POEMS READ AT LOUDTHOTZ POETRY OPEN READING SEASON 11 EPISODE 5 ONGOING

WINNER POEM OF THE MONTH

"THE JOYS OF LOVE" – (Poem of the month)

Going to a place
Where the storm gathers quietly
It was going to listen to a story
The rain was given a chance to explain why it needs to do this alone
You would pour on the earth
And proceed to nourish
You will sing to the flowers
With promises that they will flourish
You will say to the plants
I am your blood
I will not become the flood
That usher in a plague
You will tell them
That you have come with news that they will cherish
You will tell them to perish the thought
Faith has risen over fear
Joy is here to stay
And will always have a say in these affairs
You are going to a place
Where the sun shines gently
You will feed your dreams to life
And it will refuse to belch
Creating space for more
That is the job of the oceans
Creating a reason to love
That is why a soul lives
Stamping dimples on your cheeks
Or just to find a way for laughter to leak
That is my reason for being
Laughter and happiness
Sweetened moods for which we have evidence
For which we have the rights to not produce a reason
That was the same story they told about love
You do not have to explain your feelings
Or why it is you have them
All you knew and still know
Is that joy is the sole craving of the soul
And that it has led you to this
What they define as ill that you call bliss
You are going to a place
Where all your vehicle did
Was just to announce that life is your lease
You are not alive for them to do as they please
You cannot freeze melting joy
For all that walked away
All we said was nothing spoil
Two has become one
And one refuses to be divided
Those burdened by frowns only need to know
That the joys that love produces is often exclusive
They were never invited…

Akeem Adetayo Oyalowo

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

WHEN FICTION LOSES ITS FAITH

 Little pilgrims fail to perfect their resurrections

For there is no rising from the grave

With broken wings.

No god in the poetry of this religion,

So the child must fall asleep in terror.

A fog of generalities has swallowed the earth

And lyric observations fail with their big answers

For no straight line is seamless enough

To blast through all rocks

Of doubt, of trial, of hurt, of oddity and epiphany.

Terror makes for great art

And joy is not a process without casualty;

So I ask my teacher:

Is it normal to bleed,

Is it fine for father to feed me cat feces

Is it okay for mother to wean me on cat litter.

My teacher tries to reply but only gives off a sigh,

She cannot fathom

                                 this queer divine rhetoric.

Fiction has lost its faith,

my literature has destroyed her soul

in the finest possible way;

she tries helplessly to pray 

but all she can mutter is,

let someone else’s idea - 

                                            kill this child.

Soonest

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

ONGOING TALE

He stood with a smile that death feared

His heart shattered in countless pieces

Like the stars in the galaxy

As life held a moment in time

Ojadili the warrior king feared by spartans

Lay defeated at the feet of Olanma

His heart will pass through the black hole to be whole again

His won't be the first sacred Python killed for sacrifice

In this stage filled with characters

As his flight through the black hole brings him torment and peace.

This is a tale that is old

As old as the first wars it brought

The same plague

It won't be the last.

In this the victor and the vanquished are equals

They will all dine in the table ever laid

Like the spider in its romance

Can be mate and dinner.

Ifeanyi Okwosha

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A NUTCASE

It's always a chase

That mind blowing

Hot

Secret

One sided affair 

One minute you're here

The other you're nowhere

Yet we chase

Life is not always fair

Heart skipping

Butterfly flapping

One sided dreams

Of red lipstick and high heels

Most time it's a bad deal

Yet we keep chasing those dreams

Hoping what could be would be

Then comes the illusion

Our vivid imagination

Making romantic allusions 

Causing one sided confusion

Cos the Ladies seem to stick to their plan

Leaving us feeling like the main man

A simple misinterpretation

Then the shocker comes

That rude awakening

The internal/external slap

The reset button

That gets us stuttering

No more make up

Just a one-sided breakup

We're holding onto an empty cup.

Then it happens again

The butterflies

Skipping hearts

Deep craving

Mind racing

One sided dream

We grasp on to what we seem to see

She presses the button

And all sins are forgotten

Clinging to smiles with brown blue eyes

We see her statistics

And lose our sensibilities

Becoming the crazy stalker

The die hard fan

The unrepentant crush

Receiving unrequited love

It's a bloody war

We simply refuse realities News

It's always happening

It's a cycle

An ongoing nightmare

Hot

Secret

One-sided affairs

The origin of which remains unclear.

It's the chase not the man.

Erhio

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ONGOING:

Investigations and projects

Which should be investigated closely before large investments

Are made, are always ongoing.

I wonder why?

There is a certain present continuous ad infinitum dimension, to this which makes them rather too open-ended

and lacking in the possibility or potential for closure and finitude-

a thing which is good for both individual and national psyche's.

Development qua Development must not be cast in concrete, like a recurrent decimal

and self-fulfilling prophecy-

once third world, always third world as decreed by the learned professors pontificating in obscure journals,

with no Singaporean translation-transition to the supposedly first world is permitted, except of course you are Singapore or even Dubai-

avatars, outliers                                                                                                                                                                   

and quantum leapers.                                                                                                                                                                  

Pregnancies as pregnancies might

go on and on, but

are not ongoing because there is

an end, a termination (not in the crisis

of unnatural abortion

or natural miscarriage),

an expected end-

give or take 9 months and we are fine.                                                                                                                                                                         

But not so for the ongoing something

or the other.

Not so for the

ongoing this and that . It goes on;

on and on until

that special form

of boredom called 'accidie' sets in

At that stage,

just let the baby cry!

Andrew Whyte

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A NUMBER OF THINGS

I suffer insomnia every night

So I have learnt to count to 

100, several times before I sleep.

Oftentimes at the 67th, 

sometimes the 76th count,                                         

I mix them up and start from scratch. 

On days I do not get to 100, 

I just lie on my bed and stare, 

Till they start rolling in. 

Series of thoughts trailing each other,

Thoughts after thoughts after thoughts, 

like black soldier ants on a quest for blood.

They never stop, till I curl into a fetal position, 

face pressed into my pillow 

as I start the count from 0 once more.

But this is not about me.

Someone is out there,

Who will struggle again to sleep tonight.

Pricilia

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ONGOING

I made love to her on paper,

Spilled ink like passion 

Across the sheets. I caressed

Her curves in every love letter.

I kissed up and down her thighs.

In all chaotic realm, beauty lies a wounded

Work of art. 

Beautiful but torn, wreaking

havoc on my heart. Camouflaged by 

insecurities, blinded by it all.

I love the way you sit there and barely

notice me at all.

in short sentences and prose.

I tasted all her innocence,

without a spoken word. I bit

her lip and pulled her hair, in

between the lines. I made her back

arch  as she  screams, 

it only took a pen but yet,

We made  change after change

on the road to perfection. 

when i finally felt beautiful enough,

their definition of beauty 

suddenly changed. We don't just become 

butterflies. Do we? what if there

is no finish line but in attempt  

to keep up i lose the gift i was born with.

for a beauty so insecure,

On going you were as you called 

to say hello I felt the distance,

As the wide took you 

On a raid to your new home.

#Shadyrabbit

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‘ON THE LINES’

I lay bare on a line,

Not straight, neither crooked,

But a line with wavy patterns,

A line lay with hope yet with bumps at each crossroads,

A line clear yet unseen to the eyes, but found in the heart,

A line with many a crossroads of doubts but also with a flyover of faith and believe,

A line pure still unrefined,

A line so far yet close,

A bridge though may exist in time, but time still laid tracks to ride.

These lines were drawn not with the pen,

But with love ink in two hearts,

Lines were drawn so deep gaining much thickness with every stroke,

Lines though not hidden still scared to show,

Lines sketched into the hearts hoping never to be erased,

Lines ongoing in its complete form,

I stay in line with you with the hope to board the same route to hearts resort,

I gave my tickets to stay in line with you waiting for our dreams to arrive,

I give my pen to write down some lines on the best parts of your heart,

I hope this line strike a beautiful chord in your heart.

Asapen

@Akinyemi Akinmusire

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BUSTLES

I see men hanging on 

nooses set down by 

their fathers. They wrestle

on a stage set by myths

of the old old world, held

at the junction of a tiny string—

leftovers of an unending war, like

thobes of honor they

don day after day.

Olaitan Humble

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ONGOING

I know that you love me
You know that I love you
Our mutual affection in lifelong journey we see
Aggrandisement is divorced from our motive
In the solitude of silence, we subdued giants
With the simplicity of faith
Our gifts, talents, potentials are accentuated
When the pathogenic protein came to town
In lockdowns and restrictions,
In mutual bold stare our response
Covid-19 paid obeisance
To our divinely orchestrated innovations, insights and creativity

Olumide Soyemi

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DEATH IN SENSES AND HANDSHAKES

It’s now that the death multiplied its appetite

its bloody mouth, a god everyone worships

& time busy –emptying its stocks & herds

of silent marauding the abandoned streets

that patriotism returned to the heart of pillagers

pinching out of their haunt bounties taken at

trick-point giving-out at camera-point as charity

there is fear & hunger inside breaking our bones

no one answers unsolved mazes like death, as

virus armed with the weapon of gods arrives

dark evils surrendered to the higher evil

men across atlantic came down contagious

only silence stand there, markets where you once

saw mass sellers, traders, too large for your eyes

only silence stand there, churches & mosques'

people buried down their faiths to stay alive

this is the first year that traveling was suspended

protecting our rolled-up hospitalized future

death that calls the rich by their wealth it’s now

neglecting the cries of the poor it’s crushing

geographically, grief is a blaring metaphor of

burning memories, a map of mourning, yes!

life fading out on the owner like a candle lighted

at both ends, cavid- 19 unemploying us in stages

the strength of flaring death from overseas

cajoled putrid souls to do good at despair time

the doors we left opened in our sincerity, death

rushed through them, deep, chocking our lives

uncertain interpretation circling the sky, only

death getting stronger as the year grows older

Umar Yogiza Jr.

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O IS FOR ONGOING
Oh, No. It is Ongoing. No, it is Outstanding. This is how Ocholi and the Oloibiri oyster catcher ogle and argue. Like the Oyster shell grating at the Ocean floor. Suddenly, there was an opening, a clean pathway like the throat of an O: out of which the oars and roars of Ocholi’s men overcame the oddity of the ocean’s overblow. This is always an ongoing war, like the Octaves on the oratorio of Orisha. The ongoing orchestra of the ocean, the oyster and oyster catchers and the overpowering row of Ocholi and the Oloibiri fishermen. Shall we then call the pulpit orator Ode Eyeoyibo to ordain Ocholi to the Ocean for your Oyster; Oloibiri to your Oilwell for your Oil. Or is the soft-spoken wisdom of the opulent garden Owl enough? One to the spoils of the Ocean. Another to the toils of the Oil. This will be ongoing for eons. Maybe we outsource. No, let them outsmart or out-scheme each other. O is for opus, the ongoing work and war, like the tragic Olympian Ode of Oedipus: orphaned and offensive. This is forever ongoing, like the onion’s concentric O’s, oozing like an opium and watering the O rings whose orbits cradle the eyes. Ongoing like the oars of Ocholi and the roars of Oloibiri oystercatchers, so too the Ocean overblows with waves upon waves upon waves upon waves.
While Ocholi and Oloibiri oystercatchers ogle and argue, the orchard is overgrown with orange, olives, oil-palm, okro and of course, ox-shit. O for the two organs, that bore Ocholi and Oloibiri, the double O’s of the ovaries of their origins. The O of the overrun ozone layer and dropping Oxygen, is this the mouth of an omen or an oracle? Ocholi ha overfished the Ocean. Oloibiri has overheated the open sky with oilrig. O mother Earth, overexploited, overused and overrun. Like an O with a void inside itself. O who has made orphans of our lands. O for the Oarfish that died of oil spill. O for the Ocean that died of thirst. Today, I hear the tired echo in the throat of O, it is Ocholi and Oloibiri cursing the Ocean and the Oil. And this orbit of an encircling gloom is still ongoing. Like the Ocean and the Oil. Like Ocholi and Oloibiri. The land is like an open-hearted old maid, she holds all the opportunities. And when she opens the ten thousand doors of oak, may we find ongoing mercy within mercy within mercy within…

Michael Achile Umameh

--

POEMS READ AT LOUDTHOTZ POETRY OPEN READING SEASON 10 EPSIODE 10 CHARGE

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.

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.

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‘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

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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

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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

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