Browsing category: POETRY

Drowning:Romeo Oriogun

I am the under belly of the sea, the softest part of the earth. I am where the world comes to die. Mother calculated noise by the silence coming from the door, afraid that the door knob will bring a flood that will drown her skin in the fist of a drunk man. Most nights I press my ear to water and hear the voice of a falling man. At what point does a drowning man knows he's dying? To come full circle is to gather broken bones into the hands of God, breathe life into them and run as they

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SOMETIMES: Rasaq Malik

Sometimes the urge to write flees and leaves me flipping the pages of unfinished poems, unedited verses, Old lines in the hearts of books that bear stories beyond the corners of this room. Sometimes the passion to write disperses and returns when silence grows like flames in a room where a tumbler sits on a table, where a dusty shelf houses books by old and anonymous authors, Authors whose words fly like a falcon in the mind of a poet who sits again tonight, searching for a muse. (C) Rasaq

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DEAR FUTURE WIFE: Chukwudi Onyegbule

I I know You have immersed yourself In the dream world. I know You curl up awake And your eyes search for sleep As the onward surge grows. Your mind knows no rest So hard you struggle Alone you paddle Because beneath your heart Vision you cradle. Your heart hunts the best You deprive yourself rest And refuse to be stuck Because wrapped in your thought Is about what you'll become

ii One day We will mingle Never to be single And on the alter Our vows will be loud. As our lips will

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FRAGMENTS: Daisy Odey

Yesterday we fought fire with water. Today a flood is killing our children. How do we drown a river? Heavy hearts do not carry love. Tongues lost to grief forget the language of prayer. Some questions Are always hungry like; “is there a god worthy of war?” I know a boy. This is how he spells murder; two bodies in a closet growing into one shadow dying like fireflies burning… burning out. He sings; “It is safer to live walking in dead men's shoes.” I hear the train moving on. past districts where

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listen: AP

When I’m quiet as dead Like a corpse left in a box Do not think I need your touch or voice Do not even try… I’m trying to listen Do not cry or mourn my unconscious form Understand it and stay calm. When I’m old and unknown Still strapped to my rocking chair Do not pity or try to move my ebon flesh Do not get wearied of my silence For I am trying to listen. Eventually when I stand on my feet and walk through my farm smiling Do not ask me why or what had changed I’m the same, still listening Only that now, I hear

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Engender: Yasky

If you feel the sun on your skin If you see the birds flap their wings Strike the earth with authority Send a message to those beneath Prayers are not spoken but seen Ocean waters never convene There is also darkness up here Fires that burn cannot be quenched If white clouds rain drops down your cheeks Increasing the glisten we see Remember the glory within Send a message to those beneath Black is the reason we see white Dark strengthened God to make light Like the cry of the midnight howl... Find your centre,

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IJE: EZE FRANK

(My Journey) I I live everyday breathing down the neck of illusion reveling in my rivalry with its shadow— talk of toadyism II Drowning in the everydayness of immortality simmering like a pot of sauce in my soaring muscles basking in my braininess like the erectus who woke one miraculous morning tailless, wearing a sapiens' skull III But not today, not anymore either, for i wear pain on my head now like Christ's crown of thorns; pain, which doses of aspirin lost their analgesic fire fighting; pain, hitting

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THE WOMAN ON MY STREET: Amina Dauda

The swing of her hips, The fire in her eyes, The purse of her lips told me different. (They told me she was dust, but different.) Every morning like a mini play, I lurked by my windowsill Wishing for skin like hers, Hair likes hers, Eyes like hers It was all there in her smile, this pretty woman on my street. Her face glittered at night. Her voice melted hearts of dead gods. She was cultured and refined. O how I dreamed and dreamed so well Of a day I would be her. Then one morning as I did all mornings, I waited

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We are COAL

COAL’s mission is to support and provide opportunities for budding writers in Africa to develop their creative independent voices and to explore careers in professional writing. To help creative writers and spoken word artists realise their literary dreams by providing platforms for their self expression. .........

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