Best Raffia Poems
They are not from Chiang Mai,
they are a tribal people
who speak a hill language.
They ride through the night
on bicycles to settle at dawn
beside the Ping River.
Girls' unroll rattan mats
squat beside straw hats brimful
with the tang of burgundy chilies
They have vegetables
grown in lime green waters,
parched salty anchovies,
and plump spearheads
of opalescent fish -
all these are bargained for,
bundled in newspaper,
tied with pink raffia.
Our lives cross here.
A few coins dropped into an open palm,
nods and smiles by a river,
a common currency bridging
alien worlds.
STANDING ALL ALONE
THINKING NON BUT ALL
NATURE AND DESTINY AT
ITS BEST
AT WAR BUT WHO WINS
GRIEVE NOT WOMAN
GRIEVE NOT
FOR IS THERE A REASON TO
NO SEED CAN EVER SURVIVE
IN THIS LAND
WHICH YOU’VE NURTURED
PLOUGHED AND TILTED FOR
MANY YEARS
YET NO FRUIT HAS IT EVER
BORE
STOP DREAMING THEN
STOP DREAMING
LOOK HOW YOU LIE SOUR
WITH MILK
YOUR PRIDE OF WOMANHOOD
HAS GIVEN YOU NO PRIZE
SEEDLINGS WOULD YOU
NEVER TRIM NOR PRUN
FOR MOTHER YOU WOULD
NEVER BE CALLED
WHY LET THIS EMPTINESS
RUIN YOU
AND INFERTILITY HOOT YOU
WHILE YOU SIT AND SING
THIS SONG OF MYSTERY AND
MISERY
THOUGH YOUR CALABASH IS
BROKEN
AND YOUR BAMBOO FALLEN
STAND UP AND DANCE IN
AGONY HAPPILY
FOR LIFE ITSELF IS A MIRAGE
THE MORE YOU LOOK THE LESS
YOU SEE
THEN TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTH
OF SACK
AND WEAR YOUR GOWN OF
RAFFIA AND COWRIES MADE
SHAKE TO THE TUNE
THAT LIFE PLAYS FOR YOU
COS’ ONE DAY IT WOULD ALL
END
WHEN ALL THE DRUMS WEARS
AND TEARS
AND NATURE WITH DESTINY
ALL LOSE THE GAME
Quizmasters often test mentalities,
by asking folks to name pluralities,
of things of many different sorts.
Like, soldiers might be called 'cohorts'.
There are 'flights' of geese and jets and stairs,
my socks are sometimes found in 'pairs'.
A young girl's curls could hang in 'bangs',
and crooks might hang about in 'gangs'.
Such gangs could join to form a 'mafia',
alas that only rhymes with 'raffia'.
Apes, as you'd know, can make a 'shrewdness',
could rednecks joined become a 'rudeness'?
And though Collingwood fans are two a penny,
more than one is just 'Too Bloody Many'.
Unless you have been in the same pub or football ground with Collingwood fans, or on the same train or tram or continent, you will never understand.
A man who is yet to find for himself a maiden
Absolute success yet, is he to find.
If a sailor on his compass, found
A permanent route without a storm enclosed,
Thither eternally, his route may be.
A maiden, a sweet thing is
And you, my found maiden of course is
Gibraltar of America, many call thee by
But---------
My maiden laid ashore the golden Sea,
Yore of days, I’ve adored thee.
Tho’ a pauper boy me
---------still, a string of topaz for thy neck
In the stormy and rainy African nights
I labored hard to inherit.
O fair maiden of mine, I respect thee.
A man who respects a lady not
Shouldn’t be blessed with a lump of gold
For he’ll never know its worth,
When a lady,
The unique eximious and exclusively expensive
Heavenly precious stone
--------he had failed to treasure most.
O Quebec! My maiden laid ashore the golden Sea
I’ve always dreamt of hugging thee
Hoping when to Africa, with me you had come
In my mud molded room,
Behind my old raffia patched door
--------on my new wunwuned mat, we’ll both lay;
But now, old age is what I rapidly approach
My head, gray hair will soon arrest
I fear that,
Kissing thy red lips, I may never get to do
And lo! Marrying thee, that as well, I may never do
But even in my heart, when in my 6feet home
I finally lay interred,
The memory and love of thee, still I’ll bear.
My maiden laid ashore the golden Sea
--------incase thy lips before I die
I never get to kiss,
O Quebec! Do Remember Me When I’m Gone.
*SON OF NOBODY*
I was born in the Trenches
In the walls and roof with no fences
Drank from the seasonal rivers
Trust me we knew no povereties
We labour to live and not to gather properties
On the water different catch was our only envies
And when father went hunting
Meaty dinner was sure with my aunties
I was a son of nobody
And i lived with no enemy
Aside hunger I had no worry
Simply respect for my elders
My care for my little brothers
Much love and prayers to my ailing mother
And cold fear to my scolding father
That was my life, a son of nobody
Known by nobody aside my clans
We speak less in in the midst of numbers
Contented in my little
I craved nothing much than stomach
Take no candy from a stranger
Just be nice and pleasant
For the good you do to others
And the pain you inflict on the vulnerable
You'll live to reap the reward before you die
The simple life rules mama taught us
I was a son of nobody
Living to wear danshiki
Dancing with the masquerades
Our joy at the new yam festivals
Dusty feet at the market square
Stamping to the rhythm of the ancient drums
Cheering to the women in aso-oke
Wrapped round their bumpy chests
That was my joy a son of nobody
Under the thatched sheds made from raffia
Where mosquitoes bring no fever
But the angers of the gods pollute the streams with cholera
In my beautiful village where snake venom never kills
But the abandoned diety can cripple the children with polio
Tales of our grandfather's told at moonlight
Hero that fell the elephant with his cap
That was how we wrapped our days
Son of nobody had his lullaby
I'm just a son of nobody
Living my life with no worries
Dreamt of a day I'll be somebody
Meet a princess from ivory
Make plenty children of my own
Whom I'll tell my stories
Here I am a child of many glories
As told in the witch doctor's story
All the talks and thoughts feel funny
Because after the story of the big glory
Here I'm still a son of nobody
At dawn a ********** crowed aloud
The man and women all alike
Woke to the noise and set to pray
Beside the stump, they all did kneel
Pouring libations to their gods
At morn the day was bright to chat
The men and youth all did gather
Talking, laughing really loudly
Calabash filled with raffia wine
Gulping on still, they all lay drunk
At noon they all were still gathered
Around the bushes came great noise
The noise they know to be of war
Topsy–turvy the town did run
Lifeless, they all now lay slaughtered
At dusk there came a dead silence
Calabash broken and wine splashed
The happy noisy town, now gone
The houses now left desolate
Just the cock stood, that broke the day
How come Stephen,
When do you forget defence?
Why don't you hack death with your golden boot?
Do not disappoint me,
Do not let me down Keshi,
Your crown is medal-made;
Roam not with lilliputians
Whose blazer is calico
Whose utensil is mud
Whose bread is shaft and husk
Whose shelter is raffia...
But dwell among the giants
Who parade st. Joseph street in damask
And pop wine in holy Michael Crescent.
There you truly belong,
Flaunt your crown among Moses and Elijahs,
Flirt among Marys and Maras.
Be not a pebble in any ghost's catapult,
You are the Kilimanjaro, who can headbutt?
Be not a pebble in any ghost's catapult;
When the woodpecker pecks all,
Does it also peck banana tree?
Be not a pebble in any ghost's catapult,
You are the anvil, which termite can consume?
No, I will not meet you in dream,
I will not meet you in trance and vision;
Because you gave all you had,
Our tryst shall be Paradise.
Till then and for now big boss:
Head to head, chest to chest, hand to hand;
Knuckle, knuckle, knuckle.
Auf Wiedersehen !
(Dedicated to the memory of my mother Catherine who died June 3, 2011 and was
buried June 24, 2011)
Sleep. Wake. Sleep
Sleep on empty stomach
Food and liquor make the journey
Eat, make Epicurus laugh double for once
Holiness! Is it not about angels and fruits
Eden has grapes and bitters
The tempters line the trees
And chirpy birds blow the flutes
The tempers with long tales and the dragon
There is a golden chair and a golden crown
And a bsket of flowers waiting to waive you in
There the master's table you'll see in the morning
Ulcer and glaucoma have no role to play
So you must eat, launch
And lunch to roost
There Grace waits for his owns
If indeed in the father's house there are many mansions
Why could Richman not easily find a room
Sone, from the master's table think
Analyze, princilpize, study and report
Stone, think as you walk around the dais
Analyze as you sleep. Principlize
Sleep and Sleep
Then look back, look to the corners
Look at the dome and compare with heavensgate
Take note the colors of the priests here and compare
See the dark waters, you did not see there before
See your scions on the front seats
See me, Franco, with the cross of attrition
Flung on me by brothers and sister
See the masquerades, musketeers
See my men dressed in raffia for this Elizbethan epic
See the men of the nights and those of the days
Filed on the right and on the left with Infant Terrible
See the near monks minus opportunity
Hiding their faces and long ghoulish tales
Rolling out muted laughter or pardon
Singing accustomed sonorous tunes for the great
See our uncles sibblings whose finest tears I never saw until now
See the candor and the incenses that have prevailed
Are these not enough comets that the Lord rewards
Yes. So then, the sound of the trumpets
The trumpeters are your seeded three clans
Charging the heavens in swaggers
Blazing forth, in pomps celebrating life
Dancing this same song of homecoming
For Stone, the cornerstone of many parts
Cargo of our latest argosy
Berthed at the Terminal. Farewell mum.
(Dedicated to the memory of my mother Catherine who died June 3, 2011 and was
buried June 24, 2011)
Sleep. Wake. Sleep
Sleep on empty stomach
Food and liquor make the journey
Eat, make Epicurus laugh double for once
Holiness! Is it not about angels and fruits
Eden has grapes and bitters
The tempters line the trees
And chirpy birds blow the flutes
The tempers with long tales and the dragon
There is a golden chair and a golden crown
And a bsket of flowers waiting to waive you in
There the master's table you'll see in the morning
Ulcer and glaucoma have no role to play
So you must eat, launch
And lunch to roost
There Grace waits for his owns
If indeed in the father's house there are many mansions
Why could Richman not easily find a room
Sone, from the master's table think
Analyze, princilpize, study and report
Stone, think as you walk around the dais
Analyze as you sleep. Principlize
Sleep and Sleep
Then look back, look to the corners
Look at the dome and compare with heavensgate
Take note the colors of the priests here and compare
See the dark waters, you did not see there before
See your scions on the front seats
See me, Franco, with the cross of attrition
Flung on me by brothers and sister
See the masquerades, musketeers
See my men dressed in raffia for this Elizbethan epic
See the men of the nights and those of the days
Filed on the right and on the left with Infant Terrible
See the near monks minus opportunity
Hiding their faces and long ghoulish tales
Rolling out muted laughter or pardon
Singing accustomed sonorous tunes for the great
See our uncles sibblings whose finest tears I never saw until now
See the candor and the incenses that have prevailed
Are these not enough comets that the Lord rewards
Yes. So then, the sound of the trumpets
The trumpeters are your seeded three clans
Charging the heavens in swaggers
Blazing forth, in pomps celebrating life
Dancing this same song of homecoming
For Stone, the cornerstone of many parts
Cargo of our latest argosy
Berthed at the Terminal. Farewell mum.
How Blissful Thy Smiles Honey
In Thy First Lob Into My Arms
The Grin Of Thy Upturn'd Mouth So Sweet
When We Dissolve In Blended Embraces
Thy People Produce The Best Of Raffia Wines
When I Taste The Sweet Of Thy Breathes
In Thy Kisses Merrily Must I Drink
Of A Rare But True Romance In The Air
How Blessedly The Day I Glimpse Thee
In Barefoot Thou Strut To Stream
Carting Water Calabash I Wish You Were Mine
Not? And Where It A Dream?
Now Thou Lie Cleav’d In My Love
Sweet Wine In New Calabash
The Scent Of Thy Breathes Like Fresh Wine
Recline Thou In My Promise Under My Thatch’d Roof
As the day dusked yesterday,
The deflowered sun shone down
with those eyes of a goldfish
'KATH’, got a light; 'EER’ lit a room;
And ‘AH’ illumined the night
No sound of a thing in your presence.
No bullet whirr, no horn blares
Not even the tick tock of the clock.
And thoughts of how good it is
To smell life and to sniff an ambush
on a friend
Newly met under an unsolicited
climate, crowned it all.
As bloated black eyes remained
promptly nudging on her fancy face
The blink of her eyes lasted on her
glance like a mirror
Reflecting how lucky Africa could be
To breathe this crevice of word out
in an ancient city
For pleasure, treasure and tender…
And how good it is to every ear…
Those cheeks in the dark that
dazzled joy and sorrow betwixt…
Is these all a happenstance…? I felt
the drip! Drip!! Drip!!!
Of the succulent drizzling rain, whilst
seated under the shade of the home
of sanctity
And the thought that someone has
to helm the hound of your name for
real, dawned on me. At night I
dreamt without sleeping; sleepless
thoughts of insomnia ravaged me,
yet my intellect hatched; and
became a slither of beauties of
mangoes, pineapples and roses
likened to you.
Yet how good to prick the secret fruit
to speak and felt her cajoling voice.
In my muffled thoughts, I slew my
intentions in cold blood and rolled
the inconveniences of those
moments in a raffia mat and hid
them in a secret blanket.
The cool weather speaks gale and
blew its wind from the north. I
shivered beneath my ribs, yet
unnoticed to her. I stood and smiled
in espionage and intrigue.
Whilst enduring the stark misery of
the chilled weather. It was over and
out, yet her name blots my thoughts
until cock crow…
Under the torch of the crescent moon
On bare pants and catty eyes
Our hearts yawn for the story line
Our ears gulp saliva, hungry to hear
The tasteful recipe that ooze so sweet
Beneath the canopy of the oha tree
Crossed legs on our raffia mats
Nothing else could cross our hungry minds
That had waited all through the crawling day
Mama dare not need me now
We calmly pray
As granny opened her wrinkled lip
That proved her scanty teeth
No matter how brown they are
It never faulted her warm smile
Nor the moral message that spiced it
But gave us warmth outside the chilly breeze
She carefully told those tales with lessons
And asked her questions too
But when we knew the story was over
Was when we woke from our spring beds
Under the tree in Africa, we sap strength
from the songs of the sparrows before sunlight.
as we walk to the farm, the
morning breeze brush our
body from the billowing branches.
We pick up our hoes and cutlasses
and keep our basket and calabash,
the big Agbadas of the elders and our little
catapult hang on the bole as we plough and plant.
Under the tree in Africa we relish
the radiance of reality as we rest
after the rigor of raising ridges.
we break the dried branches to make fire
to roast the harvested maize;
we stroll with the spirits as we slumber,
listening to the whispers of the wind
and wake up to feast on the roasted maize
with some cold water from the serene stream.
Under the tree in Africa we share
the shield of shadows,
shying away from the sun
as we walk back to the village.
We use our traps to tame birds;
making some meat available mama's,
meal by moonlight, throwing stones at some
ripe fruits we have a feel of freshness
and get some fruit for friends and family,
we get locked in luck as we get lots of grains
and goodies that gives us passion and pride.
At twilight, under the tree is a place to be in Africa,
the elders drink from the cup of culture.
Passing the calabash with love; there is enough Palm
wine and bush meat to go round,
quarrels are settled, feuds are finalized as the echoes
of the evening resounds.
The day's delight are shared, friendships are
found and formed as fresh fragrance flows.
The children chant with vibrating voices, moral
melodies are mimed with clapping of hands under
the tree in Africa.
Graceful games and spirited sports go on as
communal creeds cruise in their conscience.
The elders feed their seeds with the water of wisdom
as they share folktales and facts,the children are charged to
be charming as they listen to the tales by moonlight..
In Africa the women sings with virtuous voices
as they make mats, beads, basket and raffia
under the tree.
nursing mothers keep their sucklings on the mat
for the cool breeze to caress their soft skin,
at twilight, women roll out local pots, mortal and pestle,
to prepare pounded yam and melon soup for their household,
as the food-is-ready alarm sounds, folks and friends
gather to dine and wine as the moon peeps through
the leaves under the tree in Africa.
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like resting birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
The cry of my baby tears through the night, again
Waking everyone, including the birds whom use
our tattered raffia hut as nest
I know why she cries though
The small giant has used her long thin deadly
needle to bite her
Even though our outworn mosquito net is tattered
and now has holes as
big as a ditch
That gives you no permission to feast on us, for
we are still under its covering
I dragged my sleepy self up
Tied the points where old age and years of use has
caused our shield to tear
I carried my baby; put her mouth near my
sagging bosom
But with another thunderous wail, she declined
Now, I know my eyes will know no sleep
I reached for my raffia made broom under my
bamboo bed
And waited like a soldier with a gun
Broom in hand, I stood up and sang
A lullaby for her with my drowsy voice
She obliged and slept
And now the war has begun
Broom in hand, I sat on the piles of old and worn
out clothes
My baby and I use as mattress
Waiting like a soldier defending her territory
If our mosquito net is old and lacks strength
THIS BROOM WILL DO YOU JUSTICE!