poetry in motion!

The Scribbler

Dancing in the black tempest,
With a wild heart I’ll kiss you.
Soaking every drop of rain,
A strong little love will brew.

With the storm thundering away,
I’ll hold you tightly in my arms.
With the clouds laughing away,
I’ll make your world full of charms.

A striking thunderstorm fierce,
And the wind blowing in its full might.
Will make you feel my love for you,
As I’ll be clutching you so tight.

I’ll hold your hand giving assurance,
Of forever love and togetherness.
You’ll look into my eyes with a hope,
And a life-long faith you’ll get with no stress.

Seeking solace you’ll stay back with me,
You’ll know there’s no world without us.
I’ll give you the world’s best feeling,
With a naughty mess and a little fuss.

A lightning brighter than the sun,
Will strike us down from dust to dust.
Yet our love will remain…

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Now this is poetry! Grips you till the last line!

Belated Words

Let my bones be better traveled after flesh has attended

and hindered.

Let them rattle on a string around the neck of creatures,

bold and roaming,

with beast hair, polished stones and a herbaceous plait;

charms healing.

Let my ribs protrude at a jaunty angle from plains, barren

and desiccated;

let them, though broken and hollowed, pick sonatas from hot

meandering winds

and with stealth and over-the-shoulder looks let the locals

gather to listen.

Let my femur be a gnaw bone for a she-wolf full bellied

and contented;

let her trot her bouncing-rear gait, muzzle lowered, wary

eyes intent,

to her suckling pups to share; accepting yelp-thanks with

long tongue caresses.

Let my skull be a prop held and caressed by sweaty hands

by those possessed;

let them hold my diminished, polished visage and declare,

“Alas, poor poet..”

and recite true the words of those aiming to discern order

from disorder.

Let…

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A good read!

Africa is a Country (Old Site)


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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Song of a Child Bride – a duet

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,
and human
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

Mother, father
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! 🙂 

http://susandanielseden.wordpress.com/2012/10/06/duet-for-the-girl-child/#comment-12719

A call to action for the girl child!

Susan Daniels Poetry

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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ChildMother and Wife

By Noel A. Ihebuzor

the child as mother

smothers childhood

the murdered mind weeps

when torture is garbed as culture,

a deadening deaf culture

deaf to pleas and protests

pleas of despair

the despair of the innocent,

thrashing like fish  

trapped in a net,

whimpering and weeping

the lonely lament of a lamb,

her neck gripped in the jaws

of a predator, depraved,

blood spurting from ruptured aperture,

victim’s pain and slow death

contrasting with victor’s rapture

the shivering of the struggling lamb

before the slaughterer’s blade,

as dreaded night falls,

in vain searching the dark world

closing in on her for some light

to brighten her bleak plight and

and lift her soul,

finding none

 

heiress of pain,

fragile limbs grabbed, groped and gripped

by coarse grasping hands,

the repeated shattering pain  as tender

flesh is gashed by hard hot flesh,

the happy husband

invades soft developing chambers

savours with selfish relish tender flesh,

matters little

this maturing and developing frame

now numb

matters little childhood

now broken

Matters least innocence stolen

forever lost

as forced intrusions, crude invasions,

desecrate unfolding sacred spaces

the empty victor’s gain,

the victim’s pain, our collective shame

 

Now she carries a new life in her, her child,

herself a child, drenched in confusion,

12, 13 seasons ago,

she was like this life just beginning to form,

now daughter of pain,

tied down by the glue cobwebs of tradition, vice-like

 

 

Is this meet the sacrifice of the innocent?

Is it meet that marriage mars childhood

mangling a girl child’s today and her tomorrow

destroying her innocence

in the season of her youth

making a mother of one

in need of mothering

smothering her hopes, happiness and health,

freezing rich potentials

limiting possibilities from unfolding

all because fevered callous hands,  

propped by culture selfishly reach out in greed

to harvest and appropriate fruits,

tender fruits plucked in their bud

to feed coarse souls

in collusion with parents

in search of quick gain

on such emptying and wasting plain

deaf to the cries of pain

of childhood smothered,

of dreams denied

** raw…will refine later – the subject is a delicate and very painful one**

Flying after a Cream Dream

By Susan L. Daniels and Noel A. Ihebuzor

 

i have flown too
pushing off with one foot
and coasting thermals with hawks

but after i am above trees, dispersing clouds
skipping over jet trails–
never in dreams have i found a way

back to down but opening my eyes

and waking
up, finding it gone
and wishing that magic to
resume spinning silk threads;
tangling delight so lightly

sometimes, you wake up
at the wrong time in a dream,
floating in its amber jet stream,
at a point of its greatest promise
as it danced along its self-willed
and illogical trajectory…
and alas “revus interruptus”

we balance that fine-brushed line
where dream and fantasy kiss

and then in vain you conjure a continuation
by locking down unfurled eyelids,
casting babalawo and ifa beads
only to meet “resumption access denied”
boldly staring at you opaquely
like the negatives of a black and white picture
from behind your tightly shut eyes!

if wishes dance, flashing silver
like a cloud of minnows past catching
that is what these dreams do, fleeting and fleeing.
such wild gifts resist forced forging;
though we beg the bringer,
she swims away with them, arcing
behind our eyes, unwilling.  

Unyielding to our anxious silent pleas,
ignoring our favored sketched dream scenes and sets,
our preferred casts, co-stars and shooting locations,
smiling, she denies us our feverish aspirations
to statuses of dream directors and procreators

can she midwife one child over another?
if it is love, or flying we ask for
she will bring us falling dreams
or kissing from mouths that differ from desire;
yes, we thirst, and take both the vinegar and sweet
dropped on our lips,
accepting not what is wanted but what is given

***Talk about spontaneous generation!  This started as a response to a “dreams” poem by Susan and bloomed from there. Susan and I (Susan voice  is  italicized here) cooked this up in between Susan getting ready for a teacher’s conference at her son’s school in New York and I was taking a short break at a workshop in Morogoro, Tanzania.

Love

Noel A. Ihebuzor

 

Love with that

love that gives

as it lives

 

Love with that

love that forgives

and reprieves

 

Love with that

love that conceives

of goodness in fullness

 

Love with love

that deceives not

but overflows with truth

 

Love with that

love that believes

breathes and lives

 

Love with that

love that heaves and

freezes lavas of hate

 

Love with a love

that dwells in the present

freed from the prison of the past

 

Love with a love

that flowers our today gaily

and seeds our tomorrow

with fresh dreams

 

love with a love so full

that it fills our today with songs,

links our present and our past

hollows the past of bitterness

filling the morrow with positivity and possibilities

 

love with a smile and smile

@naitwt