January & February 2019
Vol IV No I
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
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International Poetry الشعر শ্লোক ကဗျာ ליבע ਪਿਆਰ өлүм
African Poetry with editor Michael R. Burch
This is for the child
the colour of a fading shadow
who lives at the cold bosom of death, thinking of facing tomorrow
and then at dawn
a new death casts her light aglow
This is for the child
whose song echoes like the tiring voice of a bellows
under the spilled milk
of the evening's beaming moon, they bow
for a trigger-happy gun man
in the hood will come with a
This is for Africa:
a coffin of mahogany and the perfume of Arabia
box her up and let
the children lift her shoulder-high
amid nursery rhymes
and glowing eyes
Take her down,
mother earth, where the worms are
This is for the African
child hopeless and homeless
whose mother wails
over the fallen fence of the household
Africa oh Africa
your sun no longer
lights up our paths
We are your children
lost in your hardship’s dust
This is for all black children,
this is for me.
MY MENTOR AND I
In days of my nudity,
when dirt was my little pet,
before I knew myself,
and my guilt . . .
have I adored you!
In days of my running nose and addled babbles
when my shabby clothes made me shaggy,
have I kept your portrait,
cleaner than my palm,
above my mat, where my wee eyes can behold
your greys sailing on a long Nile of wisdom.
In days of my blooming roses and tales of witnessing moonlight,
of willie willie and her evil half brothers,
in these days have I adored you.
In the days of my innocence, before the world stole it,
you scribbled the ‘Abiku’
in mysterious lines and stanzas;
I read and memorise them like a sacred incantation,
and I wish to be you; like a jealous devil in a luxurious Eden.
I will be you when you submit to the waiting earth;
my hair will be grey and full like a pregnant cloud;
I will be another soyinka from a tribe of the kogi,
where rivers share endless love.
Papa was bend and curve like a crescent moon.
He spoke softly but consistently, like the babble of an adamant baby.
He is wrinkle and veins running all over his crooked body like wiring done by an apprentice electrician;
he is soon ripe for the belly of the obese mother earth, woe unto mother earth!
No flesh to eat this time,
papa died skinny and feeble.
Al-Qassim Abdulsalam Uthman is a Nigerian poet, born in 1992 in Dekina, a local government area of Kogi State, Nigeria. He is a graduate of Kogi State University and currently lives in Abuja, Nigeria, in the western part of Africa. He calls himself the “Bloody Poet” and uses the hashtag #BloodyPoet.
The music blasts from the bar;
Two yards away
The criminal gulps down
Shots of vodka
In a bid to digest the horrors of his act
Only hours ago.
Eyeing the lady of easy virtue
two tables away.
Soon prickly conscience
Will be ejaculated,
Climax for a price.
Crime and lust to be entwined on sheets of obscenity.
Away from the bar
On the streets
The slut is unleashed,
Angel of seduction and child of Jezebel.
Face painted to mask her
With long nails, to prey on men with
Pregnant pockets. Yet willing prey.
Breasts ripe and full
Hanging loose, to feed
The malnourished eyes of men,
Feeding their lust.
As wiggling buttocks
Tempt the contrite heart to neglect
The promise of penance
And reap the pleasures of orgasmic lures.
Beehive Otukpa! Must stereotypes be proven right?
NOTE: Otukpa is a town in Benue State, Nigeria.
You cast a spell of
Darkness on earth
And unleashed the elements of evil
Light needs resuscitation;
Now your reign is supreme.
The wry luminescence of the moon
Fools me not.
Your grip, I can’t eschew,
Stealthy like a cat.
I can’t tell the figure of a friend from
A nocturnal lord in the dark.
Black, black, blackness.
Mask of evil.
The dead turn in their graves.
The footsteps of lost souls
Chirping, hooting, mewing.
The fabrics of a mysterious garment.
In a mighty stride of hope,
I close my eyes. Sleep . . .
Paschal Amuta writes from Ilorin, Kwara State, Nigeria. He is a biochemist upon whom the Muse has bestowed the ability to paint pictures with words. His hobbies include surfing the internet, writing, and reading. Wole Soyinka is his favorite writer. He goes by the moniker “Muse Son” on the Internet.