Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Behind the cattle kraal

Behind the cattle kraal
Against the velvet black of her skin
The moon illuminated light
A dim glow like a beacon in the night
Her breast on my palm did lay
Surprisingly heavy in such a slim figure
And the scent of opening flowers
Competed with the odor of her virgin flesh

harvest for mama

For my dream…
The summer heat of the day
Was for my mother
The filthy gnat -mad field
Was for my mother
The bone-cracking labor of the woods
Was for my mother
The life of shelling corns
Was for my mother
Romping deep in decaying slims
Was for my mother
The work of the mill
Was for my mother
The weight of grains
Was for my mother
The sweat and stink of the field
Was for my mother
The cruel hiss of the whip
Was for my mother
The groan of the dying
Was for my mother
The roar of the Mississippi
Was for my mother
The burden of chains
Was for my mother
The farm of grain
Was for my mother
The stench of the field
Was for my mother
The yelling note of the overseer
Was for my mother
No never again
Will I be the slave
Because of my mother

the overture of an Esan son


The shade of desire is evident
When you watch eyes following
Water pouts wetting the blouse
Of an Edo maiden in the river road

The poet in love knows these best
Lift her bodily within this script
And praise her for my manhood stance
As an outlet of mans savage quest

These poems whispered the tempters rite
At a time when sexual desire followed me
Something the bible called bloom of youth
Like anger in silence translated by the body
When the lines of arches were at their peak

11
The picture in an artistic abandons
Conditioned by the gazelle neck
On her head it swings and sway
A stance of many dances

The scenes that tasked much attention
Like the wrapper around her flank
Unpadded feet on the dust they trod
Echoes the overture of an Esan son


111


the delicate flanks shows elastic in pants
The daring eyes flaunts the police line
Such contemplation papa warned me about
Trying to restrain me with a muscular thigh

The red lip gauge fanning the flame
Like squashed roses red as wine
A pout of blood colored my mind
As a savior died for this sinner in me
Tempting me through the erotic faith

The water pot goes in and out with me
Walking by the stream or the water ways
Or by the narrow streamlet were the land
Were green or by the creek were the hills were steep
Like my shadow it traced a part of me
A life destined on the African woman
The shade of desire is evident
When you watch eyes following
Water pouts wetting the blouse
Of an Edo maiden in the river road

The poet in love knows these best
Lift her bodily within this script
And praise her for my manhood stance
As an outlet of mans savage quest

These poems whispered the tempters rite
At a time when sexual desire followed me
Something the bible called bloom of youth
Like anger in silence translated by the body
When the lines of arches were at their peak

11
The picture in an artistic abandons
Conditioned by the gazelle neck
On her head it swings and sway
A stance of many dances

The scenes that tasked much attention
Like the wrapper around her flank
Unpadded feet on the dust they trod
Echoes the overture of an Esan son


111


the delicate flanks shows elastic in pants
The daring eyes flaunts the police line
Such contemplation papa warned me about
Trying to restrain me with a muscular thigh

The red lip gauge fanning the flame
Like squashed roses red as wine
A pout of blood colored my mind
As a savior died for this sinner in me
Tempting me through the erotic faith

The water pot goes in and out with me
Walking by the stream or the water ways
Or by the narrow streamlet were the land
Were green or by the creek were the hills were steep
Like my shadow it traced a part of me
A life destined on the African woman

Thursday, May 04, 2006

a plea for SUDAN to writers

Theme in a dominion of pure opposition
Horrific scenes with no chance of peace
like them my childhood involved neglect
My puberty entailed poverty disputation
My adulthood was rooted in Niger delta
with all this in mind you assumed right
It was no wonder I knew what I write
Am not in Sudan but have burnt candles
Chalks on a slate to tell of poetic treasons
By reducing them to abstractions and wiles
The yelling, the screaming, it never did cease
My vocation has turned it to self-mutilation.
In an attempt to release inner frustration
Seeking a "Sudanese Poems" and stories
Something more important that rhymes
above the mistake of looking in the mirror
ignorant if we think we could never be in that place
the CNN talk about Theme of underdevelopment
To wash their hands of the “sudden death”

Please do not turn from the grave
And from the mound beside it
The smell of damp earth and rotten matter
Calling to mind, creatures once flesh
Please do not turn from the grave
Of corpse descending on the uncaring earth
And the cemetery of mourners
Exploding over headstones
Please do not turn from the grave
From the sod beneath
Of beetles, worms and little things
Bedding with these of whom we cry

Please comment at
www.tribalpoetry.blogspot.com

Thanks
Urdeen Sylvester
Administrative officer
Bells university of technology
Ogun State
Nigeria
08052130879