poetry in motion!
Now this is poetry! Grips you till the last line!
A good read!
It is a long time already since the Biafran War (1967-1970) to write a memoir, and it makes me wonder how affective Chinua Achebe’s narrative in The Guardian is to his audience. Achebe’s new book, There Was a Country: A Personal History of Biafra appears to have reopened old wounds and resulted in widespread debate, whether in op-ed columns, on blogs or on social media.
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By Susan L. Daniels and Noel A. Ihebuzor
I am a girl.
Eleven years ago
I came too early for you,
but I was yours
as nothing else was,
and I grew under love
brighter than the sun.
I am still growing. I am green
& unripe fruit, unready
I am a girl,
I long to play, feel
and unfurl. I run after butterflies
I wave after birds in flight
I dwell in innocence
I harvest smiles and stars in all I see
I am a child
my eyes carry hope.
I feel. I dream past this body
and carry in these bones
a life that hums promise
and walks joy
I am a girl,
body, soul and spirit,
not a piece of flesh
not an object for peace
not an object to be priced
I am a girl,
though lately this body bleeds
and these breasts can make milk
I am too young for this business of women
my hips are too narrow to balance a child,
too slender to push one out;
my mind too new to mother another
and I will break beneath a man’s need
my young body if forced to yield will only hurt,
weep in pain and shame
I am a child,
I long for safe spaces
to draw and discover my dreams,
to live them, and to sing, joyful
as I discover the marvels of the world,
my world expanding
I am a child.
I dream of books I have not read
and the only seed I am fit to hold now
are those of the mind, scattered to work deep;
not the body choked with seeds of a man
I must accept but carry in fear and bitterness.
Death will bloom inside my body, not life
if I am planted now
I am child,
not a wife
marriage at my age will drown me
twist my bones
pierce my body
and break my spirit
I am your child.
Your flesh made and fed me;
to send me to a husband
is to send me to a slaughterhouse
where the floor is stained
with the blood of so many cattle
listen to my words, words
eyes speak but mouth cannot;
words my body shouts in trembling
your eyes can hear if they open.
I beg you to answer past my fear
and shield me with your arms
Father and mother
ignore the clutter of culture
spare your daughter this chain of torture
Ignore the clatter of the appeal of gain,
remember our bond of blood
before you cause me pain,
before your decisions tear and shatter my developing body
and eventually spill this innocent blood
Intro to this duet by Susan on her blog – >
**You guys had to know this was coming, right? Noel (regular text) and I (italicized) have created this duet, using the voice of a child. Though it was, as always, a pleasure to weave lines with Noel, the subject is not one that leads to much joy…no matter how talented your duet partner is.
****Let me only add to this intro that Susan’s talent is infectious, and that it has been my luck to be so infected by it! 🙂
A call to action for the girl child!
Morning, guys. As you noticed, Zoe, myself, and Noel have started writing poetry about child marriage (in particular, child brides). I am hoping that there are others of you who have something to say poetically on this issue that you could then link back here, so I could forward them on to Dr. Adebayo Fayoyin to help commemorate the day.
Here is some background information for you (courtesy of Dr. Fayoyin):
Globally, more than one in three young women aged 20-24 years were first married before they reached age 18. One third of them entered into marriage before they turned 15. Child marriage results in early and unwanted pregnancies, posing life-threatening risks for girls.In developing countries, 90 per cent of births to adolescents aged 15-19 are to married girls, and pregnancy-related complications are the leading cause of death for girls in this age group.
Girls with low levels…
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