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This Poem is Not an Elegy
This poem is not an elegy,
let the dead not rest in peace
as we always pray at funerals,
for the wicked
to have the last laugh
but return as heavy as
a raging hurricane storm,
as a haunting nightmare
with indignation and fire
in his belly, for justice!
This poem is not an elegy,
let the dead not go to sleep
in the cruel matchbox
they hurriedly stuffed him
away like a reproach,
to bury their bad conscience;
when the brood of vultures
bask in the nourishing
warmth of the morning sun;
savour the lastest luxuries
and hit the night-clubs at
weekends, free as a bird ...
but return like an Abiku,
from a place of indignation;
with as many bullets
for each bloody wolf hiding
in plain sight like ghosts
from the slumbering eyes of justice.
This poem is not an elegy,
let the dead not rest in peace
for the vultures to throw parties
at the expense
of our collective peace,
I am tired of mourning!
The News
The news like a vampire,
always has blood dribbling
profusely from its stories...
like a serial killer, is never
free of blood on its hands.
There are always reports
of bloodshed lying here
and there in the pages
of the dailies; horrendous
stories of carnage slashed
by well over three quarters
of a dozen, to be news worthy.
Stories of gruesome murders;
of genocides, pogroms
and kindred in diverse places,
perennially claiming outrageous
taxes of human lives here
and there in their hundreds.
The stories grow gorier
and scarier by the day in their
numbers without a breather;
daily drawing closer to home,
and one is left to wonder
without the benefit of doubt,
amidst haunting fears of
safety crippling the heart,
where the next bomb
is scheduled to go off
and who the victims
of the madness would be?
And so, we wallow in perpetual
paranoia like a tarsier;
sleep with either eye wide
awake on the look out like
the dolphin, wary of everything.
My People
And what will my people
not do to see you "humble?"
To drill you into a sheep
acquiescing to status quo.
To refine you into a puppet
they can string here and there
like an acoustic guitar.
They keep slapping you
on one cheek, expecting you
to turn the other, in faith's name.
Then brand you a heathen
and send you to Coventry
when you reach your rope's end
and repudiate the bridle.
When you turn out a "dissident"
and move to break the cycle.
Perfectionist
I keep writing each verse
(poem after poem)
over and over again
like a playful, sloppy school
child in kindergarten, who
can't scribble his English
alphabets correctly ...
changing each time, a phrase
or two my "perfection-is-
the-mark" editor-in-chief
would not let go in—
rules out of the picture.
Or better still, I should say
does not pass the bar.
I admit the latter is the case
and quite exhausting at that,
so much so that the flames
die out, burn to cinders
before the yam is halfway
ready to be roasted.
So poems that may have rode
the sunrise, may have turned
out little gems, never make
it pass the pruning shears,
never gets completed,
because they must go through
the eye of the needle!
because they must touch the sun!
They die off flower after
flower from neglect, unfulfilled.
Emmanuel Karibi Obuala is a budding Nigerian poet, writer and thinker from Bayelsa State. He is a literary enthusiast with a penchant for the art of poetry, especially African poetry. His works have appeared on a few literary platforms. Emmanuel plays Scrabble and video games for leisure. He is @EObuala on X.com and can be reached by email at obualaemmanuelkaribi@gmail.com.
