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International Poetry الشعر শ্লোক ကဗျာ ליבע ਪਿਆਰ өлүм

African Poetry with editor Vera Ignatowitsch

The Last Singing Fruit Vendor


His big voice breathes out of the verandahs

hot cobbled streets and living room walls

breaking the songs of cool chats and fogs

from a fat quiet, it catches you

almost as if to say we are all

fools for playing the game.


The beats swing, swim and go away

like zebra calves startled by a gong

urgent to hurry to no place exactly.

He gives an invitation to hear a story

or buy a loaf of something gold to eat together

which invades the sun aired afternoon like the fingers

of Kudzu vines. In the clean light where his song reads

he tattoos a call to Mecca.


Heaving on the shoulders of a summer reflection

past the windows and gates and heat dazed faces

he advertises his slants: apple and pineapple

slices very neatly wrapped

sometimes mangoes or oranges

depending on the season.

He cuts them alone sometimes

in front of them if they ask.


The last silver guardian of the art

keeps giving wide handed gestures

wet and caramelized with smiles and eyes

and words that wind round and back again.

He gives them hell and heaven combined


But they don't run to him now

not with the fever they used to have

not on the same pilgrimage,

but there were some regulars, that kept him pleased.

They paid a few dues and soon they were tucked back

inside their kitchens and verandahs

apples cooling inside their fridges.

The murmur of their cool chats resumed

almost as if to say

we are all fools for playing the old game.


Michael Kang’a is a psychologist who keeps two pet pigeons (Mandy and Mindy) and a dog (Mikhail) who is also a pet. If kitchen gardens count, he's a prolific *sic* small-scale farmer.

Déjà Vu


                    Déjà vu

A touch of yesterday,

A whiff from the yesteryears

Journeys through my nasal tunnel

On this warm afternoon

Of still breezes

And vacant heavens

With chirping sparrows

And fading sorrows.


                     Déjà vu

Everything is the same.

Save the taunting crows

Whose cawing left

Me cowering

On those days of our animosity.


                      Déjà vu

It is almost two years now

Since the bite from typhoid’s fangs

Made me commune with my Relatives of the blessed memories.

I swear! Death — much despised —

Is a patient man;

Not wanting the life of me . . . yet.


Woman’s Sorrow



My life was desolate like the formless earth on which God's feet      forlornly trod. Till

Your candle spotted wax and affixed itself

In my dark world, pushing darkness far behind the dimness.

But You died and my light is put out and darkness returns.

Now my eyes float like vessels on sorrow’s waters.



Baby, last night I had a dream: where you crawled up to me in         bed planting a kiss here and caressing there, while I feigned         being asleep and when you slid into me, I betrayed a moan —       pleasure escaping my lips.

Your thrusts like fusillades of sweetness.

We climaxed simultaneously.

God! It was surreal. But some dreams exist to mock reality.



Sorrow and loneliness are bad company.

So the other day, I bought ratsbane and hemlock;

The former I will chew like a bite of our wedding cake,

While the latter I will gulp like wine,

Then wait in repose for our spirits to unite again in that timeless astral realm where there are no goodbyes . . .


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. Wole Soyinka is his favorite writer. He goes by the moniker “Muse Son” on the Internet.

The 21st Century Man


Before I was born, I heard my father

Worked, and fed his wife, and she was happy.

He hunted, she cooked. She gave birth, he trained harder.

He ruled his home, and like a water lily

She blossomed, and groomed us to love the plain

Of life, and she sang us the songs of hope.

We ate and played and waved at the airplane.


Today I’m a man with a wife. I cope,

But what role I have as man I don’t know:

I read, she reads more; I work, she works more.

Bought her a car and she gave a curt nod—

She’s not laughing and happy like my mom!

Oh! How time has altered the things of life.

The man must learn the new rules of the wife.



Do not inhale the sooting hail of our land.

Our mother’s child has told us a story.

Blood or crude oil? Measured in countless cans

Through endless pipes, drained away our glory.


How fishermen wailed as thick coats of oil

Painted the seas brown: killed all the fishes!

Hear the farmer’s doleful songs! Oh, her soil!

But our mother’s child became the richest.


All the promises painted in the sky

Faded like the night at the smell of dawn.

See the land with only sun of our sons up high

And guiltless, but hanged on November tenth.


Oh! Ogoniland, will you ever be cleaned?

The men who played games left us in this gulf!


A World Without Care


I have seen in life, that the vilest of men

Will prune his garden and have it watered,

But exerts brute force on his fellow man

Conscripts their hearts with zeal unrivaled.


Makes statutes to guard Neptune’s floor, dale

And woodlands, wolves and the snapping twig,

And so the Alps are conserved day by day.

Yet to love a fellow man seems too big.


See how humanity lay in squalour.

In strife rent zones, many more died of famine

Than of guns. Why war if we can’t feed the poor?

If all the sciences poured into those blasts of flame

And harmful things yet to come were instead clothed

With love, the world would never be the same.



Uedum Bianu Yorkuri is a lawyer from Ogoni, in Nigeria. He has written many novels, a drama, short stories, and much poetry. This is his first publication.

Ogoniland 4.jpg
Ogoniland 5.jpg

Images of pollution in Ogoniland, an oil rich region of Nigeria. The Ogoni Nine were a group of nine activists from the Ogoni region of Nigeria who opposed the operating practices of the Royal Dutch Shell oil corporation. Their members included outspoken author and playwright Ken Saro-Wiwa, Saturday Dobee, Nordu Eawo, Daniel Gbooko, Paul Levera, Felix Nuate, Baribor Bera, Barinem Kiobel, and John Kpuine, who were executed by hanging in 1995 by the military dictatorship of General Sani Abacha and buried in Port Harcourt Cemetery.
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