One finds a poet who sounds less like his environment or the rest of his remaining works. One finds a horde of clannish poets who have resumed trapping their styles in the net of the other. One finds a literary community that has forgotten to produce the spirit-immersed poetry, the kind that broadly establishes the contaminant emotive will; not the kind that breeds a hive of self-importance—tributes and odes to self—that which undermines the vicarious role of pathos.
A Big Airplane Crashed Into the Earth. I read Soyinka’s first collection of prison poems sometime in 2009. Categorically, I need not ‘push dumbfoundment to beg simplification; I hate a wasted talk—I am African’.That professor, I thought his poetry came off as jagged as his hair. But I too was, in admiration and near-fanaticism, curious—… Continue reading THE LENIENT POEM AND SUBTLE MEANING (an analysis by Oludipe Oyin Samuel)
Many things are allowed in the ‘most contemporary’ Nigerian literature, even psycho-imaginative meningioma; proclaim the very art of purposeful nationalist writing— countryside lyricals, activist poems from the contained ghetto-minds— I say the dynamics are vastly enmeshed in the spurring notes of sincere satire and a so self-indicting, predictable sadness, that which oft never redeems the… Continue reading THE THING WITH INTERPRETERS (an essay by Oludipe Oyin Samuel)