November 2018 Vol. III No. IX
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International Poetry الشعر শ্লোক ကဗျာ ליבע ਪਿਆਰ өлүм
African Poetry with guest editor Michael R. Burch
Ogogoro
Today I sing the chorus
Of men who know your worth
And tread the path of the reckless.
Friend of the aggrieved and
Companion of the lonely,
Ogogoro today I sing your praise.
We have poured libations and
Relived the lives of our ancestors
Down our gullets.
When you anoint my tongue
My taciturn lips become a gushing tap
And morale is again accentuated.
Ogogoro, you have defeated your abusers,
Rubbishing and rubbing them
On the ground. Unable to go home, some
Have passed their nights in the gutters,
As lonely wives quit their vigil at half past three.
Volatile and harsh, Ogogoro has no time for secrets.
Kiss and tell,
Tell as you kiss.
Pure and innocent like a virgin bride,
You have no intention to corrupt.
But the greedy insists on meeting his Waterloo.
Ogogoro, how can you be this good,
Yet my liver decries our friendship?
NOTE: This is a poem about alcohol.
Crescent Moon
Old crescent Moon,
Friend from a distant past,
In the wilderness of my heart
Streams of nostalgia flow from a
Glorious past . . .
Stories from the sage,
Nights of late suppers,
Breezes that brought peace,
Witnesses of relegated dark
And many others
All under your watch.
But today it is different:
One still night
And a lonely man
Faraway from home
Keeps vigil with you.
Our Massacre
There,
Where I stood,
Unknowing witness of
Impending disaster,
I saw how
Your encroachment spelt
Our doom.
One nation,
So we thought, and
Allowed you passage to
Our niche.
The whiteness of your beast-pelt
Fooled us partly.
Gullible we!
Thinking, cows only eat grass and drink water.
But you came trampling,
Trampling on the reeds of our life.
Now the crows of doom
Have perched on our forest
Canopies.
And night told the tale
Of our bloodshed.
Dawn brings the vultures
That haunt the dying,
As streams of blood
Form a confluence
With the village river.
From the hilltop, where
I hid, tears traveled the
Distance to my cheek.
I am witness to our massacre.
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.