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| SEGUN PETERS WINNER POEM OF THE MONTH |
Mama's Song – Poem of the month
Silence
breaks
the
drums that
sets
the times,
and
change
has
become like
rasp
heartbeats
of
a dying forest.
Fiery
whispers
ignites
the wild
mirages
of once-was,
and
hope sighs
like
the bellows
of
a grieving hunt.
Sad
songs
smears
the sprite
on
Mama's children,
and
their playground
has
become an assembly
of
irate crows.
The
lure of ruttish
bloom
has left
the
maiden's bosom,
and
her adorers suckles
dew
at sunset's chill.
The
warrior's
bloodlust
is tamed
by
eerie music from
across
the seas,
and
his courtesans
shames
their place by
his
divan.
Sing
us a song
Mama.
Sing of the
storms
that rode to
your
shores and
pillaged
your cellars.
Sing
of tears shed for
the
adaged gourd
spilled
to the dirt.
Sing
for us
Mama,
for your
silence
deafens.
And
in your vacuous
shanty
there reverberates
shadows
from your
horrors.
Your
children
have
forgotten the
songs
that leads
home,
even
by
the market
squares;
the ones
Mama
once told
tales
of his root.
Your
maidens
have
swallowed her
pride
before the
morning
rise, even
by
the sunsets; the evenings
Mama
once extoled
her
beauty.
Your
warriors' spear
faints
in the heart
of
the jungle, even
by
the gods; the valor
Mama
once invoked by
the
names of
his
ancestors.
Her
sad songs amuses
the
morning crickets
as
its wisdom fills
an
empty home. Her
children
dance to her
shame,
begging for
meals
to eat. And
her
maidens? They
curse
their skins,
seeking
crowns
that
will fit.
Her
elders spit
on
her stool to sit at
the
foot of masters.
Her
ancestors are fabled,
her
gods are sanguinary,
but
her lands;
they
are benevolence
of
a jealous deity.
Her
sacred womb loaths
as
the coven of spiders.
Her
kinky hair soaks
with
tears that mops
the
feet of her oppressors.
Her
legends are
amusement
for alien nestlings.
Her
peace was rent
by
the angst of
smokes
and powder.
Her
neighbour was
redeemed
by chains and
a
baptism of the vast seas.
Mama
has sang her song
And
no one heard it.
So
she buries her treasures
beneath
the Sahara and by
the
nile, she wept.
I
searched her place
and
she was no more.
I
sought her face
and
it was no one.
I
called her name
and
she was anon.
Is
there anymore
song
from Mama?
Because
we sailed
from
shore but
we
head not
where
we hoped.
Is
there a tale
of
Mama's pride?
Because
we cultivated
exotic
lands and
we
will never
be
seeds of where
we
sowed.
For
neither
clothes
we wore,
nor
manners we spoke
could
hide the black within.
And
the shame we
covered
up is the only
root
to the tree
we
will ever be.
Mama
has sang her song
And
no one heard it.
But
in the lingering
notes
of her demise
we
hear her charge.
For
the lips eager will split
And
ears ticking will fulfil
And
the eyes peering will belief.
That
as Sun sets,
as
hope revives,
as
the crows call
and
dawn and the gong
strikes
like one;
as
generations come,
and
seasons revives,
as
I am made in black
as
the soul testifies,
as
Mama cries
the
truth derives
that
in her songs,
we
were,
and
in her pride
we
are,
and
in her heart
we
will be,
a
voice
a
people
a
Heritage.
Segun Peters
///////////////////////////////////
THE PROPHET
Look up
The sky is a home too close
If you seek freedom from chaos.
Grapple with the chicken-little inside you
But let your freewill spread eagle-high
Brave up
Look beyond and still your quivering.
The storms may rage
And the night may prey
But an unbent soul tempers fate.
Live up
Today well spent is tomorrow's grace
And today's grace will be tomorrow already spent.
You should obey the night's call with its cushion of slumber
And charge the day's hardknocks with the labors of passion.
Love up
The charm spelt to you in a woman's eyes is rapturous
The steady hand of your brother when in distress is rhapsodic
The last wine with a friend before rains is heartening.
Love is a breathtaking adventure of seeking others in you.
Sober up
You owe your measures of troubles as with every desires
Sadness is only a mirror for as long as you can dig within
Pain drives towards foresight except you journey blind in pleasures
Whatever comes to you is an asking, so answer when it calls.
Look up
The sky is a home too close
If you seek freedom from chaos.
Grapple with the chicken-little inside you
But let your freewill spread eagle-high
Brave up
Look beyond and still your quivering.
The storms may rage
And the night may prey
But an unbent soul tempers fate.
Live up
Today well spent is tomorrow's grace
And today's grace will be tomorrow already spent.
You should obey the night's call with its cushion of slumber
And charge the day's hardknocks with the labors of passion.
Love up
The charm spelt to you in a woman's eyes is rapturous
The steady hand of your brother when in distress is rhapsodic
The last wine with a friend before rains is heartening.
Love is a breathtaking adventure of seeking others in you.
Sober up
You owe your measures of troubles as with every desires
Sadness is only a mirror for as long as you can dig within
Pain drives towards foresight except you journey blind in pleasures
Whatever comes to you is an asking, so answer when it calls.
Emmanuel Junior
//////////////////////////////////////////
CHARGE
THE REFLECTION OF HILLS '
Here my pillow pecks me,
Thousands of tears dragging my feet
Till rusting becomes needless in my golden bones.
Let me be plain as brief militants,
I owe the city of lust
and Ahab's materialism, my poetically sacred tongue,
young tomorrow, reliable charlorts,
content is blue happiness,
but more of honag peace.
Gladden your gold ancestors
before dust catches our cartilage bones,
let hill Jesus be the forgiving platforms,
warrant the twelve men the change,
may our rosy bones escape thorns
of dale ignorance.
We plead you charge coffins of hills.
Alhaja
Ajakaye Adunni Olawarewaju Simiatu.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
‘FAILURE
IS BEAUTIFUL’
Fruitless grasses as Ichabod green and verdant,
Uncountable throne lamina, leaves hail the wind
for hallelujah of fine fettled fruits.
Failure is a part of successful fruits,
over hill, or middle hollows,
you will see no valley success,
Samuel Beckett authors me at scream of dawn's sun,
' Success is to fail better. '
Let me tell you a promise,
I don't know... Failure prays a golden mirrour
of humility, determination, persistence
till success fou.
Believe reality of Jairus' daughter,
failure is a principled history
and its reflection is success.
Lest it skips the soul of my emotional outlet,
apologies to the humble wisdom
of my duckling voice,
oh you grass Nigeria !
I pray nationalism and golden wisdom
merrily catches your tomorrow.
Fall not at the wayside,
for failure formulates long fettled long teeth.
Let limestone on your Jericho bones
for Ella Dein's broken mirror
steals no images,
we shall paradisically paint your bloody immortalized
shame green.
Wisdom rejoices failure a charge.
Ajakaye
Rashidat Olamidayo.
///////////////////////////////////////////
CHARGE:
This is not the charge of the light brigade- a poetic and
somewhat jingoistic rendition of a signature British military failure.
Nor an exhortation to charge your phone battery or your electric
meter, if you have been graced to receive one at the grossly overpriced
valuation.
Battery charger
Car chargers
Phone chargers
Lap top chargers-
whole lives surrounded by chargers and charging instruments.
Maybe it's referencing the charge from a motivational talk or
the sugar-rushing-heart debilitating charge from a can of red bull or even the
deadly charges from the running bulls of Pamplona!
Charge as rushing somewhere or to something
Charged with a burst
of energy
Charging your glasses
to propose a toast
Charging a proper fee
for professional services rendered or to be rendered competently
or professionally and with commensurate pride.
A Charge' in charge of affairs at a pretensiously denominated
commission.
Giving a charge, encouraging matrimonial harmony and Conjugal
felicuty- a charge to which attention is not paid as the recipients are usually
engaged in their thoughts with matters amorous and anatomical.
I, for one am making charges and taking charge, whilst charging
ahead on a white charger of white hot conviction, in every one of the ways
possibly applicable and in combination!
Andrew
Whyte
////////////////////////////////////
The Way we were
The
way we were before we left us unplugged
Draining
like a battery without a charger
We
left us thinking it was the right thing to do
For
all the wrong reasons
We
knew what it was the very first day we met
Our
eyes like a switch lit up that very muscle in the chest
That
pumps the sustaining liquid
Through
those high ways
Supplying
all the goods needed
It
was a sign
Something
beyond space and time
Yes
it was real
A
riddle
Words
cannot capture its essence
We
did not know we will be like a dying planet without its sun
When
we left us
Yes
the battery was fully charged
We
had our reasons and excuses
We
justified it
For
what we had sustained us
The
symbiotic sustenance gone
We
became a power bank to others
Draining
one bar after another
Like
the cursor on this page
Blinking
Dying
The
way we were
Was
so special
Even
death whispered into my ear
It
is beyond me
Ifeanyi Okwosha
///////////////////////////////////
IT'S
A CYCLE
It's not only phones that need to be charged and recharged.
Yes, that is stating the obvious,
Because sometimes, it's not that we need to learn new things,
but that we need to be reminded of things we have previously
learned.
It's a cycle, you see.
Charge, discharge, recharge, discharge, recharge...
It rolls from self awareness: my battery is low
To self love: I will recharge myself
It's in grand gestures:
A full day at the spa
A rooftop dinner with some of your favorite people
Turn off your phones and sleep
It's in small, easy-to-dismiss gestures:
Hearing a child's pure, precious laugh and feeling your heart
lighten a little.
Warm, unhurried hugs that say, 'It's great to connect with you'.
Writing your pain and fear, your shame and anxiety on beach sand
and watching the water come rushing to carry it away.
There
Clean slate
You can start all over again
Start with a mighty, deep breath
Refuel your generator
Refuel your mind
Charge your phone
Charge your soul
Joy Nwamaka
////////////////////////////////////////
CHARGE
Charge! I shouted
But not from my heart
My heart speaks softly now
Because they say that the sky won’t fall
Yet anytime I speak my truth
I see the sky on the floor
I know there are things I don’t know
Things hidden in plain sight
Things that feels like roses
They even smell like roses
But I tell the truth they are not roses
There are lies covered with truths
And layers upon layers of worlds
I may never experience
I know there are realities too deep for me to
know
Like I said it would be like you felt a rose
Like you smelled a rose
But then it is not a rose
Roses are red never “blue”
But why do they die so easily
That my friend I may never know
Because some realities are hidden in plain
sights
Some lies are covered with truths
And some truths are covered with a glaze of lies
So you see there are things I don’t know
And may never know
So I say charge softly from my heart.
Chisom
////////////////////////////////
I
AM NOT NIGERIAN (2)
When
the talking drum throws up
Sounds
like:
Doh
re mi
mi
re mi
doh
mi mi
re
mi
re
mi re
Do
not pretend to understand
It
does not speak your language
It
speaks only
to
the one that bears the identity
the
one whose feet shuffle gleefully
with
abandon when the drum speaks
that
one whose waist wriggles
in
rhythm to the highs and lows
of
“awo oju ilu”*
as
every intense touch
calls
you home
Omo
onIle Alayan*
It
is to you that this call is made
Rise
up!
Take
charge
Claim
your identity
Pick
up your drum and listen
Send
a message to the one whose skin changes
In
the fierceness of the sun
Tell
him to release my lover
Tell
him chant to my lover:
“Make your feet come back the way they went, make your legs
come back the way they went, plant your feet and your legs below and find your
way to Akanke..”
Omo Ayan*
Do not fail in your duty
Let your drum thud in rhythm to my name
That my lover may know
“Oluwakemi…Re mi re mi re
Akanke…doh doh mi
Is the one making the call
Let your drum continue to speak
Until my lover is home again!
Kemibon
*Ayan –god of drums/name of tree used for constructing
talking drum shells/wood that talks
*Awo Oju Ilu- goat skin/skin on the face of the drum
*Omo Ayan –The initiated drummers belonging to an Ayan
lineage/children of Ayan
/////////////////////////////////////
