A POET’S SOLILOQUY
“When tears are in your eyes, It’s time to look inside, Your heart will find another way” –Enya Are poems not the pallbearers of a poet’s dead dreams & hopes? I am awed by the way they donate their shoulders to bear the pain Of…
THIS IS HOW I MADE MY WINGS
With sunken eyes in tired sockets, a girl ran after her father’s sigh; seized it, slit its throat, hid the blood-stained knife in a lawn of solitude & became the dream her father had on the night of her conception. She remembers her mother’s words,…
The Sun That Would Not Rise In The East
The day Akanji hosted death, the crown exhaled in relieve as it watched a hundred and one brittle-hearted fellows adorned with mournful grins, troop to his festive funeral They said: “He’s dead! The man who defaced the wall of humanity with his uncommon shade of…
Jerome
Those who lag behind in life’s race, are they God’s specimens to the experimental end of eliciting our gratitude?
Memories, the clay with which we hold our demons.
On cool evenings like this, when my fingers hurt and my palms get really pale, I crawl into my bed, wrap myself away and listen to Don Williams. Then I wonder why death lets us sip from a glass of fine wine, only to tickle our throats till we spill the wine to its very last droplet.
A Broken Wrung On The Ladder Of Memories
On the ladder of memories, it was not the way the night stretches a blanket of darkness across the sky that endeared it to me. My best friend in the corpers’ lodge; Segun, thought I had cuddled the moon under the canopy of glittering stars…
Come Watch Me, Dance Naked
Jaachi, I am the tree which died in the seedlings you refused to tend. I am a memory you cannot drown in a keg of palm-wine, for like a feather, I will float upon the rivers of your thoughts till you recall and regret the night when you abandoned a broken flute at the village square, for I am that flute and wholeness found me in the hands of a drummer boy who lost his drumsticks.
Solitude: A Poem By Ehi-kowochio Ogwiji
On the shelf of solitude, silence is a book, with black & white pages, telling stories which died on their way to the village square; like that of Enem Ogodoo, the one who spent a lifetime, oiling a flute which would play the first note…
