League Day 11, Round 1 – LOW18
Welcome to the opening duel of league Day 11.
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.
This round is for the poetry category, and would see Yusuf Halima, Adebowale Kolawole, and Aremo Jah slugging things out for the prize.
Theme For This Round is: GENOCIDE
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. Poem 1
This nation is a bed of lilies –
The ascendant of angels with
Soiled wings, stained gowns,
Torn bodies, punctured hearts,
Unclad soul and as it is the
Peace of lilies graces the
Path to eternity.
This nation is a bouquet of
Colourless hydrangea – of
Innocent blood, of insane
Purity, of heavenly droplets,
Of bruised heart, of bullets
Pulling beings nearer to the
This nation is a broken vase
Of little red roses – for lights
Gone away, for dark sunshine,
For weary nights, for empty
Embraces, for confined space,
A rose for the memories of this
Day and days to come.
This nation is flooded with
Flying Roses, hallucinating
Hyacinth, withered Irises
& dead Lilies, every black Friday
When the nation is burning with
Suicidal questions and filled
With those exiting their bodies.
Bombs and Rifles
The hope of tomorrow
That wear our faces the smile of today
From our done and dead yesteryears I remembered
Of their long rifles that buries papa’s head.
And their big boots that kicked papa’s face and bucket into broken tears
In those days when the old winds blow —
And the blue waves billows
Our roofs tremble at Hitler’s voice
Our cracking lips faded with the harmattan moist
And the rude noon burnt mama’s soul,
And kept her head frozen on my hands
While soronous concerto sang sorrows
Leaving the blue cloud to gather hopelessly
In those days when the old winds blow.
Cold tears used to cook my stomach and melt my heart those days
Shapeless water burnt my cheek on farmland ways
When papa call to sleep on his rectangular grave
I live alone fearfully brave.
Till the latter part of the earth, I’ll continue searching..
Searching for greener fields,
Where no Genocide of my friends be
Where Bombs and Rifles have not been.
Till the latter part of the earth, I’ll continue searching.
Searching for the grave where no shade of death is cast.
I was denied of my rights
Because I’m dark in complexion
I heard black is devil
So my act will be evil.
My body can be black
But my heart is white
Red is the blood that runs in my veins
My eyes are a combination of black & white.
Don’t chase me out of the world
Because of my colour
Colour is just a beauty in the world.
Don’t kill my emotion
Because I speak in my native tongue
It’s just the way I was made and brought up.