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Oludipe Samuel Poem
And
somewhere
far off on
hills,
Dwelled
deep upon
a summit,
a dappled
ground
A cock will
again
crow to
his mates,
whisper
To the
world: in
earnest
plea or
sweetness
And
soothe a
air around
and tumult
Kindled
from the
market's
navel and
someplace
Off the
ocean's
empty belly
And be it
not sultry
darkness
dies,
Flatulent
chirps
risen from
scant
bushes
blare
Against
the sun's
rising
But for
ressurection
that
drowns life,
A stuff
which
existence
be
In the
misted
dawns and
sun-
scotched
grooves,
Sky's
twitching
eye to a
swarm
Of
speckled
wings. Let
this throw
To the
world a joy
sublime, a
feel divine
A joy of
everything;
a joy of
flesh__
Copyright © Oludipe Samuel | Year Posted 2012
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Details |
Oludipe Samuel Poem
Uncertainty, 'grand potentate',
swathes my lure
For renewed insight. I dropp
upon
My groove, primed, to settle my
lot. Help!
Modest citizen. Our battles,
girthed
For selfish intent, lunges at your
faceless sense.
We have rasped our own
reasons from
Bullets impassive, gratifying bills
Upon your waters of slackness
tethered slow
He, skirmished hearer to define
this
Wit-flourished folly, clasps
sweaty palms,
Murmurs chrysalis of half-
hearted wishes:
I slack to lack, vision spires for
tatty hope
Tosses my insight upon starved
ambiance. Help!
No thrill, no ornate flight for
thought,
Just one 'grand potentate' nods
frugal,
Spreads fancy upon polished
strips
We saw you lose route upon
hundreds and
Tin and columbite- we glimpsed
sprouts
Of your self-righteous mutiny
kindled
By flat angst.
We falter at your gates of
defiance.
Fifty-two fetid years, freshly dour
for me,
Turns my flesh to scales. Forgive,
'grand potentate'
To fling at me abundant pellets,
lost or left.
Of grisly death I sniff, brash and
fierce
Fifty-two fetid years flame my
scales
We must fling pellets, but now,
your allies
Must bolt their greed against
your waters, hassled
And strew you nether with
backward tides
A resurrected applause in steep
praise. His cabinet
Indulges my lassitude to forbear
further
Moans and tears
Fifty-two flaming years, will me
not, sheer contortion
Only one stirred heart to fight
along many
Copyright © Oludipe Samuel | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Oludipe Samuel Poem
And if poverty whips,
largely, torments
In her barefaced snort of
withering grievance.
I shall be the one,
mannered by Earth's dog-
wetness,
To garner my broken
possession, murk and bins,
Writhe, clamber steep nigh
moister Earth
From foot of lazy deities,
pick the sacred mound,
Muzzle it deep against my
leaking dereliction birthed
From a heightened
helplessness of obligation
And speak the words of
preserving ardour
From deities' bossom
As trambled Kola lobe and
marooned salt
Earthed for no sprouting in
rushing footfalls,
Prickled, insatiate in the
belly of oblivion
I shall be the praying yam
wholly unearthed
To the feet of a roasting
'adogan'
I shall be the racketeering
prey, jostled
Endlessly in poverty's
meaning play,
Washed- out by riches'
maze
I shall be the mocking
haunt lack tugs
In steep eaves of perceived
redemption.
Copyright © Oludipe Samuel | Year Posted 2012
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