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THE CASUALTIES
John Pepper Clark

The casualties are not only those who are dead;

They are well out of it.

The casualties are not only those who are wounded,

Thought they await burial by installment

The casualties are not only those who have lost

Person or property, hard as it is

To grape for a touch that some

May not know is not there

The casualties are not those led away by night;

The cell is a cruel place, sometimes a heaven,

No where as absolute as the grave

The casualties are not those who started

A fire and now cannot put to out. Thousands

Are burning that had no say in the matter.

The casualties are not only those who escaping

The shattered shell become prisoners in

A fortress of falling walls.



The casualties are many, and a good number well

Outside the scene of ravage and wreck;

They are the emissaries of rift,

So smug in smoke-room they haunt abroad,

They are wandering minstrels who, beating on

The drum of human heart, draw the world

Into a dance with rites it does not know



The drum overwhelm the guns…

Caught in the clash of counter claims and charges

When not in the niche others have left,

We fall.

All casualties of war,

Because we cannot hear other speak,

Because eyes have ceased to see the face from the crowd,

Because whether we know or

Do not know the extent of wrong on all sides,

We are characters now other than before

The war began, the stay- at- home unsettled

By taxes and rumor, the looter for office

And wares, fearful everyday the owners may return,

We are all casualties,

All sagging as are

The case celebrated for kwashiorkor,

The unforeseen camp-follower of not just our war.

eldee:

I don't live in Naij . . . tried ebay and Amazon, the only copy I found is about £100.

100 QUID? thats a no no, by next week, i will give CMS book shop a trial as i should work around there around there.

Afroprince:

oh my God, Africa by JP Clark is a classic, can recite it till date, i am loving this thread!!! Lemme share a poem i wrote:

Love is Love - Fado

Love is love
Love is like a dove
It spreads its wings
Without a fling, these days?
It expects no sting
But just wanna sing
Great songs of inspiration
That has no fixed duration

Love roars like a beast
Looking for nothing but a feast
It ignites like a flame
And trades no blame
It has no pride
But simply wants a bride
To cherish and to hold
Not to tarnish and scold

Love has no width and length
But dwells on trust and strength
It’s only for the strong to desire
And for the weak to retire
Love heals with ease
And can only thrive on peace
So love like u mean it
If its love, its not deceit

Nice one prince, but what is the footnote to the poem? if written out of your love experience, then you are obviously having a blast in your relationship

Damn Damn Damn

this thread has made my year!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Memories. . .memories. . .memories. . .

@eldee

so iwo na ma n ya ibi? oga ooo. . .

Abeg. . .can you post "A Plea For Mercy" by Kwesi Brew. . .not "A Plea for Mercy Johnson ooo"


#Javalove. . .unless otherwise stated. . .!

The pauper
Richard Ntiru
[b]
Pauper, pauper, craning yours eyes
in all directions, in no direction!
What brutal force, malignant element
dared to forge your piteous fate?
Was it worth the effort, the time?

You limply lean on a leafless tree,
nursing the jiggers that shrivel your bottom,
like a baby newly born to an old woman.
What crime, what treason did you commit,
that you are thus condemned?

And when you trudge on your Hot pads,
gullied like the soles of modern shoes,
pads that even jiggers cannot conquer.
Does He admire your sense of endurance
or turn his head away from your impudent presence?

You sit alone on hairless goatskins,
your ribs and bones reflecting the light
that beautiful cars reflect on you,
squashing lice between your nails
and cleaning your nails with dry saliva.

And when He looks at the grimy coating
caking off your emaciated skin,
at the rust that uproots all your teeth,
like a pick on a stony piece of land.
Does He pat his paunch at the wonderful sight?

Pauper, pauper crouching in beautiful verandas
of beautiful cities and beautiful people.
Tourists and I will take you snapshots.
And your MP with a shining head and triple chin
will mourn your fate in a supplementary question at
question time.

[/b]

Heritage

Countee Cullen

What is Africa to me?

Copper sun or scarlet sea,

Jungle star or jungle track,

Strong bronzed men, or regal black

Women from whose loins I sprang

When the birds of Eden sang?

One three centuries removed

From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?

So I lie, who all day long
Want no sound except the song
Sung by wild barbaric birds
Goading massive jungle herds,
Juggernauts of flesh that pass
Trampling tall defiant grass
Where young forest lovers lie,
Plighting troth beneath the sky.
So I lie, who always hear,
Though I cram against my ear
Both my thumbs, and keep them there,
Great drums throbbing through the air.
So I lie, whose fount of pride,
Dear distress, and joy allied,
Is my somber flesh and skin,
With the dark blood dammed within
Like great pulsing tides of wine
That, I fear, must burst the fine
Channels of the chafing net
Where they surge and foam and fret.

Africa?A book one thumbs
Listlessly, till slumber comes.
Unremembered are her bats
Circling through the night, her cats
Crouching in the river reeds,
Stalking gentle flesh that feeds
By the river brink; no more
Does the bugle-throated roar
Cry that monarch claws have leapt
From the scabbards where they slept.
Silver snakes that once a year
Doff the lovely coats you wear,
Seek no covert in your fear
Lest a mortal eye should see;
What's your unclothedness to me?
Here no leprous flowers rear
Fierce corollas in the air;
Here no bodies sleek and wet,
Dripping mingled rain and sweat,
Tread the savage measures of
Jungle boys and girls in love.
What is last year's snow to me,
Last year's anything?The tree
Budding yearly must forget
How its past arose or set­­
Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,
Even what shy bird with mute
Wonder at her travail there,
Meekly labored in its hair.
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?

i have to pst TS eLLIOT'S hOLLOW mEN

Mistah Kurtz -- he dead.




A penny for the Old Guy




I


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

someone should please help with Atukwei Okai's Rosimaya and Elavanyo Concerto.

Theres this poem about two neighbours building walls, to separate their houses and the walls finally ended up killng them. PLEASE, can anyone remember the title of the poem?
Thanks,
Alison

mrgbite: nice,nice, can anyone post ''when a strainer takes in water" i have forgotten the author now but it remains indelible in my mind for its afrocentric flavour.

When the strainer takes in water was translated by Babalola. I shall attempt to write a few of the lines from memory

When a strainer takes in water
the water immediately goes out of it
When the wicker fish trap takes in water
the water immediately goes out of it

The drake cannot in a fit of anger crow
Owawa cannot in a fit of anger howl from dusk till dawn

Oriji leaf commands those who are angry with me to forgive me
Let their anger subside

This is all I remember but I know there's more.

Africa
Africa my Africa
Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs
Africa of whom my grandmother sings
On the banks of the distant river
I have never known you
But your blood flows in my veins
Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your work
The work of your slavery
The slavery of your children.

Africa, tell me Africa
Is this your back that is unbent
This back that never breaks under the weight of humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying no to the whip under the midday sun.

But a grave voice answers me
Impetuous child that tree, young and strong
That tree over there
Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers
That is your Africa springing up anew
Springing up patiently, obstinately
Whose fruit bit by bit acquires
The bitter taste of liberty.

Poem by David Diop

jesuisroya
that's parable by william souter.

Parable - william souter

two neighbours who were rather dense,
Considered that their mutual fence
Were more symbolic of their peace
(Which they maintained should never
cease)
If each about his home and garden Set up a more substantial warden.
Quickly they cleared away the fence
To build a wall at great expense;
And soon their little plots of ground
Were barricaded all around:
Yet still they added stone to stone, As if they never would be done,
For when one neighbour seemed to tire
The other shouted: Higher! Higher! Thus day by day in their unease,
They built the battlements of peace
Whose shadows, like a gathering blot,
Darkened on each neglected plot,
Until the ground, so overcast,
Became a rank and weedy waste. Now in obsession they uprear;
Jealous and proud, and full of fear:
And, lest they halt for lack of stone,
They pull their dwelling-houses down.
At last, by their insane excess,
Their ramparts guard a wilderness; And hate, arising out of shame,
Flares up into a wondrous flame:
They curse; they strike; they break the
wall
Which buries them beneath its fall.

guys you cant avoid to miss my latest published poems
RAT IN THE BOTTLE.
GO AWAY NIGHTINGALE.
AGONY OF AN OKADA RIDER.
INSECURE.
I SAW AN OLD WOMAN. etc
jst click d below link.
http://www.poemhunter.com/enebeli-ifyprada/

Though am nt a popular poet, i wil be sumday..
Check out my poems in the below link and comment.
http://www.poemhunter.com/enebeli-ifyprada/

ehie: i have to pst TS eLLIOT'S hOLLOW mEN

Mistah Kurtz -- he dead.




A penny for the Old Guy




I


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

Like seriously in a thread for works by African poets?

I want to attempt when a strainer takes in water.

When a strainer takes in water
All the water immediately goes out of it
When a wicker fish trap takes in water
All the water immediately goes out of it.
The drake cannot, in a fit of anger, crow
Owawa cannot even in a fit of anger howl from dusk to dawn
The day the red monkey meets the Alapini, it forgets its anger
A blacksmith never knows what to forge with an iron dross
Oriji leaf commands you to forgive me
No matter what i may have done amiss.
Let all those who are annoyed with me
Let all those who have risen against me
Let them have no power over me
Let their anger subside.

There's this poem, I'm trying to remember the correct title but I think its - "The way I'll like to die". I'll be grateful if someone writes out that poem here for me

Your request of letter Martha 17...

“Letter to Martha 17”
In prison
the clouds assume importance
and the birds
With a small spice of sky
cut off by walls
of bleak hostility
and pressed upon by hostile authority
the mind turns upwards
when it can –
there can be no hope
of seeing the stars:
the arch and fluorescents
have blotted them out –
the complex aeronautics
of the birds
and their exuberant acrobatics
become matters of intrigued speculation
and wonderment
cliches about the freedom of the birds
and their absolute freedom from care
become meaningful
and the graceful unimpeded motion of the clouds
a kind of music, poetry, dance –
sends delicate rhythms tremoring through the flesh
and fantasies course easily through the mind[color=#990000][/color]
− where are they going
where will they dissolve
will they be seen by those at home
and whom will they delight.
− Dennis Brutus

ifyalways: My Favorite.
Please can anyone write J.P Clarks " In Prison" for me?
It goes this way "In prison,the clouds assume importance . . . "