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Patrick Utitufon Poem
After the rain,
the Sun will rise again
we have been in darkness since they arrived
in their caravan of dreams with empty promises of change,
and constructive untruths, with which they tricked us to abandon our familiar ways
to walk their paths of retrogressive progression;
for which we accepted their baseless theories:
hook, line and sinker-
unquarantined!
We were competiting perfectly well
before they came in multitude of allied forces
preaching the message of political salvation,
and of unity in diversity,
soliciting our mandate to cleanse the land of its filth:
to lay solid foundation for our children and our children's children;
to revive us from the comatose of corruption hampering our collective goals;
to expunge segregation and gender discrimination from the polity;
to create equal opportunities for the youth and women alike;
to harness our untapped earthy endowments for our communal advancement;
to cultivate vibrant seeds of peaceful coexistence, to erase poverty from the land...
Unbeknownst, like chameleons, they had come hiding their true colours behind highly sugared manifesto
and with enticing propaganda,
they planted seeds of discord amongst us
to frustrate the Second Coming of the Messiah and his message of transformation and sustainability.
Today, the yields of the seeds they sowed speak volume
for we have become aliens in our own lands,
slaughtered like rams, gradually losing our freedoms for fear of the whip of their change agents, lurking for favourable loopholes to maim their compatriots...
Before our eyes, they dismantled our umbrella of unity and handed us brooms to sweep off the fragments into moulds of segregation and favouritism...
We are the architects of our own discomfiture, for we stood by the river and let lather slip into our eyes; now, we are drown by their incessant upsurge of blame and revenge, and no more do we hear echoes of our greatness, Giant of Africa!
Truly, they have cleansed our land as they promised when they first came to us
as we feel the grip of their iron fists: milking our cows dry, sweeping clean the harvests stored up from many seasons of perseverance and diligence
(and many have lost confidence reposed in us)
for with their lips, they have condemned us to the world.
Cornered to this island of solitude, we have lost our bearing and our sense of belonging and the centre can no longer hold...
Who will be our Moses to liberate us from this repulsive stagnation and lead us to the Promised Land?
We have been neglected on this voyage,
on this journey of collective aggrandizement,
but after the rumblings of the rain on this phase,
the Sun will rise again...
If we are willing to change the tide, and raise the sails;
after this torrential reign of terror raining down on us,
the Sun will surely rise again.
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2017
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Patrick Utitufon Poem
Little by little
like a canoe in the deep,
Life sails on gently...
Though it may change course,
or wreck while sea-bound offshore;
often the truth saves!
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2016
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Patrick Utitufon Poem
I
At the marketplace
by sunrise
when the serenity of the dawn is ravished by unknown
voices…
When the Sun passes through the merry-go-round
beyond the horizon
when the turbulent wind is silenced,
and the voice of the cicadas
is no longer heard…
From a distance,
you would see them roaming in tattered old rags,
half-naked!
Sun-baked, and ruddy of countenance
wandering in twos and threes
countless!
You imagine what these are
when you see them
from afar
you think they are mad
you think they are vagabonds
you think these might be the lost sheep of the flock...
But as they come closer, and you see them begging...feeding on leftovers: you realise they are not...
These are innocent victims of an untold venture,
indicted on weightless balances,
stigmatized and left to wander the streets by those they should embrace comfort for PAGAN WITCHERY—a course they know not...
These are little children, innocent like all children
but who bear the cross of a crime they do not
commit…
At sunset,
when the sellers disperse
as the shadow of Night approaches,
the lives of these children become miserable
and aimless like sheep without a shepherd.
Survival in jail is more certain
than the dreams of these children
as mere thought of no hope of greener pastures
disheartens more than stony sleep in shrouded
sheds
and awakening to an existence
of lost identity…
Who will lift this curse?
Are they responsible for their plight?
Where will they go from here?
II
When Christopher's mother eloped with her lover,
his father, Peter, married a new wife named Martha
who thought of no one but herself
as she could not put to birth...
One day, Christopher got a high-grade fever, and
was in very bad shape as all herbs had failed
and no one thought to call a physician.
Blinded by grief and unforgiveness, his father remained wordless,
so Martha took the Poor Boy to her prophet
who declared Christopher a wizard:
"A child of sin who holds the key to Martha's womb."
Peter disowned his son at his wife's behest
and unfeeling chased him away from the house
without pity, without mercy
as the Poor Boy could not debunk their unfounded verdict...
Christopher then found a friend in Micah-a little hawker from the neighbourhood
whose abusive father battered his wife, and cared not for his children, for with another woman he had an affair.
No sooner, the two friends found other lads with kindred fate living underneath the bridge at the outskirts of town (for these mysteries happen everywhere),
and in twos and threes, they began to roam the streets,
unkempt and dessicated, fending for themselves
like cattle without a herdsman...
When I first saw these children at the marketplace:
peddling, begging and scavenging for daily bread, I could not help but wonder who is responsible for this calamity...
And for many days, though I had long gone, still, this memory rekindles in my heart.
And so, I set my hands to cast these lines that men might see the world in a grain of sand...
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2016
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Patrick Utitufon Poem
When I hear the voices of little children
early at dusk just before twilight comes
with their faces cloaked by
the shawl of innocence
waving goodbye to the setting sun,
my heart leaps for joy;
as I watch agape as they jump, chatter
and clatter with such intense vigour
on the open green fields beyond the moors
outside the curtilage of their homes
in the serene suburbs of the countryside
for a trifling thing
as waving goodbye to the setting sun.
From afar, it’s startling from my view
how they form a ring of troth
joining hands together
and roundabout in clockwise shift,
sing merry songs while the setting sun seems
to wave back at them with a smile…
Perhaps, it appears as it seems a common ritual
in the suburbs of the countryside
as often as I journey back there, I find
little children welcoming the full moon,
waving goodbye to the setting sun.
And in their ecstatic pulsations, I feel reborn
from my mother’s milky womb, submersed
in innocence—enchanted—nescient of
my whereabouts that keeps me
wondering what excites them so.
Then, as I look beyond the horizon,
I remember I was once as they are—
innocent and oblivious—without shame
and scars of sorrow; for I too,
with friends and peers welcomed the moon
and waved goodbye to the setting sun.
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2016
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Patrick Utitufon Poem
When we first met at the beach
where we exchanged pleasantries, and
engaged in a long conversation
where you told me you baffled
at the ebbs and flows of the tide
yet scuttled at the soaring altitude
of encroaching waves
that outstretch and blend in like the dimples on your cheeks…
where you told me you wished you were free like birds
of the air,
you would venture out across the deep to far
unfamiliar lands
free from fetters of familial ties…
You did not fall for me,
nor did I for you…
That our paths crossed, that we met at the beach,
were predestined inclinations of our stars,
devoid of mortal deliberations;
though we felt we could give ourselves a chance
You did not fall for me,
nor did I for you
But,
we fell for that rare bond of our sudden connection
strengthened by
the obvious likeness of our mental aesthetics
we fell for the rejuvenating rays of the setting sun,
for the flight of falcons across the clear clouds,
for the swishing sands of the sea, and
the towering waves wavering before our eyes…
we fell for our aligning dreams
that conjoined like Siamese twins in our minds’ eyes
conceived in the depths of our hearts
You did not fall for me,
nor did I for you
It was the dilemma of our fate.
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2016
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Patrick Utitufon Poem
While the world quiet lies
silenced
by the realm
of Night.
When asleep
lie
the remains of day,
amidst
dark encirclement of shadow
in merriment
you sport yourself
wavering where you please
like bats
flying here and there
you rule a world not your own.
When the sun
is blotted out
darkness
engulfs the day
the old ships sail home
the palpable sorrow
of the fisherman is recompensed…
While, at my window,
I commune with my Muse
light my heart
light my way
fly in my eyes
fly in the eyes of my Child
and let my little one merrily sleep.
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2016
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Patrick Utitufon Poem
Oluwapemi... your name is soft to the ears... your name speaks peace...
Your name is the soothing ointment of the troubled mind
It sounds like the luculent laughter that comes with the dawn when the turbulent Night is conquered...
It is the extant song of the cuckoo bird in springtime when the greenery blossoms,
and it echoes like the plaintive notes of the first rains sent forth to quench the thirst of the long dehydrated Savannah...
Oluwapemi!
You are the dew of my morning, the freshness that envelops my Night,
and your even-tempered voice like my mother's, is like the cicadas that heralds the break of my dawn
You are the beam from which I draw my strength; the roof over my head, the lintel of my shelter-the pillar thereof,
and the marble upon which I cast my verse...
Oluwapemi!
Your breath is enlivening like the tender breeze that blows beneath the tamarind tree at dusk when the Sun is at rest...
The scent of your hair is like the smell of cinnamon, like the surpassing fragrance of cassia,
your haloed eyes, mild like a dove's, are the Sun and Moon of my Earth, your face my dazzling mirror!
Your waist to the shoulders is like cornfield in the Savannah upon which the young deer gallops,
the verdure on which the reindeer refreshes, the resting place of the poet,
and with your limbs like a wild gazelle's, you leap gracefully against the vanishing rays of the ephemeral sunset...
Oluwapemi!
Name of gold-that is the name that brings comfort to the restless soul
Oluwapemi...
Lady of the Sycamore, epitome of purity, healing balm, priceless jewel, glittering gold
My song, my Muse, my goddess!
You are black and beautiful-the true colour of nature;
and your beauty transcends the laws of time which makes you the delight of the poet...
I will proclaim your name... I will proclaim your name...
Oluwapemi... Oluwapemi... that is your name
Diamond in the morning sun, fresh wine from the vine...
My pride, my mirth, my perfect poetess!
Who possesses the semblance of your comeliness?
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2016
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Patrick Utitufon Poem
Is every teardrop
not a raging waterfall
down the ocean's bay?
Without second thoughts
you drifted away from me
when the waves arose
I have wept and wept
till I've cried you a river:
Why not sail back home?
Like a flickering torch,
you were never meant to stay
I too will move on.
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2017
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Patrick Utitufon Poem
Here he lies lifeless
He whose hands had many healed
though unsung by some
Now, we cheer him home
Down his homestead, we set him
Our selfless hero!
Pain is the pleasure
of earthly patriotism...
Fame is for a time
Though the rose blossoms
on fields where good does not stay,
it withers at dusk
Kindness lives briefer
Twilight comes after sunset
All is vanity!
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2017
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Patrick Utitufon Poem
By the roadside,
I saw a knave, suntanned, cloaked in dirt
who, standing upon the ground,
like a famished hermit,
held out a bowl in his hands,
and sang a strange song:
"Allah ya ba ku, ku ba mu babiya Allah
Allah ya ba ku, mu samu babiya Allah"
I asked, what do you sing, friend?
Why do you stand here?
Where is your home?
"There is no home for me, there is no home for me
Father went out and never returned
Mother says, boys my age lay down their lives for Heaven's course;
and thrust me out to fend for myself
Why would a bird once fettered not sing of his freedom?
Is it piety to slay in the name of a sinless God than to sing for peace?
Foxes have holes, birds of the air have nests;
my life is a lair of lions, where the vilest vultures prey
There is no home for me, there is no home for me."He replied.
Copyright © Patrick Utitufon | Year Posted 2017
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