Long Kinsmen Poems
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With utter dismay
I sank my red eyeballs
Inside a dust filled pillow
I wept for her profusely
I wept for my love
For my love is still sick
Fourty five moons after
It was fourty five moons
Still,, she stay glued
Still, she was without movement
Paralysis crept into her
From toe down the head
She was a living corpse
She was stroked with stroke
The sickness diagnosed
Drugs and remedies found at last
But the in-house parasitic rodents
And the foreign greedy wolves
Would let loose heavens
If my love is revived from the sickness
Why? We all echoed !!
Why not? They replied firmly !!
Looking terribly mean like a wolf whose
Prey is about being freed
She is our prey !!!
They roared like a wounded lion
She shall be ruined by debt
She shall thirst only sorrow
She shall die of hunger
She shall continue to swim in misery
Even amidst plenty and many
They laughed whimsically
Fear garbed my nakedness
With cold and fever
As I shiver and quiver
I lift my head off the pillow
Tears seized my eyes
As I sight her still in trauma
Why would they do this?
Where are they? I queried
Where are the wolves and rodents?
But for how long will
I weep for my dying love?
For how long will
I gnash my teeth in pains still on earth?.
On the bull of struggle
I shall take the horns
My kinsmen I shall rally
Against the rodents and the wolves
We shall wrestle power
To restore my love back to life
Where we can raise her from the lower
Only to up there in the towers.
Alayande Stephen. T
27th of October
9.00am
Form:
I’ve got some tea for y’all,
but I’m not sure you can handle it.
This isn’t the kind you just listen to —
you’ve got to understand the weight of it,
the seriousness,
the intensity of what I’m about to say.
You once told me
that as long as I’m happy, you’d stand by me.
But right now, it’s deeper than happiness.
Being around her doesn’t just make me smile —
it brings me peace.
The kind of peace
like water resting quietly in a pot.
She once told me she feels safe around me.
And that alone said a lot.
She’s a Proverbs 31 woman, no doubt.
Not because she flatters me.
Not because she opened the door of her life to me.
But because she truly carries herself
like an ideal woman.
In my mind, that’s where she lives now.
And I hope one day
she finds it worthy enough
to sign the contract for permanent residence.
Make me a proud man among my kinsmen.
Lift my name high in the circle of my boys.
Place a crown upon my head…
And allow me —
allow me the honor
of making her my queen
This Sunday,
Before noon,
In my community church,
Wedding bells ring?
Rosemary,
Daughter of our land,
Weds!
Grand invitations
With ancestral R.S.V.P.
To be spoken with flutes,
Dressed in yellow palm fronds.
The invitation cards spread like
Wide fire in the harmattan,
Fluttering with the strength of
Flirting confetti
Between the navel of the earth
And the heart of the village square.
The living and the dancing —
Kinsmen assembled —
Speaking alien tongues.
Some wearing flowing gowns
And scents of communal petals,
And others in foreign garments
With smells of ceremonies . . .
The procession?
A long ground column of assimilation,
Speechless, yet full of
Local canticles.
Winding ways of the church
Bifurcated enclaves . . .
The procession halts,
And, like two-headed paths,
Splits ?
One leading to the market
And the other to the tavern below
The flat bowel of the town.
At the stroke of twelve
When the church bell peals loudest,
Rosemary weds
And becomes two fleshes-in-one.
There was feasting and wine-ing,
As well as gisting and whining,
From the break of noon till the
Spell of midnight.
The inebriated hardly could
Distinguish between June and July,
And could tell not between the bride and
The groom.
Look how fractured a people we are
The strong bond we once shared
Is no longer anywhere to be found
Except in the torment where we are bound.
We let an unknown concept
The babble of the tongue
The marks on one's cheek
Divide us, leaving our lives to reek.
Here we are still struggling
To stitch the patches on our lives
For a senseless war of tribes
Our kinsmen left to rot and die.
Have you ever wondered
That we are brothers born from the same earth?
Why should we be torn apart by birth
With tribal lines drawn in our blood so deep?
Once, we stood side by side
In unity, strength, and pride
Now, scared of our brothers' shadows
A bee hive on our every elbows.
Can we find a way to mend
To heal the scars and make amends?
To see each other with kinder eyes
And let the spirit of unity rise.
For in the end, we share one land
One future, one guiding hand
Together we can break the chains
And wash away these tribal stains.
The stars have descended a little lower, to keep us —
My kinsmen and I —company on this night watch
On a newly roused African night.
We filch a little bit of the effulgence of the waking moon,
Reluctant, with the invasion of jealous clouds, their plumes
Fragile with inconsistency.
We rely on the luminescence of each other’s eyes and the trust
In our hearts
Tinder, broken by flying flickers of fireflies,
Shine through the breath of darkness, dis-virgining the chunky yolk
Of secrets and the clout of night, so corvine.
Every breath keeps us warm and frightens the monsters lurking
Around the lean corridors of the enchanted thresholds.
The heavens stare downward —witnesses to a stifling explosion of
Will; so are the crepitating crickets and cicadas —in prayers they
Egg us on, and through borrowed liturgy of nocturnal canticles.
The heartbeats in us make silenced music —loud only by the essence of
Gaiety and humming drums lightly tapped by ancestral fingers,
Helping to warm our hearts and will in the face of the severest darkness
Made lighter by the glows of slow-running lights — the broad painting of
Dawn.
Bludgeoning gray towers randomly spread, ingesting the living in their walls and beds.
Skeletal dragons seen through Cervantes eyes yet no whirling windmills in Manchester's skies.
A flag flutters freely where the wind takes it mind, red white and fading as this nation unwinds.
Yesterdays grandeur all around now unseen, cowering in the shadows cast by the greedy and obscene.
Lip service is paid to placate guilty minds but the monsters still rise leaving all beauty behind.
Natures sounds scarcely heard in this city so crass, no foxes no deer no style no class.
A symptom of time, progress and decay, with more mouths to feed and so little pay
And the final betrayal by kinsmen of ours, majority counts for nought and the 3 lions cower.
Self serving parties spewing arrogant polices arrogant buffoons and arrogant half truths, serving their pay masters the rich and aloof.
Looking forward I see with the vision of the blind, democracy is dying as this once great nation sighs. .
The Wanderer, Part II
Awakening, the friendless man confronts the murky waves,
the seabirds bathing, broadening out their feathers,
the hoar-frost, harrowing hail & snow eternally falling…
Then his heart’s wounds seem all the heavier for the loss of his beloved lord.
Thus his sorrow is renewed,
remembrance of his lost kinsmen troubles his mind,
& he greets their ghosts with exclamations of joy, but they merely swim away.
The floating ones never tarry.
Thus care is renewed for the one whose weary spirit rides the waves.
Therefore I cannot think why, surveying this world,
my mind should not contemplate its darkness.
When I consider the lives of earls & their retainers,
how at a stroke they departed their halls, those mood-proud thanes!,
then I see how this middle-earth fails & falls, day after day…
Therefore no man becomes wise without his share of winters.
A wise man must be patient,
not hot-hearted, nor over-eager to speak,
nor weak-willed in battles & yet not reckless,
not unwitting nor wanting in forethought,
nor too greedy for gold & goods,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful,
nor too hot, nor too mild,
nor too eager to boast before he’s thought things through.
A wise man forbears boastmaking
until, stout-hearted, his mind sure & his will strong,
he can read the road where his travels & travails take him.
The wise man grasps how ghastly life will be
when all the world’s wealth becomes waste,
even as middle-earth already is, in so many places
where walls stand weather-beaten by the wind,
crusted with cold rime, ruined dwellings snowbound,
wine-halls crumbling, their dead lords deprived of joy,
the once-hale host all perished beyond the walls.
Some war took, carried them off from their courses;
a bird bore one across the salt sea;
another the gray wolf delivered to Death;
one a sallow-cheeked earl buried in a bleak barrow.
Thus mankind’s Maker laid waste to Middle Earth,
until the works of the giants stood idle,
all eerily silenced, the former joys of their halls.”
Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, translation, Old English, wanderer, winter, ice, snow, frost, sea, ocean, seabirds, heart, heartbreak, loss, loneliness, alienation, sorrow, death, ghosts, dark, darkness, wise, wisdom, war, bird, birds, wolf, giants
“Of all flowers, methinks a rose is best.” – William Shakespeare, The Two Noble Kinsmen
Sweet Rose, for ages you have blessed the human race
with your beauty, elegance and grace.
You show yourself to us in so many ways . . .
as miniature, teacup, floribunda, rambler,,climber, and
as so many other species of loveliness - a true wonder of God's creations!
Whether on the ground, in the wild, in gardens, or on bushes,
you bring me such pleasure to see your many shapes and sizes.
Unlike pansies and other annual flowers,
which glimmer for a time, then die – never to regrow,
you come and you go, sweet Rose, continuously
from spring, through summer, and until the chill of fall.
Oh, sweet Rose, with your names so charming,
I love you all.
With female names like “Princess Diana,” “Lolita” or “Bathsheba,”
you intrigue me.
With names that reflect the splendor of your many hues
such as “Toffee,” the pale yellow “Sahara,” the bold “Gold Medal,”
“Beyond Blue,” and “Black Magic,”
you enchant me.
With cute precious names like “Adorable,” “or “Angel Face,”
you delight me!
My muse reawakens each spring as your glorious scent
perfumes the air, and you offer yourself to the worshiping bees.
In those rare moments when I see a hummingbird
partaking of your nectar, I nearly gasp with excitement.
Oh, sweet Rose,
whether posing steadfastly in the summer sun,
dancing with breezes, or dreaming beneath the moon,
there is no flower so popular as you.
And no other flower bears so many different meanings
as those found in the paleness or in the vibrancy of your many colors.
Innocence is your white; your friendship, yellow; your modesty, peach;
In burgundy and dark pink, you show forth admiration;
in coral, good fortune; and in light pink, the cheerfulness of youth.
In the tint of amaranth is your passion; in rare green, your freshness;
in purple, your whimsy; however, your ruby red
transcends them all with the purity of love.
The deeper your hue, the deeper is your meaning.
You are the symbol for so many things of which the poet dreams!
Oh, sweet Rose, I adore you. How you inspire me
with each bloom of your dewy petals that I chance to view.
Never do you cease to amaze me, sweet Rose.
May you blossom ever sweetly into eternity!
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.
Have heard the tales of thee,how the
emotionless night of thee capsize the ship,how the mountains and sea shake at your voices .
Have heard the tales of thee ,how the red banquet left no survival
Have heard the tales of thee, how the ship divided into two and brothers went war with another.
Ojukwu and Gowon lead the liberation
war come and go, but the flumes are close to our eye full with smoke of
emptiness and pains .
You took much with you to the battle that you never came back home
Your mother waited for thou arrival but heard the echo of thou funeral.
Your overzealous, worrisome, soldier.
You left a footprint of immortality
full of stories of different writers
You took hiding things your grave ,so much secret that no one knows.
Should I judge thee by what am told ?
who will tell your story?
So history will be fair to the comers.
who want to open the wound
that the divided ocean?
should I call thee a villain or hero ?
time will tell.
oh! Nzeogwu, Time will tell the true
no secret under the sun.
The blood banquet took us to pain of no return
oh too much pain,so much sorrow
Men fall like trees,women buried their young's , starvation became a weapon
Enable harmless men buried alive .
oh! who will tell the story of umaji
asaba cried of blood ?
Okpanam bath in ocean of blood bcos that is where your kinsmen sit.
Born to oshimili river
not that you leave in oshimili
your heart belongs to the North.
You never saw it coming
not your plan to cause pain.
you never took the shortcut to death,
You mounted to the battle front.
left like the wind,your flumes covers the air.
the smoke you set still touch us in the east
the battle still echo like the ocean.
Am just a poet,writer of true...