₦airaland Forum

I'm in.

danbrowndmf:
bro gimme ur number

Dan Bee, how far? 09056187226

When dawn came, it came
with silence and the smells of
putrid flesh, silence for all the
women who had mastered the art
of crying into themselves like water
fountains that sat in squares that
are no more squares but mighty
holes in the soil
where some of them sank.

He was busy teaching us the right way
to cup our hands when
we pray.

Nobody told him that the problem
wasn't about cupping, that we
were just looking for a helpful
adult who would scrub the 'g' in
God off our throats every time we tried
to whisper a prayer and we choked on
smoke, on our words.

He would not tell us why our words were
smoke, why there was a fire
in us that had burnt
our bones - if the fires in our
bones were hot enough break the links
that tied the chains of the memories
of our dead brothers. He would not
tell us if the fires were hot enough to
melt the chains that had curled
themselves around our necks.

When dusk came, it came with rain.
I saw farmers,
my father's friends crying. It might
have been only them who knew
that a rain of bombs
does not grow
crops.

Boda mi Divepen, where are the prizes that will gingering us small small?
If there are any prizes, I'm in

Yes, IamHadassah. I do not understand why some undergraduate ladies who are in relationships with undergrduate men believe that the men should be responsible for their upkeep. God, you're both in school together! He should collect both his share and your share from his parents? Are you an orphan?

Then, what men have you seen refusing help from females even when they are in need? Come and help me here first.

fulanibuoy:
i shall help the hands of the sun write
my silvery deeds on a golden plate.

in my closet i shall sit on the moon,
make a portrait of the earth, place it

in a frame of shining stars and
ask departure questions with flint stones.

with dry tears i shall write a blind note
on the left palm of my lover, and

bid her go back to my mother, for
she alone knows the writings on the wall.

don't ask the pillow for my will,
for it is hidden in the marrow of my bones.

i shall add a verse to the book of psalms
and scribble a latent apocryphal

that would make mockery of death.

i shall spit on her face
with the tenth part of my ninth life

and say unto her, "woe unto you, oh loser!
for you stole my soul but left its sole

in the consoles of forever-sands—in the
heart of my friends and head of my foes".

and just before i breathe my very last,
i shall post this poem to the postmaster—

a mortal on his mount of transfiguration.
then… close my eyes in sleep



Ehi Zogie, that @fulanibuoy

Wow! This is art. You're a genius. Do you own a chapbook or antholoy or something?

beautiful poetry. Can you tell me something about the Nigeria/Korea poetry feast?

olatunyemi:
MY FIRST POST ON NAIRALAND,
I am a student of health science who have interest in poetry
your constructive criticism is welcome because there is always a first time


Dedicated to Erin-Ile youth, Kwara state[color=#000000][/color]

When the tree continues shedding its leaves
When a day old chick is suffering from diseases
And we can only sit to watch with ease

Are we going to continue in this deceitful way
What has happened to the promising way
Is it only by attending school like Bestway
What shall we do when the future is in chaotic way
Sun is shining we can still make hay

l
Our youth our future is the voice of the day
Yet our youth is going astray
Elders are watching in dismay
And the society is in disarray

Erin-Ile youth stand up the future is bright
Our starting point should be the sky
They say education is the luminous light
Then why are we doing things contradicting the right

Let seek the guidance of the Almighty
Through HIM our hope is gigantic
And our future will be bright and shine
Through him the end is smile

Smoking and drinking will only do us harm
NAFDAC and WHO are raising alarm
Let uphold the coat of arm
And we shall enjoy the future with face full of smile

by Na'im Yusuf[/quote]It's good. However, I think that your rhymes ended up dictating your poetry. Take a look at the line about the future, for example. I'm sure you had a thousand better ways to say that but you had to choose that to complete your rhymes. A poem doesn't have to rhyme. Infact, modern poetry rarely features any rhyming. Most times when we try to write very serious poetry, rhymes end up doing so much harm.

Are you from Erin-Ile ni?

Pdizzle:
laykorn boss. nice piece as usual, the penultimate stanza was really nice.
yes poetry is evolving, in vary scary forms.

thanks.

you stopped writing bro?

timpaker:
You a quite right.

Modern poetry has evolved into various "strange" forms in the 20th century as the notable form of expression has always been the free verse form, and I think poets are mostly influenced by its ability to allow one pen their thoughts without constraints.

Also, going by the recent happenings and outright criticism by poets on how the world view poetry, some opined that poetry has lost its uniqueness as many prefer to write without beautifying it with hundreds of forms nor evoke the reader's thought. It is on this fact that Adrian Mitchell said most people will ignore poetry as long as poetry goes on ignoring most people.

But in truest fact, poets now justify their poems by the happenings and norms of poetry that they see is acceptable, an instance is the Noble prize award of literature to Bob Dylan which is an oblique view of how some poets view things. Its clearly different from the orthodox approach as modern poetry sees literature itself in a very large form. These contemporary poems of literature are judged based on lyrical content than style or skills with some strange forms of poetry found music, films, and even paintings.

Thank you sir, and I agree that 'style' is dead, I swear. Apart from the fact that free verse has become the dominant thing, it seems like modern poets are not only competing in lyrical prowess but also in coming up with strangest form of the free verse. The world is accepting this and it has gone beyond what can be dismissed as a trend for younger poets. The last Brunel Prize affirms my claim. Here is a link to some of the pieces submitted by shortlisted poets. You might be amazed.

http://www.africanpoetryprize.org/press-release-shortlist-2016

I feel very good about this, however. Sonnets and meter, I have always beleived, are only a perfect way of alienating this art. An art that should be available people, ordinary people who want to write their pain or scribble their joy. (Forget the fact that iamb, trochee, dactyl, are things that cause me massive headaches anytime I try to understand them )

I.
Habeebah,

I am busy searching history for footprints. So pray for me, and tell Mama to do so too. I carry a torch to the houses of men who dance to the distant cries of infants. To the houses of men who threw war in our midst and raze them to the ground. Mama will not know until she listens to the news - that bombs have learned how to speak our language and bullets rise and play with little children like ghosts in haunted towns, so pray for me.

II.
A single bracelet does not jingle. A single stick may smoke; it will never burn. I do not ask that you pick a torch too and follow my footprints into the bushes from where I shoot arrows to pierce the evil in the hearts of men. But there is a way that you cup your hands and say Allah. The word sticks to the walls of my throat anytime I try - it's the smoke that causes it. Habeebah, tell Mama that my fear is not the end for peace is the end. My fear is time. My fear is time. There are things I will not be able to do. We are here today, tomorrow. Can we predict the moments that follow? What if tomorrow comes without you? What if tomorrow comes without me? What if dusk arrives with the scent of our bloods? We will never be able to voice all the broken syllables that lie in our bellies like morsels of pounded yam.

Nor will we ever finish saying our goodbyes to boys who die in empty rooms, to girls who get wrapped and deposited like gifts on days after the blasts.

III.
When you cup your hands like Mama taught us to do, and whisper Allah, pray for me. Pray for boys and girls who do not remember to sing love songs because of dirges. Boys and girls who cannot write sonnets because of elegies. Boys who don't want to remember formulae and equations because they want to forget memories. Pray for forgiveness; for me, for you, for Mama. Pray that I don't die before Ramadhan. Pray that I come home. Pray for enough water to quench the cities of fire inside our stomachs.

Your brother.

Divepen1:
It was short story

Fine story you've got here. You forgot the 'k' while spelling taekwondo.

Keep this coming bro, I'm glued already.

Well done! Bro, was this self-published?

AfroSamurai:
Suicide and strife.


What's the structure of the poem, llaykorn. Kinda looks like prose poetry to me, seeing how you break your lines after a punctuation mark.

Suicide, yes, and strife. Many years ago, I'd be happy to say it's PP. These days, I'm not so sure anymore. Modern poetry has started to take very strange forms. What do you think, texanomaly timpaker pdizzle ?

bqlekan:
M.thanks bro, just been a bit busy these days

Fight hard, bro. May we never lose our pens.

texanomaly:
You're welcome. I check in occasionally. You have always been a talented poet. I'm glad I checked on the right day to see this.

Thank you texanomaly. In the days we were all active on the NPC group, I learnt a lot from your poetry and all the critiques you did. Thank you.

elfico:
Brilliant piece.

Thanks bro.

bqlekan:
Great piece here

Thanks bro. Been sometime I saw one of your own pieces too.