Call it whatever!

You were the one who once told me my writing was of different nature than yours and you know what? I am glad that it is.

There're boundreis you're allowed to tred, when you do things but refuse to be atypical. _{I fart but I'm not a farter . . . . it could get much worse.}

Did you want to write "typical"? 

Ko tope. 

No.

Great work,Gwatala. As a budding poet,you are one of my role models in this forum. Please view my poems too and let me hear your comments;whether good or bad.

   Dedicated To My Favourite Radio Channel
   “Radio Nigeria”

   They made an interview with me,
   Asked to which channels I listen.
   I answered them very politely,
   “Gentlemen, ladies, there’s just one.”
   And eagerly they wrote it down.

   “Would you tell us the name?”,
   They inquired with their pens ready.
   “You wouldn’t recognize it anyway,”
   My reply ticked them off, so I added:
   “It’s an old signal from a distant past.”

   “My favourite channel broadcasted
   For only one single hour, decades ago,”
   A dozen eyebrows were raised,
   “However I can’t forget the moderator,
   His voice still vibrates in my head.”

   “This is Radio Nigeria … Radio Nigeria,
   We are broadcasting life from Ibadan.”
   Twelve pairs of eyes looked up,
   In surprise to what I just had revealed
   And recalling a footnote from my memoirs.

   “‘Twas Ibadan where I lost my heart,
   You remember well, just as do I myself,
   ‘Twas Ibadan where I fell in love
   For the first and for the very last time
   And now I listen to a channel that is no more.”

   “What happened to the moderator?”
   One of them asked with a hint of kindness
   “Is he still there?” – “Yes, still in Ibadan,
   You might have heard of him if ---
   But only if you loved Nigeria and its poetry.”

   “His father once was a famous man,
   Until the son’s light grew brighter,
   Now the father’s star has disappeared,
   And only the son’s name reminds of fame
   And of success beyond a radio show in vain.”

   A great silence followed after this,
   Neither me nor they said a single word,
   As if we just had to wait a little while,
   For the cracking sounds to give way
   To a voice unheard for many, many years.

   Yet even before the last of the bunch
   Had disappeared, clenching on to their notes,
   Old, weary me had drifted off to sleep
   And in my dreams it was I heard him say:
   “This is Radio Nigeria … I am here.”

   Is it only from afar that you can love a sparkling star?

   Once, a hot star scorched the ones he loved,
   Wild outbursts of lava erupted from an icy heart,
   His wife, his little ones, all were left with scars
   And the smallest son with fingers frozen off.

   How can one write with only stumps to hold the pen?
   How can one love with an inner turning colder?
   A new star was born, blistering and bitter,
   Doomed to circle lonely around his blazing dad,

   While there is a fruitful rock waiting to bring forth life,
   Not to become a fierce star herself but to love one,
   To bring harmony to his different layers and tones,
   And all she asks is what he can’t give: a gentle light.

Mais oui, mon amour, but which one of the three above? 

(1) Too long --- tell me, what is unclear?
(2) Did you find the "hidden" word?
(3) Oh, how to explain this? I thought a second-generation poet would understand.  Is this hint enough?
(4) Almost had forgotten those rugs.  I won't say no more.   

Ok, gotta go soon too. Technology is starting in an hour. Looking forward to reading that autobiography. Gonna be short, abi? 

The sky is mine. The world is mine.  I can go anywhere.  I can do anything.  Am I God? No! I am hope.  

@gwatala and somegirl

While I enjoyed both you guys poems I found myself more interested in the conversation that has continued between the two of you since August.  Somegirl appeared to be an enemy yet strangely gwatala has made her a friend.  

Just one thing though, great minds do NOT in fact think alike but rather, they think for themselves.

Eyes wide shut while diligently seeking
those key things that makes ones soul sing,
Happiness, love and liberty.
                             - Goddess Jones

Rara o. 

@ Chiluvgod. hmmm. Interesting analysis.

@chiluvGod8:

Which appologies? 

And, NB, Gwatala and me were not talking about opinions but the reality. 

If you did something, then it is reality and not just an opinion.

But if you talk about something, then it is an opinion. An informed opinion backed by reality.

I ask why you write. i.e. What is your immediate motivation for those two last poems. My (former) blogger profile? Recent conversations? Stray thoughts? or just the almighty muse in its recurrent mischief?