Long Cowries Poems
Long Cowries Poems. Below are the most popular long Cowries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cowries poems by poem length and keyword.
In my loneliness, I lie in my bed
hopelessly listening to the chirping of crickets
The consoling breeze blowing from the cracks of my window
whistling tunes that re-echo from my bamboo bed
sending every hanging object to a dancing practice session
thatch reacting to every string in a recession
The intermittent cry of lonely owls
adds base to the consoling rhapsodies
Sounds that also remind villagers
About the witches taking off
To their fate-deciding kingdoms
Kingdom where grown up and deceased share the same bench
cooking infants' body parts
humming songs of destruction
A sudden cry of a baby
will be hushed by swearing from an angry parents, a witch patent.
At least, they believe
So others are awake, relieved I felt
The breeze blows and steals the light from my kerosene lamp
A precious possession especially
in wet seasons, when the moon hoards its brightness
Aided by angry clouds that are ready to pour out their pains on the earth
I closed my eyes tighter
Seeing billions of black and white shadows
When the cock crows
My pains and fears vanish
It is day break I thought
to later realize it is still dark
Stories of the last night cock's crow
Makes the headlines in all
riverside petty talk, adults discussions
Redemption will be sought from liars, the eyes of the gods
With just a few cowries they throw
on dirt-ridden floor mats
They calculate a non mathematical problem with addition,
A mystery on how they arrive at a result
With confidence, they will say
'the witch kingdom needs a sacrifice,
an infant will die suddenly'
The parents of the crying baby
Will start relating the story
Insults will be aimed at people
Barrens, poor childless older fellows will be the target
Insults will indirected to these people
If by chance the child dies
The eyes of the gods will be exalted
The barrens, poor old fellows will be confronted, disgraced
even sent on exile, to "evil" forests
At dusk
My fear crawls in
Fear of loliness
Fear of sleeplessness
Fear of the dark
Dark village night.
Scattered on the sandy sea shore,
She was thinking of the play of fate,
She could have become a large sea conch,
But the impatient waves left her alone on the shore.
Now she waits to meet her lover in sand,
With the longing of love, in the exuberance of beating waves,
If the waves could stay still on sand for a moment,
She could be holding him in deep love.
In the misty morning, she feels lost,
She does not have any clue of what will happen next,
In the colorful dusky sky,
She creates the image of her feelings in blue sky.
A man picks cowries on the beach,
Strings a beautiful necklace for his love,
Cowries feel happy in the necklace,
Will love to see the smile on the face of love.
En-route Onikan Stadium
I had evaporated from
My abode in Samonda
Only to condense in Iwo road.
There I saw them begging
One barely leaves before
Another jumps on us
They were beggars of the Niger-Area.
Behold !an old haggard
Tattered looking woman,
Muttering some prayers
Only to her very self,
Cowries she needed.
Then comes another man
Clad in all white attire,
Making incantations through
His chimney-like look.
He shakes his head chanting
Some rehearsed -versed prayers
Meant for us passengers
In all, cowries he demanded.
Appears another blind man
With a kid directing his three legs
The first leg he points to pave way
For the other two legs
For he seeth no more
Cowries they needed too.
Two kids looking rumpled
Their mother tailing from afar
They are from a lake called Chad
The Chadian kids chanting,
Singing in aYoruba language
Their Yoruba pronunciation brings
Passenger’s teeth out impromptu.
Only then and there,
They got attention more
Cowries they had more than others.
More came till I lost count of them
For three scores of a minute
Beggars came begging for cowries ,
Poverty hovers round them
Wretchedness consume their look
Like a Vulture that is about
Being starved to death.
They are all indeed wretched of
The Earth on our own Earth.
The driver fired the engine
Still lost in my thought
About the begging beggars.
I looked through the windows
Only to find more beggars in Lagos
Cowries, they all needed.
Are we not all beggars in this land?
Begging for food , water, shelter ,air . . .
Killing ourselves for crumbs from their table
Even amidst plenty
They have made us empty
They are Gold- Diggers of our wealth.
For how long would we beg?
Can we ever stop begging?
Can we ever exist without begging?
Were we born to beg?
I said to myself “ No”.
We are not destined to beg
We are only made to beg
To suit their whims and caprices
But our desperation to get to the
Destination of our dream land
Lies with the destiny in our hands.
Alayande Stephen. T
February 11th, 2006
11.35am
A true life story.
On my way to Onikan stadium in Lagos
For NANS Zone D Convention .It all happened
Between Iwo Road and Lagos.
Form:
Below the craters of a sullen city
I burrow lightly, cautiously, hands on
Guardrails, one foot after the other,
Into the underpart of the earth,
Through a spiralling, syncope-fomenting
Stairwell, old and broken, but grandly ancient.
The light thereunder is dim and shallow,
And the rest of the matter with it was a
Basket of fusty smell.
It was by the loose side of noontime,
When mustiness gathers sweltering details.
Little rain from last night, falling from a
Sobbing, laconic south,
Made issues graver.
But I don’t mind.
With cracked, besieged walls, the grounds
Welcomed me well.
I stood and gazed at the books on staffed shelves,
Aged and worn,
Graced by times’ capsule of relief by way of
Primitive reckoning.
Tablets and scrolls rave with the lustre of fading
Yellowness.
Tomes (leather-bound) attested to the pregnancy
Of departed eras.
Encyclopaedia Britannica eyed me warmly.
A tall, bespectacled man, the age of Wilde,
With apricot skin and second-hand suit,
Thin and wobbling stick,
And shoes from Lennard’s
Buried his face on a Chaucer
Material, reading silently to the tune of
His twerking soul, his full lower lip
Mocking the higher.
Men and women clutter about, searching
And peeking from shelves of immortality,
On whose dusty surfaces elderly pages stuck
Out their tired, resting tongue-tips —like
Stray, hungry dogs on battered pavements.
The books and volumes sell for a farthing each —
Coins betrayed by roaming verdigris.
The quill feather pens for a few dashing shillings,
The scrolls, some teeth-showing cowries . . .
Above us (the reading congregation of this temple
Of books and time),
A coven of reading witches and winking wizards,
The city throng manages itself with the due process of law
According to traffic —above—
And several feet below — underground —
The hidden treasure of
Digestible info,
Divergent views.
Still, my voyage to the Capital
A city whose other name rocks with “Aso”
On the rock, yet in the capital
The ruling vampires swim in affluence
They are the upper rockers,
The middle rockers strive to climb the ladder,
While vast majority wallows in misery
They, the lower pauperized rockers.
In the Capital, I did sojourned
Capital were for those whose names
Were engraved with capital letters
For many who smell riches daily
They had no cowries, less of capital
My friends on the Rock
Were the lower cadres
Of the middle Rockers,
For them the pauperized Rockers
In Gwagwalada enroute Lugbe
Whose huts . . abodes were destroyed
Whose kinsmen were rendered homeless
Whose lives were snuffed out
Whose human dignity was compromised
For master plan of the masters
For them, I wept.
And for the bulldozer mercenaries
With toga of larger then life image
Killing . . . destroying many with impunity
Rendering millions homeless with
No alternative homes or huts
Allocating lands to the Pot-belly rogues
Turning the doors of public taxis to private pockets
For them, I laugh hysterically
For they are no more today
Dismissed with the dark era of the
Ugly King with the protruding belly.
Christmas Rebels
It was about a weak
After that night walk
The unknown dangers,
Made known, turned me weak,
I was managing myself,
After my heart was pulled,
From where it sank,
I was yet in the oven,
Of my haven,
To dry up the coldness,
And the wetness,
Of that fearful night loneliness,
Today is Christmas,
The whole mass,
Was joyous,
Every home, glorious,
Meat was plenteous,
Rice and beans.
Was every homes means,
Children bouncing in,
New goat skin jackets,
Mother’s dressed in costly
Beads and all the way,
Father leads.
For Christmas had taking over,
Taking over the African Shrine,
It supplied a joyous sunshine.
Our pockets were full of cowries,
Like a goldmine,
Happiness was mine,
For the usual war seemed
To be hidden, and our teethes where like,
“Forever opened”.
Oh! Joyful, blissful, plentiful Christmas.
Providing joy each time it surface,
But joy has a slender waist that breaks so soon.
Christmas night came, so we visited
Our beds as night rang it’s bell,
(To be continued in the next, same Poem).
Hello bosom friend
I hope you get this piece quick
oh! my bad,how do you fair?
pleasantries almost skipped my reasoning
I was told of your matrimony
From you, the seed that emanated
when you behold this thoughtful missive
and you have the whole narrative in your grip
you will unearth my heart's unfoldings
of grave grievance, no one can appease
succinctly grasp the volume of this rage
I say, read carefully through the lines
even if you have to squint through that veil
if i am to choose
between your present and past
I would say, let your past prevail
For then, I knew the essence of your smile
You weren't by hypocritical law, constrained
That face speaks of solace even ibn grimace
oh! that face speaks volume
Needless to say,you are elegant in fitted fabrics
Lost under your tutelage
You brought life to every boring cause
Your angelic beau, replicates purity of-course
You were our sunshine
Before the Arabian cowries bought you over
He came from a foreign land
And bestowed on you, a diadem
I learnt you were betrothed to an assumed cleric
The telltale notion of ardent Islamist
Raised anxiety for future occurrences
I envisaged you in this state
But won't your devotion debate
Now my memory of you is impaired
by your sudden immersion
I feel as though it's been crushed by a saw
That even while you are in front of me
I see you no more
Oh! how impelling a tenet
Evil I say
God forbid that this is of God
No!
It's a spell
From the stench of hell
That one's existence be hidden for a lifetime
To conceive a man's satisfaction
my friend
In this transition,
Did you and your aspirations converse?
How much of a communicator would you be now
Under that veil
You relegated your dreams to derelicts
Making a living in the street corners
while you remain a descendant of vague relic
A full grown lady, covered in babygro
In those chains,inform of soft clothings
Do you find comfort or otherwise
Ode to a gracious lass i used to know
Now aloof she stands with no Identity
Please when your seed shall grow
Let her have no taste of your captivity.
"Super credence...!"
Coming from the west,
Known by many;very popular and people's figure,
Qualified with soft speech,modified with prominent smile,
Dressed with simplicity,but very focal,
The complexion is matched to brilliance,
Lifted up in air was the nose;catching public attention,
Perfumed with premium lavender diffused from the skin into clothing,
"Preemptively ushered",someone said,
Fashioned with tanned pelt around the bust,...kente from the waist,covering to the knees,
Beads and cowries all over the neck,...as well as ears,arms and feets,
Head covered with scuff,
Carrying a pot of water,
Traditionally attributed to firmness and greatness,
Moulded with superintendent qualities;staunch and wisely modulated,
Possess melodious voice;Seductively enriched,
A marital object for procreation and generational changing,
Talented to dance,subbed to singing,
Colourful in appearance,
Useful creature among equals,
Warrior for true love,...even though life is full of irony,
Taste her food,and come for more,
Culturally valued and highlighted,
"Where does she come from?",
Goddesses over waters applauds her magnificence,
Monumentally, she is the mother of world actors and heroines,
Spreader of democracy and patience;Incomparably agitated,
"Tell me...who's this proficient person?",
That is the legend of years;an indigenous superstar,
Proudly known as,"MAMA AFRICA",
"The jewelry everyone is digging for".
Dearest Prof –
I did not title them:
These ever-ready logs
Ready to assemble ants of cowries;
They dance from sea to land
Wishing to be titled by exigent gods
Who watch over their lonely coronations
Lavished with sacrificial songs!
I did not title them:
Pot-bellied officees of faculties
Chewing mouthfuls of the land’s laws
Their neighbours:
Half-truthful goblins of tax-collectors
The smiling kick-backers
And officees of admissions –
Who titled these men?
Dearest Prof –
Many are these titled men of today
Are they found everywhere?
Do they mount uniformed road-blocks
As we pass safety-roads without eyes?
Head-strong: are their skulls also fragile?
Could the husk of a tax-collectors mouth
Eat the husks of his pot’s bottom?
Who titled these men?
Matching boldly with wrong titles?
Of course, the red-caps of the under world
Visited the newly world-renowned ref
(Prof, a roused lad heard it told!)
Did they leave the corpse by the ref?
Sadistic: are they also shrewdly fraternal?
I cannot lavish the sacred lines.
Form:
OUR LIBRARIAN
I once remember the
Librarian in my college
Meticulous ,and savvy
His love for knowledge
Knows no bound.
I once remember the
Librarian in my University
A man with a large heart for others
His glasses perking on his nose
His Professorial “penkelemesi” like
Grey hair connotes love for research.
But
I cannot but ask which librarian is this?
I cannot but query the insidious sudden
Love of this Huckster for knowledge
I cannot but be surprised at his hubbub
Declaration for his Library launch.
Oh ye people of our land!
Lets all give ovation du applaud to
Our land’s new Librarian.
The very one who rakes in seven
Of a billion cowries in a hurry
In the all looters Library launch.
The very one whose hatred for education
Towers so high and hit all towers of ivory.
The very atrocious leader of the ruling bandit
Whose avidity for money stares us in the face.
The very leading African Chimera whose
Chicanery we cannot measure
Has now suddenly fall in love with knowledge.
The very blood brother of “Haruna”on our campus
Who votes irritating meager resources for education
He is now our own celebrated Librarian.
The very illiterate Mechanic whose
Baleful gaze alone destroys our land’s Library
He is now our dreadful Librarian.
Sorry ,we know our Librarians
Our Libraries , we are acquainted with
Our Libraries are of obsolete materials
Ours is of more archaic facilities
With books and non books available
Two moons ago still branded new editions
This is our own Libraries.
Let the new Librarian disburse the seven
Of a billion cowries to our Libraries
Let him pump cowries into our education
Let their be more modern Libraries in our land
For is it of a nation that values knowledge
That gets the best of knowledge today and morrow .
Alayande Stephen .T
16th April, 2006
05.25pm
For Mr President 's special Library launch.