POEMS READ AT LOUDTHOTZ POETRY OPEN READING SEASON 11 EPISODE 12 DRIVEN

OLOLADE RHEA

 

PAST DRIVEL  - Poem of the month

 I’m driven by hurt, the hurt of the past 

that silenced my mothers into for bitter for worse. 

I’m driven by the sounds from the walls that archived their cries 

while they labored to make meals even in active labor. 

 

I’m driven by anger, anger for the place reserved for her in the assembly of faith; 

Behind! and that’s why I raise my voice. 

I’m driven by energy, the energy that separates envy from jealousy 

And compliments not complaints. 

 

I’m driven by love, the love for my form, 

for the sinful beauty I’m regarded as. 

I’m driven by power, the power in femininity, 

The art of its simplicity and complexity. 

 

I’m driven by hunger, hunger for fame and wealth 

And hatred, hatred for drivel, that upholds phony morals,  

which should never see the light of another century. 

I’m driven by my yearning, for the God and for my Utopia.  

Ololade Rhea

 

//////////////////////////////

VILLANELLE: I FEEL MYSELF WAKING UP AGAIN

 

Goodness me, I feel myself waking up again

invading gray corners crammed with rotten mysteries,

from the dreadful joys that almost made me go insane;

 

Like a swarm of fiery fireflies, a wild tempest whizzed into my lane 

without a badge, forcefully knocking out mouldy memories.

Goodness me, I feel myself waking up again;

 

It turned out that I needed an unusual crusade within my domain,

a rigid steer through the year of concurrent discoveries 

from the dreadful joys that almost made me go insane.

 

When they hurl you, they don't just drop you halfway like Cain, 

the journey extends to the end of the road through tough theories; 

Goodness me, I feel myself waking up again

 

after such strange combats. Perhaps, spirits that spirited my den

to glow as bright as a sunflower – Rescuing my diaries

from the dreadful joys that almost made me go insane.  

 

Today, I'm exploring the unknown with a dogged faith. Amen!

Singing exotic melodies, psalms of recoveries; 

Goodness me, I feel myself waking up again

from the dreadful joys that almost made me go insane.

 

OLUWATOSIN OKUPA

 

////////////////////////////////////////////////////

 

We Are Driven 

 

A cycle completed 

The end that heralds a new beginning 

Another opportunity to reflect in silence,

To feel the pulse beat of the universe

 

As the Gong adds another star

The red cap is strewn with feathers

A journey of life 

 

Emotions reflected as experiences are given form

Future plans made at the beginning 

Were driven west

By a crowned invisible warrior of its kind 

As its wild fire rages

Bringing its music and dance

From its ashes a new way of living

Evolution continues

 

For we are driven by

Hope, passion and love

 

Ifeanyi Okwosha

 ///////////////////////////////////////////////

 

THE SPEAKER

 

Taking the podium again,

I deploy my gusto.

Pacing back and forth the brightly lit stage,

I, redefine vigor.

Seamlessly flowing from my breath,

are words that defy my heart's state

 

Yet I speak.

With a charisma I have so mastered.

Wearing a lie suit,

I perform, over and again.

All the world is my stage

And I, a showman...

 

Once in in my own company.

I am many dark moods;

Unjoyed, sore and subdued.

The bruise on my conscience, bleeding.

The torment from my soul raging.

I snooze.

 

At dawn, the cock crows,

My heart quavers. Differently.

Today, I will not be bought,

Because his little image constantly hunts my mind.

I am determined.

I will tell my truth.

 

Again, I take the podium,

but without falsehood.

I stutter. My words are half baked,

but they resonate with my heart.

I see a white dove set free from his age long cage,

Not knowing how to fly again, but trying.

 

Yesterday at the podium, I stuttered.

Today at the podium I spoke fearfully.

Tomorrow at the podium, I would neither fear nor stutter, because,

That bird is me. 

I will speak and live my truth.

Therein lies true liberty.

In this, I am driven.

 

Vivian Chisom.

 

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////

 

Driven

Driven. Driven by the tides of life. Driven by

the days I shield myself from the sun with

tattered pieces of bandana & nights my pillow is

substituted with mama's arms. Driven by my

therapist's addiction to alprazolam. Driven

by father's praying palms. Driven by mother's

tears & sleepless nights. Driven by the 

times I plant a boll of torment in her garden. Driven

by love. Driven by sacrifice. Driven by my friend's

ability to swim while I drown. Driven by my

ex-girlfriend's lover's Benz. Driven by all the promises

I made. Driven by Plath. Driven by patience. Driven by

the girl who waited so long for me in the darkness. Driven by

Plath. Driven by the tears of yesteryear. Driven by the gas that fills

the air when mother cuts onions. Driven by the days of yore. Driven

by Plath hoping this poem is not too confessional. Driven. Driven. Driven.

 

Olaitan Humble

 

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////

 

DRIVEN

 

permit me to mention your name

       to the wind, let it carry my voice to the

farthest end of the earth. 

 

if so that happens

      everything and everyone shall have your name

be labell'd upon 

 

the trees shall make their babies in your name; 

         gently, they shall fall upon the face of the earth as the breeze blows 

       the rivers shall everyday spell your name in ripples; Ọ̀ṣun has never been so blessed 

and all -- all shall carry your name on a gold plate

 

 Yasmin,

on some morn, your love seems to me as a 

        dove -- calming the tempest from the night before 

on some night, your love seems to me as the 

         soft tune escaping your nesh touch from the piano board 

 

i am by your love driven:

     let's dance to the rhythm of the cackling fire tonight 

let my dark blood flow         

       into your red blood 

Our ancestors shall tonight awaken from the potence of the rare bloods that unite as one

 

this incense shall burn 

     as long as He holds the sky firm 

'cos it's filled with the scent of the geason lover.

 

 Tahirah M. Ogunsola

 

////////////////////////////////////////////////////

 

DRIVEN: NOT ENOUGH

 

Tell me I’ve not done enough

If I’ve not done enough

With your tongue painting where

I stand doing “not enough”

Like a mural with unfinished edges.

 

Tell me I’ve not done

Enough

So next time I come in a shape

Speaking more about perfection.

 

With your words, your love,

Inspire me to do more

Than “not enough”

With your love, your care,

Drive me beyond what man

Calls boundaries.

 

 Kolade Olawale Kabir Àdèlé

 

//////////////////////////////////////////////

 

THE TRIP! 

 

Sitting here blank and dry

I am doing a drive through

On the back of my mind

Plain Crazy and arid lazy

 

Many questions on this stroll

Fear is taking her toll

Courage lost at the polls

Stuck in this dark and dreary hole

 

I paid my due

And got soaked by the morning dew

Kneeling in the pews

Lost and confused

 

Prayers and questions 

That's all I have

A heartful of petitions! 

And soul left to starve 

 

I will pray 

And I will stay 

Calm in the storm

Keeping my feet warm

I want to dance 

Yet my mind is numb

From the years of wrong doing 

Or so I think 

 

But today and beyond 

I stand by this fiery pond 

Like a fellow once driven 

Mad then gone Crazy

 

Yet grateful and delighted. 

That I took the drive!

On the back of my mind 

For today and Forever! 

 

Immanuel Unekwuojo Ogu 

 

/////////////////////////////////////////

 

The Wheel (Readiness to Sail)

 

I plead with you to see a mode of life in our midst,

a mode of life stunted and distorted by your mode of thoughts

Recognize us as human beings like you do to your children

and plant our seeds of hope by the riverside,

I beseech

 

Having rode on a brown-skinny bulbous eye donkey down to the Aso Rock

only to calmly express our dire wants,

we ended up riding your punch after you roughshod 

over the brutalities and my worries wonder why exactly

our yabba dabba doo has now become booed by the ones who wooed us to vote

them in

 

Children of alpha-beta are off from school

as our no longer earth dwelling youths (but now dwellers in our hearts)

gushed innocent blood like the mystical free flow of

words from Moschitta

 

Their faces dodge our stumbled cries and their ears,

deaf to our humble calls

The ones you called woozy and lazy 

are now driven to disclaim that name and struggle

for a positive change 

  

If the nose assures us of its wickedness not to smell the wicked;

our brains are not dead to think aright,

likewise our hands, not stiff

to write

 

I plead with you to see a mode of life in our midst,

a mode of life stunted and distorted by your mode of thoughts

Recognize us as human beings like you want to be done to your children

and plant our seeds of hope by the riverside,

I beseech

 

“The Air. Jr.Drexmelody”

 Adegboyega Iyanuoluwa

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////

 

DRIVEN:

 

I am driven                    

to distraction 

Sadly driven

and not led

 

More cowherd

than shepherd

Every day has sufficient evil

And that is one stricture that

has not failed.

One day one trouble.

 

No wonder

I am distracted;

we are distracted.

 

We are distracted by being driven

to that place in a vehicle of overpromisers who underdeliver; mediocrities without any aspiration to excellence.

Falling short of any discernible standards

 

Distracted by civil servants who

act as uncivil masters and public servants with a private plotline;

A populace without

a logical centre and thus unable

to handle nuance and ambiguity.

 

Distracted by the fact that all

our lessons from the history we

no longer study in school, amounts to this-  that we will not learn from the good stories of others, but will continue to replicate our bad stories, whilst referencing and enjoying Singapore and Dubai

and Vietnam and Botswana.

 

By a generation that aspires to leadership not on the back of superior knowledge, plans and policies, but by riding the hobby horse of youth empowerment

and verbal vociferousness without commensurate policy positions

and plans; confessing ignorance

of a constitution that they purport to want to change.

 

Driven to hair pulling frustration,

if I had any to pull out;

Distracted to discombobulation;

Triggered to explosiveness-

By people who are rude, weak, bullies, timid and arrogant.

 

People who hold on to

our national patrimony and matrimony and keep the national cake to their 1 percent stake and the devil take the hindmost!

 

Driven in the final analysis to look out for Leaders who are strong, kind, bold, thoughtful, humble, proud

to serve and humourous without being foolish.

Channeling my inner Jim Rohn

to drive me on this Odyssian quest.

 

Andrew Whyte

/////////////////////////////////////

 

Song of a Father

 

Bri nothing drives a father

Than the thoughts of you,

Your tickling chuckles

The four teeth that make you more

Loveable than not.

Bri                       

 

Chisom

 

LOUDTHOTZ POETRY OPEN READING SEASON 11 EPISODE 12 DRIVEN (SEASON FINALE) HOLDS 10TH DECEMBER, 2020 REGISTER WITH THE ZOOM LINK!

Theme: ”DRIVEN”
Venue: ZOOM REGISTER HERE
Date: December 10, 2020
Time: 6:30pm – 8.30pm
If you are a poet or a lover of poetry, turn up, let's enjoy an evening of poetic bliss together at Loudthotz Open Reading.
Feel free to share with anyone you know might be interested.
About Loudthotz
Loudthotz is an Open Poetry Reading platform where poets and lovers of poetry gather every second Thursday of the month to read, listen, critique and review poems and enjoy an evening of poetic bliss.
HOW LOUDTHOTZ WORK

1. If you are a poet and want to read your poem during the open reading, send your poem on the theme of the month to loudthotz@gmail.com.

2. If you are a lover of poetry and just want to listen and enjoy an evening of poetic bliss, feel free to attend the open reading.

3. During the open reading, all poems are displayed on a big screen one after the other for the authors of each of the poems to read or perform.

3. During the open reading, all poems are displayed on a big screen one after the other for the authors of each of the poems to read or perform.

4. After the reading, the poem is reviewed, and critiqued by the audience and the author is called upon to talk about his/her poem.

5. After all poems have been read or performed, the best poem of the night is selected and the winner is presented with a prize.

6. At the end of the year, all poems read or performed during the monthly open reading are collated and published as an anthology for the year.

7. if you won’t be available and you still want your work to be read and included in the anthology make a payment of 1k here https://paystack.com/pay/preading

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POEMS READ AT LOUDTHOTZ POETRY OPEN READING SEASON 11 EPISODE 11 - LINESS

 The Silhouette of Luminous Strings (POEM OF THE MONTH)

 

Every time you cast an unusual spell with your magical ink,

you leave me groping at my aunt's crystal ball 

combing through cloudy ice, itching to unearth the truthful link 

glistening under your mind's blanket. 

 

I once took an endless tour round 

the portals of shaky preambles 

riding in rare colourful caravans 

with flames of lionhearted warmth

burning within the sinew of my bones

like the overzealous beds of - the 

historical - burning bush

 

all because you sent layers of colours on an errand 

and I just could not resist the peace that crawled into my mental shell 

like when a snail finds warmth in her pod. 

 

Sometimes, I just want to snap my fingers 

& connect the dots,

make them flow without warning – 

waving their bangs to the Master's touch. 

Your captivating strings are the pieces 

that confirm your mysterious adventures 

through the Sun's eye & the Moon's soul.

 

Daily, I see them boldly

streaming through fluffy funnels & baked clays

clothing naked vessels 

pouring into broken jars making them whole again 

like gum's smooth kiss on a ripped sheet, 

such seamless dots connecting every heart

mending the pieces of the puzzle.

 

We are the dots connecting every heart 

fixing the pieces of the puzzle;

Our adventures through hoops & rows

are luminous strings radiating glamour through paper's natural skin. 

 

Oluwatosin Okupa

/////////////////////////////////

 

LINES

 

The lines of poetry have fallen

for me in pleasant places.

 

Fallen, not in the nature of white

and powdery lines which must be

sniffed at and not sniffed, if mental

acuity must be maintained. 

 

Pleasant falling lines must be identified with clarity and not under the influence

of philosophical expressions where good is called bad and the useful termed useless and unfit for purpose. 

 

It is true that to all perfect lines there

is a limitation imposed by the reality

that all perfection is limited.

.

That practice only leaves permanent markers.

 

That only God is perfect and the rest

of us will die in our sin which is defined not as going beyond the mark- hupaballo but as falling short of the mark- harmatia!

 

Like the long jumper outside the sand;

the javelin thrower inside the circle,

the athlete not meeting the qualifying mark, falling behind the line and blaming the elements which are open over all and sundry.

 

Lines following occams razor

and reduced to the limits of parsimony.

 

Pursuing through lines of understated elegance, the simplicity on the other side of the complexity that is all of living, loving, learning and leaving a legacy.

 

ANDREW WHYTE

/////////////////////////////////////

UnAware [The Swiftness of a Pen] 

 

Upon the Hill of Kilimanjaro, feels the rhythmic line of a heroic assumption in me,

having sealed up all zeroes of the old; and sprouting a young sucker of lives' new checkpoint 

The end of other ends withered; and 

the end that'll birth a new end, I wish never ends.

 

Leg bruise, lip split and blanket coverings

Oh! I love them.

 

Bit-a-bit gathers the clustered eggs of waterbeings,

so is the pulse of my caged heart.

 

The stream of my consciousness never got a licensed go ahead of occuring; rather, a silenced shatter of dreams and stutter of words.

Many with wishes to dish,

many with unexplored prose hands; and

many with already disposed purpose.

 

All thanks to the swiftness of pen - who has made a (invincible) Captainman of our (fearful) Schwoz.

 

DREX MELODY

 

///////////////////////////////////////////////

LINES

Many Many Years Ago

I squinted to be sure I saw right

My sight’s always been right

But I must have seen something

Something not quite visible

Many many years ago

Hakuba had shown that little trait

A trait of insincerity

He came in a little late to my surprise

There was no reason for such

He missed his way

That’s what he said

There was no other way

Save for this same one we both have known

For like a lifetime

Agreed

He missed his way or whatever

Whatever

That was many many years ago

Someone said I was naïve

I thought was patriotic

May be

Just may be

 

In junior class

The trait showed up again

This was many many years ago too

And just like that many many years ago

We left with five meat balls in the bag

Now, it had turned four

How could it be? 

He said I couldn’t be sure

I waived that line of thought

He out to have changed

Why am I suspecting him

After hours of ruminating 

I left for my room

To catch up with some sanity

 

Many many years after

We got a space to share

We got a space to share

We made a plan together

A plan for US to excel

We got a “kolo” within

One you could never empty

Without breaking

To keep our income safe

Yet

All our figures at harvest

Could not tally 

Hakuba still has my mind to blame

Many many years after

The lines are still the same. 

 

 

Ilupeju 

 

////////////////

CROSSING LINES 

 

The charming smile you gave me yesterday 

sent sugary warmth down my spine, 

I wanted it to last.

 

Today, your cold distant look 

has got me confused again, 

I wish I knew how to please you.

 

You see, 

I'm tired of having to watch you 

switch roles between loving me 

and pushing me out.

 

I wish you'd tell me the days 

I cross the lines, 

so I know how far away I'll stay

And when to come back to you

Or not.

 

Priscilla Ahaiwe 

//////////////////////////////////////

First Gong - (for the rebels)

 

against our wish, we get on a journey no one knows,  

on our tongues the bitter taste of goodbye.

i begin the sojourn a boy forced into a man

on my mind the empty swing from which I was plucked;

it still goes to and fro awaiting the child in me,

the one who is long gone, the one who will never return.

 

i am Ijendu, man of dust seeking to give laughter full of bubbles

for all the troubles that plague the troubadours;

but there are logs of history that the child’s mind cannot axe.

they lie to say death still has power over youth.

single slave, I, incarcerated in many prisons; remember me?

doe-eyed kid standing with his mother in your street wearing the smile of graves.

 

you need not ask the ritual question, the three markings on my palms are answers.

i did not write this script, fate has a twisted mind, derives pleasure from our burdens;

life. so sweet. time. no more.

 

there was no time for closing ceremonies, no time to ask:

do the dead go hungry too? what currency do ghosts trade in?

now the dogs and the underdogs mope in resilience,

hungry but not angry; the body keeps rumbling in its blood,

ours is the gift of tears, the statues have refused to speak.

but to the arsonist and fire-fighters in hell my message is short

and my prayers are as vindictive as they burn.

 

may satan be the wicked’s only companion; no light. no cameras. action!

let noxious words grow wings fly about like scalar quantities

let me be safe with mathew and mark luking at john.

nene says every wrinkle tells a story but there are stories we should never tell

like how abali ingests ohuda and how hope flies away on ubochi’s wings.

the children do not nurse wild goose ambitions anymore,

things that matter have no weight and occupy space no more.

 

finally the day has come, to exploit the goldmine

beneath the terra firma of human existence,

no faith in the lines of battles drawn, no god in these lines of poetry,

but with these mere words a new generation will make god in their own image.

 

SOONEST NATHANIEL

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

LINES

 

Lines are fences visible and invisible

Not every line is straight

Some are slanted to make it work

Some are imaginary but insurmountable

Whether imaginary or tangible

They are indispensable

Needed in every atom of existence

For every boundary a real line is in existence

Rules are lines of action

Order has visible and invisible lines

Crossing the line has its consequences

Whether positive or negative

Read in between the lines for deeper understanding

Rail, air, road or sea we travel in lines

Rigid, fluid or imaginary all are real

Even as the rainbow forms its colours

Its beautiful children line up

As they dazzle the sky

Wherever you find spaces you will always find lines

 

Ifeanyi Okwosha 

/////////////////////////////////////////////////

For Brianna Part 3 - Destiny

Bri

You are lines drawn by God

Lines drawn on my palms

That on this tenth month of the year

On this third planet from the sun

The son will give you me

Bri

Like a dawn breeze, you are

Broken dreams mended

Felt it could not mend

But time is lie

It was like drowning on dry land

I am now in the cult of the fathers

Bri

Having you is like

Having my heart take a walk out of my body. Having my heart go walkabout

 

Chisom

////////////////////////////////

 

JUST A BLOCK AWAY FROM FREEDOM

 

The lines drawn were ever so faint

Hard to tell if they were even straight

They didn't seem to evenly divide

The resilient conflicting sides

The lines were clearly not defined

They lacked the power of  trust

 

In between those faint lines

Amidst gushing winds of fear

We saw a sea of tears

We heard loud sobs

Soldiers singing songs

Angry mobs

Dying young

A dark sight

Of red green and white.

They murdered the last flicker of trust

 

Walking thin lines

A clash of forces

Court cases

Troubled faces

Constant pacing

Heart's racing

The Eagle and two horses shake

What is the Nation's fate?

The search for whom to trust

 

The last line of defence

Muddled up pools of lies.

Grasping at thin threads

Rules torn to shreds

No white flags in sight

They forgot we record at night

A technical tactical fight

And we're holding on tight

We fan the last flickers of hope

Trying our best to cope.

For victory is just a block away.

Maybe Truth will win and

We'll walk the line to freedom.

 

 

Erhio

/////////////////////////////////////////////

A Paradise of Forking Paths

We are in the same storm

but different boats. The old

drift. The same rift. Newer

fatal fault lines. This is Nigeria.

Why does the arc of our moral

universe bends towards injustices?

Why do we not always listen to

The inner authority of all who suffer?

Nigeria; a paradise of forking

paths, a plush garden of labyrinths;

forged by blood and bones, by

lies and furies, disparate myths

and weeds of mutual suspicion.

Full of tired and toxic nostalgia

for an imperial era that never was.

This old lie is a dye; a greasy web

Whose moist blessing has

hardened the dividing lines.

With which we highlight the

dents in each other’s armour.

This old lie will not die.

like the labyrinthine lines

forking highways to nowhere.

Bogged in unending verbal duelling.

The trophy promised is a mirage.

This estate is broken. The battle

lines are cast in stone: the cross

and the crescent; the palaces and

the palates; the tongues and throngs.

The vexed line of the Charter says:

“We the People” to a vast uncertainty

Of the unaddressed and unredressed.

Beaten black and blue with mutual mistrust.

Whose axe is bloodier on these forking paths?

In this raging deluge, I build a moral ark

There, we may find a final lifeline.

 

Michael Achile Umameh