Wednesday, January 17, 2007

The blog stops here.

Or maybe not. Twice, I have tried to get out of the internet. Twice I have failed. The first was at Yahoo 360 just after my return from NYSC, when blogging began to seem a far less comforting alternative to tangible social consciousness, and day jobs. Now last week it hit me again - the devil, and I turned the blog off to only allow private viewership. The peace of mind I envisaged therefrom however did not last. And here I am again. Apologies to all while I still contemplate a final solution. Till then, here we are.

So, meanwhile, let me recommend the following (new?) blogs: Kiibaati, Nilla, and Mack. That is if you have read OWNB, and Noni Moss. Also BlogAfrica and NigerianBloggers where this blog will continue to be aggregated even if it ever get's taken off the public.

The world around me is changing.
I must too, again and again.
Hope the light at the end of the tunnel
is not that of a coming train!

"Our greatest fears is not that we are inadequate... but that we are powerful beyond measure..." Williamson

iGwatala!

Monday, January 08, 2007

Two poems, mine

MACEDONIA
Lagos again, December


Speak you must, muse, in taps, raps -
Drum, tat-a, rolls of a furious key.
The tongue to rile a fog of blabbing naps.

As with a lost wing, flap on white winds -
Serrated dots of letters, dice dials of thought
Move the night with mares of omen rinds.

Why do you forget yourself so? Soul-
Journer of a sea of words and flaming fate?
It is I who call. Grant the bearing role.

Speak you must, muse, in raps, taps -
Drum, tat-a, rolls on a furious key.
From this fringe of meagre dream of wraps



IF THESE WERE WRITTEN IN TIMES PAST

They would smell of rum, maybe wine
Of a pristine dance on brown keys that tapped,
Rasped in echoes across father's dusty lounge.

They would reek of innocence, shy lines
Of the toddler whose eyes lay only in the silence,
laden trivia of books, and old record sleeves.

They might show relics of a hopeful child lie
Within a bulwark of rage in the silence of night,
Quiet when adults slept with ears apart, dead to the world.

They would try to hide the author's disgust
for past bustles, home noise and day jobs,
Useless rants that mainly deter than fuel a budding muse.

But it wasn't written then, and so the past remains
Bilked in bits of old rum in even older flasks, and pains.



(c) All rights reserved. 2007.