POEMS READ AT LOUDTHOTZ POETRY OPEN READING SEASON 7 EPISODE 5 "MAKE"

ANATOMY - winner poem of the month

It’s in the ease with which you let out a smile

Or cough up a giggle, seamless like a thread

Through a needle.Hold up... pause for awhile.

It’s in how you almost effortlessly do your duty,

like a Peacock on a runway, you are no turkey

you won’t end up with your legs up on a plate.

It’s in your face that which makes a poet of men

Like wine makes the loudest of them; musicians

Your face looks like honey dipped in liquid gold

Crowned with hair that drops to your shoulders

Cascading like a symmetrically parted waterfall

Those naked eyes pierces through arc of hearts

As a lamp would illuminate the darkest of nights.

The only selfless thing you do in days is take selfies

As we watch endlessly as your picture eat up a frame

Peddle your skin like it was made from polished ivory

Lips like scented petals placed on a crescent moon

Nose like a wall light switch made from porcelain

Twin towers stand guard earnestly over silicon Valley

I could have said you are beautiful, But no, you are not,

This is not beauty, This is more than a rare combination

Of genetic permutations or a matrixical manifestation

Every lump of flesh, Every shade of melanin, contours

and curves;were carefully crafted, thoughtfully tinkered

like a Picasso painted portrait, this is no beauty, This is Art

ADEOYA AJIBOLA

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WORDS MAKE THE WORLD - "worthy of note for the night"

Let the falling leaves tell the tales of dying branches

To the growing shrubs

Let it feed their push green

With a dose of its faded brown

Let the setting sun tell the raging day

It will never live to see the night

Tell the moon if it should ever copulate with the sun

it would birth but off-springs of darkness

Tell the sons of the sun, that

they can only shine in the light

Tell those that were denied wings by the gods

That they can only fly with words

So I plant my heart into the earth

To unearth the melodies of my mind

I float my memories amidst sea waves

To watch them glide alongside giant whales

I unsheathe my ink flow

To animate boundless tales

I unbridle my armory of words

To give flight to my rooted being

Cause words give me wings

I spread out my words as wings

And float alongside the desert winds

Molding grotesque images of love and unity

Justice and equity

With the smoky white puffs of the night clouds

I sit atop the floating edges of mount Olympus

Engaging in a feast of words with the golden gods

Wielding an artifact more potent than Poseidon’s rod

With words I am god

I bring alive and kill

Those images jumping around in the creativity of your mind

With words,

I traverse universe in the blink of an eye

I drift in and out of galaxies at will

I’ve got one foot on the hot desert sand of the Sahara

While the other shiver from the frosty cold of the North Pole

Word makes the world

Words light fire in the heart of men

Words are pale shadows of forgotten names

Word can wring tears from the hardest hearts

Words are like honey, its sweetness is corny

Words are like air, we live and breathe them

Words are nemesis, they hunt you

Words are messiahs, they save you

Words are the silence on dead nights

Making the whirring world stand still

Word makes the world

I would hurl words into the overwhelming darkness of the human mind,

And wait for an echo

If an echo does sounds, no matter how faintly, I would send other words

To tell, to fight, and to teach

To lift up to unattainable heights

To give wings to those denied the gift of flight

To create

Word makes the world.

AJIJOLA HABEEB

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DAD

I remember when dad

Was Mr Jetson,

And he was able to jump

At all tasks,

Just to make us happy.

I remember when dad

was Superman,

And I felt humbled,

When he said he was proud of me.

I remember when dad

was Johnny Bravo,

And I would stare at his good hair,

And wish that mine was longer.

I remember when dad

Was Tom,

And he did everything

romantically possible,

to keep mum at his side.

I remember when dad

was Shrek,

And he would beat anyone,

Who dared to harm

His Fiona.

I remember when dad

Was Daffy Duck,

He easily distracted us,

When we had disputes

To engage in.

I remember when dad

Was Dexter,

And he would construct

And fix things,

To make our home

Feel better.

I remember when dad

Was Flintstone,

He loved to carry us

to our beds at night,

And tuck us in

And we felt safer.

I remember when dad

Was Fred Jones,

Though he was afraid

He hardly showed it,

Except to Daphne Blake,

And she was his pacifier.

I remember when dad

was Dad,

and we would look at him

with eyes of wonder, gratitude,

and it seemed he felt stronger.

Abiola Bonuola

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TO ROB THESAURUS

Come hither son

Put on this hoodie

Where’s the torch?

Do not stumble on a stub

Quiet Yob

Tuck in your roughness

Stealth we do need

To rob Thesaurus of her words

Hey!

Shhhh!

What’s that for

That face you make in the dark

I see it you know

The questions asked in your eyes

‘Why do we have to steal from her?’

Now, here’s why

Words are her constituency

Bricks for expressions

Soup kitchen dispenser

In the depression of the noon

Serving from the top of the pot

Watery words at daylight

Village market gossip

Draught game howling

Yellow bus wrangling

Political pandering

We steal the stock at night

Residue clinging to the base

Headstrong to the fire

Rebellious against the heat

We return

Shepherds

Pulling a Kaleidoscope

Words in other forms

Metaphors

Synecdoche

Pun

Behaving strange

Like dockyard arrivals

Filing out behind us

Held by the necks

Shackles at their ankles

Behind the bellwether

We leach protesting words

Against their will

We are Smiths

Standing at the furnace

Crafting words

To make bracelets

Wrought metaphors

Simplicity woven with soft dainty fingers

To make intricate florals

Delicate Finishing

Lusters of vanity

Scented air

Not lingering long

Green back purchase

Strange Blacksmiths

Hammering at words

To embolden the feeble

Plying exhortations

Crutches for the wearied

Prodding inspiration

Prosthetic for bad limbs

Weaving Palliatives

Ointments for hurting hearts

Forging Hope

Bed for the suffering

Come hither son

Night is still a sojourner

It’s time, to rob for words.

CHUKWUEMEKA

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I WILL SOAR

You wished that I lay low
But no, the ground is too low to contain me
And like a dog that sniffs
At the fanning of the breeze
I sat.

You wanted me a dump
A reservoir of mud
Taking away my crystals
Hell no! Am too crisp
So I crawled

On all four you toy with me
Oh yea, you didn't know that
By toying with me you will make me
And I stood

Like the teething doll
Refusing to be trudged along
In the many tundra of your sphere
I ran.

With sturdy feet
I trudged down your golden gates
Mount wings as a bird
And yes I will fly

I will yet soar
And will beam my light
On every soul
On every soil

Leave my taste an inscription
On every lips
Line each moment 
With the ballad of souls
That once trod this coarse space.

CHRIS 'N' JOHN

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MAKING AND UNMAKING

The night has taken its last breath

As the heartbeat of a new dawn begins to beat

Heralding a new opportunity

Making and unmaking

What was, is, and the future of what is to come

The seed sown at dawn may be reaped today or tomorrow

Tonight the wolves’ dances

To the sound beat of intent

Making and unmaking

What was, is, and the future of what is to come

The future of the present is ever changing

The mask is unmasked

As the seedlings planted by men

Comes to light

Making and unmaking

What was, is, and the future of what is to come

What was, is to men a riddle

What is, is the present

The future will bring the riddle in present continuous

Making and unmaking

What was, is, and the future of what is to come

As the thunder whispers

In the deafening silence

A destiny foretold from what was

In the hands of the present

Making and unmaking the future

Presenting new opportunities to make choices

Making and unmaking

What was, is, and the future of what is to come

IFEANYI OKWOSHA

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STAINED SHEETS

The stained sheets from the nuptial night 
Bore the evidence of the once chosen right.
Tranquility at the advent of the beautiful bride
Smothered with bridal baggage of fury and pride.
Smiles etched on the framed photograph was the last
Wistfully, he yearned for the cheerful days of the past, 
His freedom and his smiles before the dotted lines,
Before a peaceful abode became the dreaded landmines.

The stained sheets from the woven fabric of customs
Bore the evidence of bruises and scars in deep fathoms.
Stench laundries concealed in the damp darkness of violence
Sealed with the chains of traditions and a validating silence;
She looked back with sights cast in disbelieve,
The alluring matrimony she had dreamt to live.
Her bedroom not of passion but gloom of a prison
Yet none would spare her voice a thought or reason.

ADEOYE ADETOBA

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SHE-MADE

The cry of a new born rings out.

It is a girl!

It is a lovely girl!

The village women chant choruses.

Everyone gathers to wish the girl-child well.

May you grow into a beautiful woman

May your days be long

May you prosper

May your deeds bring you joy

On and on go the wonderful wishes.

The girl-child grows into a beautiful woman

That knows and believes in herself.

That is what she has been taught by those who raised her.

The woman is strong and independent

She has become everything that the well-wishers wished her

She is Beautiful

She is resilient

She is purpose-driven

She is Independent

She loves herself

Then, out goes a cry by the very ones who wished her well,

‘’ You should not become too independent

otherwise you would scare away the ‘’potentials”!!!

Alas, the same well-wishers have become what?

The well-wishers now sing a different melody:

Do not be too strong?

Do not be too resilient?

Do not be too driven?

Do not be too independent?

No! She cries out to them:

Forgive me if I choose to not listen to your new song,

Forgive me if I prefer to love myself

Forgive me if I am too strong for you

Forgive me if I love me a teeny bit more

Forgive me for I have forgiven myself.

I will love me

I will be strong first for me

I will be purpose-driven for me

I will grow and nurture me

Then whoever wishes to follow may well then do so

Otherwise, loving me will have to suffice!

NNEOMA ONYEUKWU

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ÈBUTÉ  ÀWÀMÀRIDI  

A Quater past oblivion

Out in the middle of nowhere

She's so lost

A quater to reality

Sitting on the edge of Èbuté Awàmàridi

He's so sure

Aimlessly she wonders

Map in hand she ponders

On how to get there via road, rail or air

On whom to dump on spirit and soul, body and blunders

Perfect Predator

Seductive stranger

She met him a little more than halfway

She made it a little more than too easy

It became pointless to wait seven full moons this time

In less than five he led her to the centre of  Èbuté Awàmàridi

In less than five in broad daylight

He stripped her bare naked right in the centre of Èbuté Awàmàridi

The long and short hands of the clock now rests on reality

She's drowning in her own reality

Èbuté Awàmàridi

The river whose bed you will seek

Èbuté Awàmàridi

The river whose bed you will never find

WOME UYEYE

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OVEN HOT

I've baked me a cake
It was quite easy to make
I sieved my imagination
With a bit of current situations
Cracked a few creative eggs
A handful of rhymes from my keg
Added a few drops of rhythm juice
And allowed it to diffuse
I had no political flavor left in the fridge
So I used the bottle of imagery I got from Orange bridge
I brought out a full bowl of love
Mixed with guidance from above
I added a few vowel fruits to the paste
And a couple of consonants nuts to taste
I think my cake turned out really fine
All I need now is some music and wine.
Hoping it doesn't affect my waistline.
It looks really...nutritious
And tastes so...delicious

Mmmm Yummy!!


ERHIO

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DON’T

Make me a cup of dreams, hot and steaming

You can add a cube of hope, while you’re at it

Serve it with muffins made with what could be

But don’t make me drink of the sour milk of now

You say others have drunk of this fowl putrid cream

From a sick cow with furs of white and green

Yet while you took a few seeps in years gone by

I convulsed while it funneled down my aching throat.

The decay made bubbles, forming dark clouds that hovered

Making us remember, even in days of joy, days of gloom

This storm loomed over you too, but it drenched us

It made us shiver with grief from the cold of homelessness

I know you think you know what made me stop

What made me say I will drink not of my own death

You say you have heard my story before

But have you heard of the stories of others

Of,

My father

And mother.

My brother,

And sister.

Did you awake long before the Sun Awoke?

To the cries of war, the sound of guns and the smell of death

Making for the forests, to find no refuge in the canopy of dreams

You wake panting, knowing it is a dream but hours from reality

Do you turn off the cartoons, at age eleven, to make offerings of rapt attention

To the straight-faced faces telling you of the people massacred

Whose only crime, and misfortune, is to be of your kin

You close your eyes and ears to make it all go away

Have you had to quake in anguish and despair

As you watched a child you breastfed bleed through the anus

From a hunger resulting from an unfamiliar lack

Because you left all behind in exodus, but for the wrapper across your bosom

Do you expect, at the turn of every quarter, to hear tales

Of a friend, cousin, kinsman or old boy whose properties were razed

Or worse even, family burnt on the stake of a silent peace

For being a latitude degree or two north from home

That is the story of my father

And my mother. My brother and sister.

Who, like millions of our great clan, make the choice

Not to remember, but to forget; a willful forgetfulness

So that in the midst of the rancid downpour

Brought by this lingering clouds of ferment

And we breadth lung-full glasses of clean fresh air

We relish this gusto that comes with breathing air we have earned

For by mere living, and beyond that, soaring over this storm

We are triumphant and we are, with wings spread wide, beautiful

For we have made of our ill lot, a red cap with luxurious feathers.

So, please, do make me a cup of dreams

And add a cube of hope, while you’re at it.

But do not expect that I, in glorious flight into a radiant sunset

Will be made to drink of the sour milk that is now.

IFEANYI MBAH

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UNTITLED

Like a creator, you must understand their plight; 

the burden of your creation

and you must have spare air to breathe in to them,

and the iron resolve of a thousand Oguns

to bend them to your will.

Like stalactite you should teach them

to grow heavy and fall,

to rise regardless like eagles and soar,

to survive the scorch, the freeze and strange seasons of calm inbetween

to become a superior race of pen pushers who proclaim

the truth as it exists;

Incorruptible.

And before their eyes open in the blossom of life

You must teach them how to be metal:

indestructible

in steam

in fluid places

in solid ores

Show them how to

breathe Carbon and 

mine the way to

their own beginning.

OLUCHI

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AFTER MAKING LOVE

After making love

we hear footsteps,

familiar thuds;

bodies entwined,

souls departing down the hall.

The bed is a battle floor,

children spoils of the war.

There is something romantic about a lover’s snore,

but who goes to sleep

while strangers guard their door?

So we hire a goldsmith,

take the lavish gold

out of the empty bags

and weigh the silver in the balance;

we make idols.

Love makes men afraid as grasshoppers,

so at noon we make noise like dogs

going round about the city;

and at night we make our beds to swim

and water our couches with tears.

In dreams

we bare the legs

uncover the thighs,

pass over the river,

but there is no one to answer when we call.

She left

and Eden became a wilderness,

no tree to be desired to make one wise,

we die to make old friends,

we kill to make peace.

Light so bright

it becomes darkness

the diviners have been made mad.

We drank of the wine,

we drank from the prophet’s skull.

Make crowns of thorns, Jesus will die twice.

Lay her, that perfect sacrifice

at the altar of fame.

We’ll make God in our own image,

we want him to change, we want him to feel our shame.

SOONEST

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MAKE

To make is to create

An act

A verb

A tendency out of Elohim

He was the first to say, let us make

Unless, of course you are Darwin, Dawkins and Hawking

The greatest atheists

A trio of fools!

All making is synthetic

Apart from the first one that was ex nihilo

Because then, everything was a tabula rasa

And there was no res to ipsa loquitur

All creation is a synthesis of thesis and antithesis

This and That

Now and Then

Yin and Yang

The Jungian Animus and Anima

Old and New

Except that there is nothing new under God’s made heaven

What was is!

You cannot step into the same river twice

Except that at some point the river returns for another step

As, in all the laws of Thermodynamics nothing is ever lost

Everything comes together

Everything that rises must converge as Flannery reminds us

We are always making

Making an image

Letting the image be made

Making a difference

Making a mess

Making out or in as the case may be

Making up our quarrels

Making up our faces for the orderly arrangement of all things

Imposing Cosmos on the Chaos that is our lived in faces.

ODE ANDREW EYEOYIBO

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RHEA

To make another me,

You’d have to break the Earth

Into tiny pieces of stars

And dance them round a moonshine.

 You’d have to climb the universe

And sunshade it with an eclipse

Then beam in slowly the light of dawn

So you for remnants of my clone

But I am Rhea

A goddess so rare

You’d never see me at the rear

And that’s there’s no other me.

LOLADE AJAYI