By David Ogana
Sunday, October 26, 2013.
THE TURNING POINT
War is a silly pea, to farm on my prow
Death seems like a mote sang by these owl
Cawing upon that virgin twig,
Before mothers tent
Nay, Where the most loved are milled.
When mothers breast keel,
The ancestral flute quail
Souls as coins tossed at random
Elope the very birth of vintage.
When daffodil calls home, tell her,
They had journey to these kingdoms
Which paths I had not trodden?
But you must stay awaken,
When aegis calls home tonight
Tell her am in the wilderness,
Among the thickets of trees
There we shall dine together as kin
In the wedge of violin.
The crow of deities in purgatory,
Night and day lusting these ogle
As libation to a god, as cowries to a man
Today, I see these two taking a sacred super,
As stub of the last super.
Alas! These cloves flinch with a weep,
Meeting at cross-roads spell our dying dreams
Here, we make turn to view our righteousness and differences
The turning point, Our turning point.
Quails of a long walk in January ,
O, I'm lost in the mud, in her voices
The foot-sprint my kindred left for me to follow is lost in the rain
How do I face these clouds,
How do I wrestle with thunders.
SONGS OF A SLAVE
Songs charioted by a sickening cello,
My psalm is the choir of market peddlers
A song for a slave, singing slavery
Yet the chorus i must sing should surpass a minstrel
Ah! at winter my wharf is made a birch ,
When shall my poems be sung at open-door
My songs had wandered like a flee
Through the frozen cities
My hymns are apparition that comes from the burning grass
Brood of knell that come from broken spirit
These deadly images, that comes from the lecherous songs of dust.
The're my songs as note of a
Wandering weaver bird
Gathering rain for nest
My songs are the paintings of eve
A deaf tongue feeding pasture.
My courtyard combed with musk
Of fossil and the firefly
A broom to mourn her soles,
Before my tomb sleeps on lettuce
As lizards squall the walls.
Ah! i do not weary for myself,
My wearies is of the gods
When i'm gone, none shall worship
At their stinking shrines than a
These flowers go deaf,
My umbel in the wedge
Crude lettuce broils in my vein
These Lento flowers go to praise
To truffle into my hollow grove
David Ogana is a Nigerian poet and writer.