League Day 10, Round 3 – LOW18
Welcome to the final round of league Day 10.
League Of Wordsmiths is an initiative of Whyke Anthology which began last year. Serving as a means of promoting poetry, story writing…and art as a whole, across Africa, whilst also serving as an aid for young, budding, aspiring…writers in the African diaspora… Continue Reading Here
This round is for the poetry category, and would see Aremo Jah, Oni Tomiwa, Dipe Jola, and Adebowale Kolawole slugging things out for the prize.
Theme For This Round is: Graphic Pictures
Also Read: Results For League Day 3; Round 1, 2 & 3
1) Judges Decision takes 80% of the total decision, while votes recorded from voters takes 20% of the total decision.
2) Under no circumstance should you guess the owner of the individual stories.
3) Voting lasts for 24hours.
4) Only Votes recorded in the comment section of this post remains valid.
5) Vote using “I Vote poem 1”, or “I Vote poem 2” or “I Vote poem 3”…
6) A voter is allowed to vote maximum of 2 poems out of the 3 contesting poems.
7) The contestants are urged to invite friends to vote for them. No rule exempts you from canvassing for votes.
Let The Game Begin!… May the best story win.
I am my father’s portrait
My mind wears his thoughts;
This colour is on my body
Because his picture is drawn on my heart.
My father is the graphic picture on my shelves
His name is written on every corner of my room.
Every letter of his name is a prophet
That speaks to me in different tongues.
My father is an image
Which speaks with me at night.
His voice an echo; an echo of truth,
Resounds incessantly in my ears.
Also Read: My Love For Love – Poem By Solomon Temitope
In my country, this is how we honour heroes.
They fetch you the last song
Of Ken Saro Wiwa at the gallows
And pour it down your throat.
Then they show you those bodies
Sprawled in mud and blood in Benue
And those relics of miserable ribs
Relinquishing Biafra’s plenitude.
Or they remind you of those
Half burnt khaki men lost
In the thickness of Zambiza,
Returning home as stinking messiahs.
Then they say;
Take these, eat
For what Nigeria had made clean
No one shall call unclean.
Your mother is holding a smile not hers
Even though her smile is angelic enough to burn,
She adjusts her caked face, widens her set of
Teeth to hide the terrors of yesterday drooling
Deep down her heart.
A shot is flashed across her ravishing face –
You do not know about the water it holds,
She beckons a heavy heart; of nights she burned
Under florescent lamps so damp yet excruciating
Her cerebrum inks the night of butterflies
How she’s wished for freedom from this
Carnage inside her – of dead memories, of
Ruptured souls, of scintillating scenes maybe that
Is why she loves the Gladiolus.
For the preservation of those thoughts
She waters the pink flowers before and after bed,
Keeps them near sunlight for the fragrance
Of forgiveness and for strength.
I still think the star is a liar for promising peace,
She cries into the night,
She lets her tears to flow gracefully
Left her fears to fight. But then
The dawn is here
She’s caked up again to feign the pains
Of her nudity.
I watch the waves crash in, breaking on the shore
Indeed, nature is a perfect graphic to see
All their anger dispensed on the oceans floor
I look at the sky so blue, sun shining so bright
Allocating heat and happiness with its glorious light
Long blades of grass swaying in the morning breeze
Glowing in glory and crystal on its lease
Lo! I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold;
Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out
The year and I are old.
In nature I sought the prince of pictures,
, Even our valleys, it’s the Lillest of the lilies
He’s the Captain of cosmic hibiscus
Glowing under our filthy course
Indeed! Nature is a perfect graphic to see
In the valley I sought the golden flower
Hidden in our primal days — the ages that blossom
But I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold.
Indeed! Nature is a graphic to behold!
Thou art the Fountain of happiness, and the father of the fatherless
Thou art the Purple hibiscus in the colourless valley.
Doth the painting on our face of ugly clays? Or of the natural baley—
Of your marvelous builded Lilly.
And today I stand that—
Who shall beautify our course? Like the fountain hibiscus!
Before the graceful picture of life seep and our celestial days weep.
Before the million masks of God flip and the land fall asleep.
Who shall paint our course?