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Yas Niger

Tag Archives: African Poetry

Nigeria is 58

01 Monday Oct 2018

Posted by yasniger in Poem, Poetry, Politics, Stories

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Tags

African Poetry, Life, Nigerian, Nigerians, People, poem, Poems, Poetry, political, Politics, worries

Today is the Independence Day of my dear country, Nigeria.

And the following poem by Abdullahi Marcel E-dris sums up how most Nigerians feel today…

“So they gathered
Plotted nothing but pure evil
How much more to be murdered
This they planned and executed
Many times over

“It’s a tale of misery
The people wonder what they’ve done wrong
Killings and maiming everyday
The blood and tears keeps flowing
The bodies keep piling
The earth tired of swallowing

“Where are those we voted?
Where are the so called “leaders”?
Those who swore to protect the best interest of the people?
Those who blare sirens everyday…
Those driven in tinted vehicles…
Those whose children never face such harsh realities…
Those who take party issues more important than lives lost…
Those who fuel these crisis…
Those who careless who dies…

“Our worries deepens
Our cries louder
Our losses more
Our pain deeper
Our fears bigger
Our doubts fatter
Our faith thinner
Our laughter fewer
Our joy weaker
Our confidence in you almost dead

“The call
Is that of action
That which will bring lasting peace
Ease the pain suffered
Heal the wounds covered.
This we ask
This we demand.
Thank you.

#Nigeria@58”

Yes, most Nigerians are so sad & scared today…..

One Hundred Tributes for One

13 Thursday Sep 2018

Posted by yasniger in Essay, Poem, Poetry, Stories

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Tags

African Poetry, Age, Death, Die, grandmum, hundred, Mother, ngo, Old, People, poem, Poetry, Time

We recently lost our Grand mother…

She passed on in the morning, on Monday, 2nd September, 2018.

She was laid to rest on Saturday, 8th September, 2018.

She was a few years over hundred. Her exact age was a point of debate. Since it was unanimously agreed she was over a hundred years old, the logical thing was to state her age simply as hundred.

She matched amongst plus the hundred,

Amidst all and sundry, her kindred.

She lived her plus the hundred,

And stood out like one in a hundred.

Our Mama lived cherished,
And will never for us, be perished.
Ever she is so revered,

For so long very endeared.

Rest In Peace Ngo….
We fondly remember your cheer..

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

22 Friday Dec 2017

Posted by yasniger in Poem, Poetry

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Tags

African Poetry, People, poems. poetry, Time, Wise

The Poet in the Poem: A must read

03 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by yasniger in Essay, Poem

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

African Poetry, Body, Fiction, heart, literature, Mind, Nature, Nigeria, People, Poetry, romance, Soul, Time

A collection of over 250 poems that reflect on man as the poet and the actor who handles the helm of his affairs, on a timed cruise. His abilities compose and steer his story, as his capabilities and fate enables him. It encapsulates the essence of poetry, using eloquent words to convey the poet’s thoughts and experience. The poet mans the helm, and the cruise is his composed poem.

AA- THE POET IN THE POEM (Cover)
Download “The poet in the poem” from this link:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309
THE POET IN THE POEM
The eyes see the tears,
In response repelled are the fears.
The flesh’s demand is so goody,
As sure as it is of the body.

The truth is buried within,
Hidden from all kith and kin.
The conscience ever tells a fact,
As sure as it is of the heart.

The brain’s constant thought
Depends on how deeply it’s taught.
Its reason is based on its find,
As sure as it is of the mind.

The spirit reveals the person,
It eludes comprehended reason.
The future will show the foul,
As sure as it is of the soul.

Interchanged as its suitor,
It tells all about the actor.
The poet mans the helm,
The cruise his composed poem.

This is a collection of over 250 poems that altogether seeks to reflect man as both the poet and the actor who handles the helm of his own affairs, on a timed cruise, down his very own banked personal river. Using his abilities to compose and steer his poetic story, faring only as suitably as his capabilities and fate enables him.

The essence of poetry is in its use of eloquent apt words to convey the poet’s exact thoughts, as they are felt or experienced by him. Like it is the actor’s ability to apply specific skills to portray a scripted character reveals a story, it is likewise the poet’s grant to create the content and set the beauty of the words.

If the soul is scripted, if the mind can think, if the heart does feel and the body is specific; then every individual distinctively roams on a course throughout their lives that can be manipulated to fit their own different experience, but not actually change it. For the poet mans the helm, and the cruise is his composed poem.

A few of the poems…..

1002030_239524122876406_1799735937_n

1487269_10151884092748800_733365902_n
THE FUNERAL OF ICE
The making of he who is
Has origins in the air he is.
Made in secret, carried about.
Revealed openly, in and out.

Gathered in the skies high,
To roam as mist up high.
It bursts the banks it fills
And cracks downwards to fill.

The hardening effect of frost;
Granite and so harsh a host,
Conquers the whole land
So that air can’t lend a hand.

Mightily the season comes
When the diamond becomes
Water again and it all ends;
Melting into a liquid that fends.

1002030_239524122876406_1799735937_n
BATTLE OF THE CELLS
Who must comes first,
Males or the females?
This knowledge a thirst
That quenches with cells.

If what is common birth
Forms females or males;
Supremacy is their myth,
Caged within each cells

death
DEATH
Cruel, cruel death
We have never met.

I only just heard
Of the fear in tears you said.

You’ve been about the herd
And oh the wonder you fed.

Who tells if you’re sent
When you only just left?

1467458_10151884096153800_1062913147_n
MANNA
Is to live a curse or gift?
If you wonder, you need a lift;
Up to the skies of living memory,
Back and forth man’s own glory.

smoke
MOUTHING PIOUS PLATITUDE
Two gentlemen of the world met,
Sitting on a park bench together.
They shared as their extremes let,
Yet their unique talents will hinder.

Pious is the madman, who lives here;
His abode ignored but litters the world.
Platitude, a he cruise his composed
poem. that goes there,
To seclude from the kind his world mould.

Crazy in his rags and papered home,
Pious welcomes his regular guest’s tale.
The rotten egg welcoming the bone;
Like a dog, he shows off his one tail.

They converse about a news item;
The learned Prof reads off his News daily.
Forwarding arguments befitting them,
Each reasoned man’s folly mainly.

Teachers sought reason for the sane,
Making sense of theories as realities.
While the insane do the very same,
Realities as theories are certainties.

In ostentatious escapades of the mad
Roams religious virtue so uncommon
And in sanity’s commonness easily had
Grows the loose morality we do summon.

Embedded in their platonic briefs
Is the story of their common child;
Man’s common sense and beliefs,
Are like madmen’s, when all are blind

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