Posted in Poetry

The gravity of grafitti – wild hate singing on wide walls

By Noel Ihebuzor


Naming is dangerous, cheap

prejudice and hate,

foul the skies

with clammy paws and febrile strokes

spraying lurid ugliness

on the frames of non-consenting city walls,

obscene images and messages,

spewing and strewing hate and hurt

internal rot, riots and rages uncaged, intrusions,

extrusions ugly as rape, ragged, raging

Seeds of discord sow, soon sprout

creeping, spreading, spawning like

poisonous parasitic fungi on tired urban walls

revealing the jungle and darknesses within.

Their message?

Hate, discord and despair,

sad triplets, their grips cloud vision,

clog hearing and choke reason

as they slowly suck their victims

to ever resounding and noisy hollowness!


***Prompted by SLD’s Cultural Grafitti

Cultural Graffiti

Posted in Poetry

For the Sun Child

By Noel Ihebuzor


Inert the child lies,

bathed in blood,

still and silent,


the silence of the ward

broken by the mother’s aching sobs



long labour had drained her,

almost turning her blood blue,

till eventually the blade

 brought relief and pain,


baby was curled, drained

 cord twisted and twined

around a narrow neck,

life slowly choked by the connection

that had linked them

and nourished,


the emptying evening drags

as she sits and sobs

imagining how this life

she had known in kicks and movements

would have looked

had the cord that nourished

not also extinguished

pondering this mystery of failed procreation

where lives are twined forever,

scars remain after departures,


sadness slowly strangling her soul,

like a cord, the pains of an empty womb

 now more acute

as her soul bleeds

above and below the lines of suture.


****For the SunChild who lost her baby, and who felt that the sun had gone out! Be strong, Tashie, Ndo!


Posted in Uncategorized

Juanita During

By Noel A. Ihebuzor

If my tongue does not move to mourn you

it is not that I am now dumb

sorrow like a furnace has dried up the dew

that freshens this soul, now numb

inside me all is dry, parched

save moist eyes from whence sorrow

tumbles down to an earth drenched

in the blood of a suddenly closed tomorrow


Juanita, if you could hear me

broken now, forlorn me

my wooden tongue stuck to my palate, me

throat dried, cracked and broken, me


If you could decode my silent sobbing,

you would sense my inner voice,

linked with a thousand others, hurting

wailing and railing at failed social services

in a continent that is yet to learn to rise and live

mourning a star departed

on the morning before her arrival


***** I got news yesterday PM of  Juanita’s death. Juanita was/is a colleague, friend, soul mate, poet and one with whom I shared several intellectual coffees and visions for inclusive global development. Now, she is gone..and what pains most is that this death could have been avoided! Sleep well, Junaita…Juanitissima as I would tease you! 

Posted in Poetry

A song for the hanged


by Noel Ihebuzor 

After the next hanging


The rope swings in slow narrowing tiring circles

Stretched taut

under the weight of the stretched and twisted neck

The empty body dangles and swings,

emptied of dreams and desires,

Voided of life 

an inert piece dangles at the end of the rope,

in tortured peace

silent and silenced, limp and swaying

The peace of the hanged,

all flesh and bones but no spirit

The peace in this place of reward and retribution 

is broken by the oozing damp smell of fear

from the hanged in the last moments of surrender

and the stench of human waste

from the enlarging dark stain



In far away places,

the assured nods of the righteous mighty

celebrate the hanging justice

limping on a club-foot


Justice looks down at the hanging body,

dismissive, conscience assured,

any hanging doubt white washed

the broken body now forever blind to human justice,

its spirit now free surveys the hangman, the jury

the just and the strong, the clever and learned,

cocooned in their certainties

in an arena peopled by uncertainties

equations, assumptions, hazy and fuzzy 



The bold gold pens in the heavily ringed hands

of the wigged and the learned indifferent 

sketch clever curvy lines, circles and boxes

on the ever shifting fine sands of justice

in widening loops and areas

that will soon box in and entangle the feet of former allies

soon to be declared guilty

and soon to be consigned to the waiting rope,

soon the winds will wipe away the fine sketches in the sand

whilst an indifferent world looks on



Soon another old alliance will be dissolved,

a former thug is judged expendable

buried crimes exhumed with care,

entangling evidence amassed,

misdeeds recalled and retold in minutiae..

and another guilty is hurried away

to an encounter with ropes that stretch

and to the final stretcher


before, after and beyond the last,

the first and the next hanging,

let no tears be shed for the hanged,

the twisted neck

nor for the hanging world, justice stretched

rather let the ears of the world

be flooded with the song of blind bats and deaf owls