She was alive and ok.. So traumatised
Many twisted bodies on the ground. Dragged them into a pile, trying to
remember who they were. To keep a record , for posterity. Poured paraffin over
them and cremated them. Praying for their souls
We buried the baby in the hard red earth. Couldn't cry, had no tears we were.in
shock......
Date was April 7th...
So tired, we slept. Hidden from view...
I am alive, my heart beating. Yet I feel dead. Dead inside....Why I ask myself.
Why is it happening....God only, knows.
Why?......
Penned 22/08/2014 for the Genocide Speak for the Lost contest.
I used 100 days slaughter of Rwanda.
You can see the skeletons of some of the twenty percent of the tutus that were
killed,
Can see the open mouth of the cry of pain. They have been kept. A reminder to
the future generation
April 7th is called Genocide Memorial Day, the week following is a national
mourning week.
Your light delights me,
i say your light delights me Lord.
Timber burns and leaves behind impotent ash,
your sun shines day to day without any ash .
Your light delights me King of kings.
When i am condensed like winter cheese,
the ray of your light makes me flow.
When i become cold like puppy's nose,
your light restores my heat and life.
"I am the light , I am the life..."
daily i check, your words are your deed.
Rock of ages please tell me:
with what incense do you flare your light
that it is so fragrant and so comforting?
With what do you fuel your sun
that it radiates without any smoke?
Tell me the wax for your eternal light
that shines ceaselessly without any wick.
The day i lit my paraffin lamp,
smoke enveloped me like burning field.
The day i lit the candle wax,
wind extinguished my light in a jiffy.
The day i called battery lamp a Vulcar,
i was left in the dark holding empty cell.
But sweet is your sunlight darling Dad
that neither wind nor storm can humble.
Glorious is the ray of your light
that no cloud can shroud.
I pray you find me a place in your sun,
to abide and walk daily in your light;
i pray you make your light my beacon,
that i will not miss my way and my steps.
The Artist’s Tower
In a tower a lonely poet sits
Memories of his past life elude his thoughts
The stifled scent of burnt paraffin clouds his thoughts
There is the light from candles which lit thousands of works
Flickering against paintings stored by unknown artists
The beauty of an eighteenth century meadow
The stark reality of people starving in a depression
All tell a story through an unspoken language
Reams of paper piled against the wall
Stories and poems long forgotten by those who created them
Did anyone ever read even one of them?
The poet sits, thinks and fantasizes in his own prison
Isolation to help him find the right words
The candle fades and grey smoke fills the air
As the light of the North Star filters through a dirty glass window
The poet writes the last word to his newest piece
It too ends up on the piles of discarded work
Because the piece is finished the poet rests
The candle waits for the next artist
There is always another artist who will hide in the tower
There always will be another story, poem or painting
All hidden, unseen in the tower
Written: March 3rd, 2025 for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote" There is a moon inside every human being. Learn to be companions with it". By Rumi
************************
If I could I would fetch you
the moon on a spoon,
A silver ladle cradling
that celestial charm,
reflecting dreams woven in its light,
a beacon of hope,
glowing in the night sky.
With every dip,
I would capture stardust wonder,
sprinkling inspirations
across your path,
gently lowering the
heavens to your reach
to illuminate the beauty
within your grasp.
This spoon, an extension
of my heart's desire,
would gift you galaxies
beyond mere sight.
Each scoop a promise
of infinite possibilities,
for you are worthy
of such ethereal gifts.
If I could, I would fetch you
the moon on a spoon,
wished upon a distant star,
an angel longing as my plaything.
A paper lantern floating
akin to a balloon,
a magic wand in hand,
I would blow bubbles into fine glass jars,
sending them around the world
to shed a path of divine light.
Thinking of sweet ideas,
inspired by our celestial planet.
She took a spoon in a flurry
to dip in Milky Way cornets in a hurry,
Fetching her angel the moon,
solid and proud.
emotions weak but potions strong,
a dauber with dungarees smeared
from paraffin slopes, they trampled.
With poise unseen by iron-hooved men,
dreams floated high above
troughs and sparred skies.
The Test by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan
What’s an antipoet:
a trader in urns and coffins?
a priest who does not believe in anything?
a general who entertains doubts about himself?
a vagabond who laughs at every thing
until old age overtakes him unto death?
an interlocuter of bad faith in a dialogue?
a woman who dances at the brink of an abyss?
a narcissist who loves everybody?
a bloody humourist
deliberately miserable?
a poet who dozes off in a chair?
a modern-day alchemist?
a pocket revolutionary?
a small-time bourgeois?
a charlatan?
a god?
an innocent?
a peasant of Santiago de Chile?
Underline the sentence you consider correct.
What is antipoetry:
a storm in a tea cup?
a sleeve of snow robed round a rock?
a shallow tray full of human excreta
as Father Save-the-Earth believes?
a mirror that tells the truth?
a big slap on the face
of the President of the Society of Authors?
( May God preserve him in his holy kingdom)
a warning to younger poets?
a coffin in river rapids?
a coffin of centrifugal force?
a coffin of paraffin gas?
a burning chapel without a corpse?
Mark with a cross
the definition you consider correct.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
You don't have to shut the door
And hide your shame and fears
And cover your weaknesses and pain
You can live it open
Welcome the conversation
Treat the wounds and free yourself of hurt
So you can walk free and not run away
So you can sing in the light and not cry in the dark
Sex is a quick fix, sex is an attractive paraffin
It's okay to be different, different is beautiful
It's even more okay to be an introvert
Introvert is so deep and full of wit
You wish to be like her because everybody loves her
You wish to sing and act like her
You wish and wish to be exactly like her
Entertaining, fun and funny
But you have you and your poetry
And with that you have a golden truth
That's you, not just a physical lure
Even she wishes she was like you
So quiet, so shy, so mysterious, so smart...
A walk to school out of the backdoor, through the homemade back gate, through a narrow alley,
Cars parked on the curb, guarded by paraffin lamps, no garages, no parking area,
Walking down my road, past the bully's house, all is very, very quiet, careful
Then the front door opens, a big kid comes running and chases me down the road.
Near the end of my street was a large piece of wasteland, called "the logs"
Huge logs cut down hundreds of years ago, grey, split, tall trees chopped down,
Stinging nettles in large clumps, cars abandoned, a play ground for children,
Into a road full of bungalows, the posh side, people looking through curtains.
About a mile down this road, there was more wasteland, with a muddy shortcut,
Shoes covered in mud, trying to clean them with an old bit of paper, no good,
Out of the wooded shortcut, past the entrance of a railway, through a tunnel,
On the other side, up steps was a sweet shop, looked through window, no money.
Past the bank on to a main road, told many times to look left and right, careful,
Walking up another street, then a short cut through, an old mansion falling apart,
Down the coke covered road, into a road where huge flats were being built, ugly flats.
The into my school play ground, seeing class mates, queuing up to go into the school.
Diaspora that cant go home
Mum and Dad came on boats not grand
They left the sun behind
To the old country to lend a hand
replacing uncertainty and find
Prosperity, erase the poverty of native land
And we’ll send money back home.
They were met with sticks and stones
Were broken, not just their bones
Wogs and minstrels they were called
In Harsh winters and damp ghettos hauled,
unfamiliar foods and hapless children
Tears flowed inside and years out,
From broken ribs phlegm does spout
Husband’s and fathers ruled with fists
Paraffin fires took lives of kids
Benefits to small to feed and clothe
Necessitate a hustle to cope
And depression became the reward
Misery slapped hard onto every face
No pubs to ail our weary souls
This old country is a hard hard place
Welfare killed all dreams and hopes
Drugs and anecdotes became our lot
Newer immigrants got the jackpot
Penniless and broke, Too ashamed to go home
No riches to share, not welcomed, disowned.
If you see father Ken Saro Wiwa
Tell him about me as a mouth to his songs,
Tell him that they have removed the meat
He gave to us and gave us grasses;
Dirty grasses to replace our milky meat,
We are not cows, then, why would they bring
grasses for us to chew in public ?
Our smokes are restricted from moving out,
Our kitchens have turned to oil wells,
Our mother's mortar taken far away land.
Tell Buchi Emecheta that we have no water
To drink even land to farm our crops now.
Our air is stinking with dark sticky viscous liquid.
They said it is a mixture of holy gases,
Its looks like liquid and solid hydrocarbons,
Impurities of surphur, nitrogen and oxygen!
The words coming out from their teeth suck.
Exploitation of our wings are done by the cows;
Beautiful cows in a beautiful dresses to suite.
The search for oil has killed many with Geologists.
They eat Naptha here and there with Kolas,
They wear paraffin oil as their bangles,
Petrochemicals are the eyes that loots their pride.
More funny cows are sitting on crude now,
More cows own more oil well than the goats.
When will the goats be given chance to speak?
If you see father Ken Saro Wiwa beyond,
Tell him that our creeks are baptised sinfully,
Our hands are tied behind us to keep shut.
If the going get tougher and rougher here,
If the sky visit us as promised with a new rain,
We will break out from this caged pleasure
To a place of rest looking at the rising half sun.
---- Another Voice stronger.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
I had to cry on the inside,
As aunty laid spread on the Kitchen floor weeping.
She somewhat gathered herself and stood sobbing,
“They shot him” were words that escaped her lips
And she repeated these words like a lullaby
Calming herself to Tranquil like state
But she still wore disbelieve on her face, we all did.
For she had lost her husband and I had lost my uncle
I had to forget
For a little while I pretend he was alive and well,
I could at least find some kind of solace in being oblivious.
Self-inflicted amnesia was like a drug, with each dose my mind grew tolerant
Until my mind finally withdrew from Pretend
And reality came like waves swoosh all I had built
All these boundaries intended to protect and shield
Against the brutal realisation that I lost you for Christmas.
His Mother shed no tears
Grand ’ma wore black, a strong face and Stared at walls.
She often did this in times of loss, but this time things were different
One could see through her silence, her eyes heavy
As the eyes always told when carrying a heart’s weight,
What could she do? , as being strong was almost entirely her nature.
I always hated and admired this about her,
Her ability swallow her pain and shoulder the world on her back.
It was a dull Christmas
I woke to the scent of paraffin and fire wood
And women cooking outside sang sad songs
Followed by baritone voices conversing in the background.
Christmas jingles were replaced church hymns
And the gift of family remained present.
His absence was deeply missed, as it saddened our hearts
For in this Christmas funeral , we came together.
Aviation
Engines
Run
On
Paraffin
Liquid
Atoms
Neatly
Extracted
© Copyright KC.Leake
22nd September 2015
All Rights Reserved
you may say now
those demerits relate to the seeds of the gm oranges
but just think the scanning of hibernation of the philtre
or of the kite the thread of which is cut off
they can’t escape their responsibility too
then tell me to whom i could give
my sad melting point
but then to do any work means
this trigonometry
outside the territory of copyright
then the connection of the biscuits
with the thoughts of the fire-works
is clearly dismantled
the border-zone of all relations thus keep themselves apart
and due to a sharp difference in the chromosomes of sand-stone
our dwelling-house becomes a museum
to build a hospital with a big moustache
at last within the hypnotized company
the shadow of our bed-room appears
then the light of the social moon is like the materials
with which the inner parts of the sorrows of the pomelo
is made up
it may be well for making great
the art-work of the horse-rider
that is wrapped with the handkerchief of ocean
it must be waiting for my shampoo-power too
some cure may be offered by the paraffin
and her open hair
but one deed of the rose-petals
and the convex sweet drops of molasses
is the flame of thumb-impression
that is born and brought up by the pan-cake
in-between sauce-pan and peter pan
in this all-pervasive panorama of slang-opera
I am a sanguine,
She calls me penguin.
I am not a flirt
I am not a bird
But I eat sardine.
I am a sanguine,
So I don't need aspirin
Because I smile
And worry for a while
I can't have mi-grin.
I am a sanguine,
I can't play the violin.
That is not the end of me,
If you can do the drumming,
I will dance to the tambourine.
I am a sanguine,
I talk like a machine.
If you do not listen well,
You will think I speak Mandarin
I am a sanguine,
I have read about Oleifins
Somethings about paraffin.
As playful as I am,
I do not read with caffeine.
I am a sanguine,
I drill like machine
I don't need enhancement
Because I will take you to the firmament,
If you want to prove me wrong
You need to feel my serpentine.
Poem written by Ogunfowokan Kolawole
Originally mine.
cravings, like niggling whispers,
flit on covered tables
skitter on the floorboards
shiver nerves like humming cables
racing up my backbone
trembling spinal pathways
as I dive for pantry's knob
in a glucose fired craze
tearing through the shelving
jumping for the flour
cracking eggs like gunshots
batter stacked like sugar'd towers
but wait! oh, no! there's something wrong
a final crucial piece!
recipe's cruel words laugh off the page
will this torture never cease?!
"...paraffin for stable rounds
synthesize the compound well
melted into pyrex mixing bowls..."
I swear I fell another level in Hell
slashing through the shelving,
(broke the icebox's fragile handle)
finally, with fevered eye,
spot her stash of scented candles
by now I'd reached a fever'd pitch
impatient I just tossed the batter in
staring at the brutish countdown
nervous capered guilty sin
at last my tortured moments
over with these steaming treats
cackling like a madman
at this half-baked pastry feat
but flaccidly they fell off
spatula and spoon
crumbled burnt and formless
I swear I cried out like a loon!
but no set back could stop me
as I snatched up those candle stacks
biting crumbled chocolate pieces
while gnawing chunky scented wax
sated, I sit gluttonous
sprawled out on the floor
burbled aromatic belches
gob of wax sat at my core!
when she came down looking
for a fruity sconce to put next to bed
I shrug and counsel guiltily
we could just touch a match right to my head...