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.

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