Best Nationhood Poems
A right to free movement
A right to live
Where we want
Should be our perogative
We should not feel that we can not roam
Or decide to set down new roots
Or to find a new home.
Borders are a man made concept
Nothing to with nature or creations set up
They were created by those who wish to rule
Making it easy for them control
Dividing people into smaller groups
Then instilling within them a tribal instinct,
Selling them an identity of nationhood
Proud to march under flags and anthems
Creating many individual races
This started back as further than the dark ages
Almost since the dawn of man
A flaw that may see us all dammed
Unless we begin to evolve back into a state
The we started off as
Just one race
That allows everyone to share
And move around the planet
Sharing cultures, faith and love
Sharing the wealth of which there's more than enough
Working in communities to create much more
One mass co-operative force
Respecting the resources of this earth
Not just exploiting it for all its worth
But nurturing and using permaculture to grow
The foundations of the seeds we grow
And fostering tolerance between us all
Building a peace that is eternal
Putting an end to war through self rule
Existentialism becomes the new tool
Of being your own authority
Showing kindness and compassion to all
This is my dream I share with you all
One race
One love
One peace is may call.
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
Well organized organisms are wary of defense
these shields defy all odds to justify the integrity of our borders
the enemy’s need to conquer and the drive to dominate
is stopped b’cos with the men in uniform, great cities are fortified.
Sworn to be dedicated back room boys
their sacrifices have made livelihood well simplified,
every soldier’s fall magnifies our strength and existence
each and every salute dignifies the country’s reputation.
The quest to penetrate border and envelope lands are questioned
b’cos with the last drop of blood, they’ll nullify all antigens
placed as utmost priority, even the ants can comprehend
nothing can therefore falsify the commitment of these men.
A nation’s defense scales its survival
every victory intensifies each citizen’s patriotic passion
a country’s posterity lies on each sweat-soaked uniform,
their mortality is crucified, while someone else-glorified.
The oneness of the country can testify
with every of its citizens fully satisfied.
Diplomacy has kept the battle field’s frequency modified
but history of victories already beautifies our coat of arm
With the structure of nationhood so diversified,
the zenith of their zeal has kept us unified
the globe has been notified of such a powerful drive,
keeping our enemies and rivals completely horrified.
Started from King Macedon
Dividing and conquering people
Come Julius Caesar and Napoleon Bonaparte
The tactic survived today
They created of nations from the states.
Sulu archipelago has been divided
Nationhood superseded statehood
The statehood gone forever
The imagined nation comes to emerge
Made the archipelago comes to worst.
They claim to own a nation
While the name in the basic law is foul
The name comes during colonization
They have their own those times
Cannot they use their own name?
KK-210615
As she bleeds, she heals
As she pleads, she feels
As she breastfeeds, she builds
As she hugs, she guides
As she nags, she teaches
As she nurses, she nurtures
As she cleans, she cares
As she cooks, she raises
She raises newborns into childhood
She raises daughters into womanhood
She raises sons into manhood
She raises women into motherhood
She raises men into fatherhood
She raises parents into parenthood
She raises sisters into sisterhood
She raises brothers into brotherhood
As she is a rock, she is strong
As she is woman, she is never wrong
As she is mother, she cries
As she is vulnerable, she protects
As she is peace, she loves
As she is intuitive, she plans
As she is beautiful, she attracts
As she is powerful, she leads
She leads children into adulthood
She leads adults into grandparenthood
She leads priests into priesthood
She leads bishops into sainthood
She leads angels into godhood
She leads kings into kinghood
She leads neighbours into a neighbourhood
She leads nations into nationhood
I HAVE A DREAM A REAL DREAM OF FANTASY A DREAM OF TRAGEDY A DREAM THAT I HOPE FOR TO
HELP OUR WEARIED NATION A NATION THAT SINKS DEEP BELOW THE REACH OF NATIONHOOD THE PEOPLE
ARE CRYING AND BEGGING FOR A CHANGE WHEN WILL THAT CHANGE COME I SEEK TO KNOW IT NEEDS TO
COME FOR MANY HAVE TRIED AND LO HAVE FAILED ACHIEVING A DREAM THAT HAS NEVER BEEN MADE
The bars are empty,
the streets deserted
and the gloom which sorrounds the nieghbourhoods,
thickened.
Belatedly the wind mormured,
the trees sighed
and the birds looked on in silence,
.........as quiet as despair.
Inside the homes,
dis-believing folks gathered in silence
before radio and t.v sets,
to be bathed by concerted token of lies of freedom
and nationhood.
I waited all day.
None clapped.
None sang,
nor any danced for joy.
The hands that clapped
are withered,
the voice fainted,
and the feet are everywhere in chains.
All is quiet on Nigeria`s independence day.
For this nation and people
that we bought freedom
with our life and soul,
we have been cheated of all the best in life
.......by the same evil leaders
we allowed to live.
Question frequently asked by
those who did not join the liberation struggle
Nothing. When we realized you weren't with us in exile
We invented a rainbow nation but lightning struck it
Shattered it into the trails of our political rush
Sweat and tears and blood in
Absurd abundance
And crazed we smelt the odour of betrayal.
We only know that freedom sang in us
Everything. We went into exile in search of a new life
Clinging to our hope, hungry for freedom
We'd had enough discrimination and suffering
To last a lifetime
And so we believed with all our hearts
That if we fought we would all become masters
In a classless society. Patriots were thus born
On battle fronts and in camps.
We also believed we were
Turning life into revolution
And creating the first semblance of nationhood
We never gave up the dream of returning home
Dreamed so hard that even in dungeons and prisons we
Never stopped talking to ourselves
Nothing. We geared the liberation struggle and locked all
Together into concentration camps. There was no escape
We gathered many people incapable of free survival, insulated
From the grim reality, each person in himself helpless
The comradeship was closed and we laboured
To make a getaway, into the national image, into a new
Dialogue with ourselves and our brethren at home
Many, thus, gained fame
In the way of great corruptors
Retiring to the African Union
To cultivate grand corrupt-schemes
In the name of freedom, the people and nationhood
Their continuing praises make them our liberators
Whose many words are believed
By the many who have not one.
Everything. A struggle less recognizable each year
In a pattern called war
We too were a rare
Pattern. As we wandered down
The freedom paths.
Nothing. Behind the waving flag
Is a letter we hid
It was brought to you on Independence Day
By a courier from exile
Comrade, we regret to inform you that
Your father, mother, daughter, son, relative
Died in action.
Our exile was an eager meaninglessness
We knew it had to come to an end
But it was the liberation struggle
And you weren't there
Sold Out Lilies.
They are angels and goddesses well betrayed
Their protégés so diverted by other matters ,
Their hearts led astray by the naivety of minds,
And their hands moving rampant in their constant
Confusion contained continuously in assured future
Suffering ,and without respite or restraint or remorse .
They are in millions and ubiquitous bearing their mystery,
Taking their giant strides with their tiny feet unguarded ,
Wobbling without strength or stamina and skill to sway
Tomorrow lights toward the destiny bosom as their
Predestination continually poke at calamity's abode -
Unknowingly tugging at the white grisly bear's paws.
And many of the called leaders continue to practise
Modern sorcery, jingoism and higher sophistry with
Shocking impunity, with no slightest interest in that
Little girl hawking water on that dangerous highways ;
The teenage girl that died from abortion was just thirteen
Has been raped by trust long before that four thugs will
Defile her that lonely evening at the glare of guidance.
A nation that delights in messing about with its children
Enjoy holding its young ransom for whatever reason,
Is devoid of wisdom, honour and decorum; an enemy
Of that tomorrow and of nationhood for this duo's fate
Hangs firmly on the vibrant and the purposeful young;
But will tomorrow wait for the moment to congeal for direction.
Apparently, they ruled with an iron fist
In the chilling jaws of Terror
Of men intoxicated for the kill
Salivating for blood of kindred
Free for the rape and extortion
In the bastion of Kismayo, Port City of Somalia
The crooked reasons of eating oneself
In a serial bloodbath of a nation
Usurping its nationhood
With straps of IEDs on their back
Women and children convinced duty-bound
To kill themselves for their innocence
And live the glory abound
But never to taste the fruits of their sacrifice
See, what has remained of the Port City
Except for the glaring ruins
Battered to a city of Charcoal Warehouses
For the shanties to scorch in the sun
In a neighbourhood of orphans and widows
And the maimed bearing the signatures!
Oh no! but wait,do you rely on your unborn for a future?
We’re never uncivil,
But sewage, it’s raw,
Pumped over the innocent.
It’s displayed and sprayed
Over every infant.
We’re uncivil all the time.
We’re never unschooled,
But the teaching is stopped,
Taken from kid’s minds.
It’s hidden and forbidden,
Every child is blind.
We’re unschooled all the time.
We’re never immoral,
But justifying a rape
Of a five year old boy,
The kid is blamed, is shamed
For being a toy.
We’re immoral all the time.
We’re never unjust,
That woman who got raped,
Raped by a guard,
Is locked in a cell, a living hell,
Stands alone in the prison yard.
We’re unjust all the time.
Each day we hurt and violate,
We remove and isolate,
We turn our nationhood from fair
To despair,
We create distrust and disgust,
We need to be civil, schooled, moral and just.
Hear the muttered snivel of our kids
Puked away to gloom, twinge and disease
Wrecked by creeds
To fulfill an antique mores
Whose ruin is beyond scientific darn
See the boulevards and the creeks
Before sight are male Mal-nourished toddlers
In rag togs, blistered feet, beseeching alms
And ingesting the remnants
From the poorest buffet
They toil in tackle capacity
Inversely allied to their weight
From sun rise to sunset
To earn much less than you
See the boulevards
How they stir; bunched
On the trot to any kind of dub
To good and to evil
Death becomes a familiar friend
At first light and at dark
From toil, food, water and sleep
Such a despicable way of live
But then the espoused antique mores, woes
Regenerated by ills of the society
To the blanketed vision of the moneyed
To plunge empathy and impious reliance of all
Can this be our way of life?
Trouncing fortunes to antique mores?
Reticence to rascality?
And nationhood to meanness?
Our dear nation, virtuous and seated in an impious sit
Surrounded by constant chaos of defiances
After all this years of nationhood we are still not
Sure of our future as a nation
Oh dear our precious Nation
You are clothed in an aura of corruption
It as been in our precious land with passion
In every administration, a garment we wear like fashion
An assiduous act that justice can never prevails nor won
It's been long since we are living with this trauma.
More than hundreds of outlaw in our domicile
Only God can hear our groan, we are fainting in our misery
A sect of tyrants that foray like the terror
In the Parliament they glare and disrupt
They are the ambitious tyranny
They are set of oligarchy that form kleptomaniac Government
Oh! Dear precious nation your name has been dipped in mud
Who shall we blame? For this unwanted sorrow
Who are you that mumble in the dark?
Who are you that draw your veil across the sky?
The country long yearning to dance to it tunes and rejoices
Oh! Set of antihero that battle the Harmony of this great land
I mean the one who steal fruits to feed his family
I mean the one who eat the country as the termite eat the woods
I mean the one who eat from the bane of others
Curroption as entangle our blissful tasty mansions
Public dispensation shouldn't be home of food
Yesterday was just a mere nightmare
Tomorrow is a drab vision we can no longer hold
We are Looking for hope in an hopeless hand
This is our corrupted Nation.
I know when you abase me at kunan, was sniffy day for me.
My people at that time were surrounded by threat and poverty.
Know it they are dearest for me.
I warn you sacrilegious nation,
Hacklers are arriving to hack your appearence.
Get lost before with helish creations from me.
You hang my pious sons like,
Maqbool and guru.
Your aim lost itz fame.
Thousands guru hold firmly my flag on me.
I swear as a Nation of paradise.
My whomb is full of heroes like Burhan.
They lustrate your illegal occupation on me.
I remember the bright faces of my martyrs.
You have to slouch your sloppy face.
Libertrians are alive to rip u away from me.
Your thinking is what? I don't care.
Remember my Nationalists and their nationhood.
You have flee, flee away from me.
You seek pardon, Alas you are not pardonable.
What you poach? I don't have dearth of sacrificers
They love dearly, i love them and they love me.
Your art makes jhelum red by blood of innocents,
Remember, i am paradise .
I am with pious and they are with me.
........ Saim.....
The Herder
Words are racing by as a yacht making blue water white.
Should I now think in nautical terms, say, a bad seascape
painting of crested waves, which looks like clotted cream?
When I’m thinking of sheep that feed on sun yellow grass
on a field dotted with olive trees? Bedouins unlike cowboys
feel no disgrace looking after them. Biblical peace, that is
before walls were erected and common land absorbed in
the name of nationhood. I know naught, land has changed
hands for thousands of years and will do so again, but I pity
the olive tree it takes a long time bearing fruit, when it does
the walls will be used as building stuff for modest homes.
Peace will be restored, but not forever humanity is, even if
it talks about it, not made for peacefulness. The man with
the biggest flock of sheep will always want more land.