By Noel Ihebuzor
Swirling and howling
senseless whirlwind of savage
rage, sowing chaos
and terror
on a trail strewn with
destruction
force of waste, courage
will faze, tame and chain your rage
and prevail at last
Destruction and healing
by Noel A. Ihhebuzor
The pounded flaked skin
of earth floats scattered wide by
nature’s raw rage, slashed
gashed by savage blows
stabbed and pummelled she bleeds tears
littered with debris
amid bobbing wrecks
here and there, hope stands stubborn
set to heal the earth
poetry in motion!
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!
there is love
we cross oceans or continents
to meet, finally
& love we stumble over
sleeping in doorways
comfortable, familiar
the magic in it is not so much
where it is found, or how
but where we let it lead
& wherever that is
i want to go there with you
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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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!
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**
Reflections 