A- A A+

The homeless fugitives from the east

2 Comments
Victor Ugwu, E. Unimke Ugbong, William Okello Kadima |  09 July 2017

 
Selected poems

 

 

Three Poems

1. Sunday II

            I ran my father's kiss   
  into a bible thrice

& prayed
it turned blood to bubblegums

        sliced my skin
           to avocado halves

        & a miracle
turned a frying pan inside out

on a candle
                    I rebore in chumming

          of lathers
           candy and apples

Jesus wash his wound 
in lime water

                                  while I draw ghost at night
& break songs from a cherry seed

 

2. (S)he

From an acoustic
you pluck
an apple

Ultra whiffs waft
red bleating
into spheres

he wash a strand
in teasmoke
& weed

Behind a mural
she is a nude 
drawing of orange
water

your feet unlocks
& flares waltz
while whirling
into creamlight

 

3. Fun era

A day in the absence
       of transparent leathers
     — a funeral café or birth —
        there was wine,

to many songs,
       spilled gin
& long spiral smoke
in dispersal in a red room.

gleaming heavy humans
choke the house —
these passive bees

my best me in air
      entered them
      in the kitchen
      & ran back to me

I sew mallows
    from pig skin
    arrange them on grandma's bed
    like fine plaited whorls.

Did not wish
to be found
tucked in a beautiful
blue and white morning

the outline of my bone
transparent in sin —

Covexes apt
to break under
a thread of 
blue light

I was in a wine tumbler
glassy, ice in my ears
churning in orchestra
                  and my intestine
                  spilled itself
                  in an unsteady stream
                  stirring in acid

— Victor Ugwu

 

 

The homeless fugitives from the east

We remember that sad morning,

when the bombs exploded,

when the cold air, suddenly became too hot,

when the flock became wild,

how they ran into the wild.

look! see! The vineyard is still on fire!

look! see! The market stalls is still on fire!

 

We slowly limped,

towards the west we head,

to where the air is still cold,

to where the field is still green,

towards the West,

to where came the bombs, we head.

 

Day and night, with,

blood and tears, with,

hope and patience, we limped,

towards the West we head,

to where came the bombs.

 

We have escaped,

the burning flames in the East,

we have trend,

the thorny paths,

 

We have crossed,

the Rocky Mountains,

we have sailed,

the Sea on makeshift boats.

 

At last! The border we see,

towards the West we approach,

to where came the bombs.

 

At the gate of the West we stood,

we request entry,

we request a stay, at least for a short while.

 

No was their reply,

why no, we asked,

because you are fugitives, they answered,

 

No place for the fugitive,

the East is on fire,

the gates of the West have been shut.

 

We the homeless fugitives from the East

limp about with no place to seek refuge.

 

— E. Unimke Ugbong

 

 

 Be bold and build him

Be bold and build him
He's not good enough for you
Pick up his bones and make him better
Bae is not sufficient to run the world
C-suits demands for bosses,not baes

You are the queen of his heart
You can be better if he owns an empire
Yes,you touch the floor for him
Others will kiss it for a moment with him
If only your unending demands
Would be unending investments

Sister, there's no shame
In making a man
Drop a sweat rather than
Dropping your dignity
In endless make-outs
They won't earn you any worthwhile title
The baes and the sweetnothings
Will never weigh more than
The title deed you own together

The turn-ups and the girls' night-outs
Are heart-lightening moments
But moments come and go, time lapses
But a place to call home always stands tall
Even when you are short of the once glowing skin
And the club lights can no longer shine in your old eyes
Be wise, be bold, build him and broaden your titles!

— William Okello Kadima

 

 


Victor UgwuVictor Ugwu writes from Minna, Nigeria where he's a member of the Hill-top Art Foundation. His works have been featured in various journals both online and in print. He's a photography enthusiasts as well as a lover of music or anything that excapes the mouth of an R&B artist.


Unimke UgbongE. Unimke Ugbong is a poet and a teacher of social studies and global literature. He is currently studying history and international studies at the University of UYO, Nigeria.


William Okello KadimaWilliam Okello Kadima is a final year marketing student at Strathmore university Kenya.

 


Victor Ugwu, E. Unimke Ugbong, William Okello Kadima


Comments

Comments should be short, respectful and on topic. Email is requested for identification purposes only.

Word Count: 0 (please limit to 200)

Submitted comments

i suggest the second poem, '' The Homeless fugitive from the east'' should be published on a separate page. it contains unique messages, which deals on contemporary issues, the refugee crisis.

ugbongug 12 July 2017

Thank you for these poems. I particularly enjoyed Victor Ugwu's imagery and voice.

Anne 13 July 2017

Similar articles

You beaut country

Tony London | 03 July 2017

xxxxxHis baseline is country, ridges, lakes, breakaways, songlines, and we are taken along the skylines of his imagination which shoulders its way through the streamers of the players race, colours askew, bursting out into the field of play where we are invited into his game, his rules, goal posts he moves forever, we engage with the master gamer.


My hospital visit

4 Comments
Isabella Fels | 26 June 2017

Woman in hospital roomLying here in this hole, I try to feel whole, trying to do as I am told, making a few bold moves, as I swing out of bed, and hang onto my mobility devices - which I am getting the hang of, almost like learning how to drive a car - and showing lots of drive. In bed, not even well read, just eating bread, staring right ahead. As you help me pack up my things I no longer feel stuck in the same place, falling steadily in many different ways, no longer feeling the sun's rays ...


Spider shiver

5 Comments
Anne Elvey | 19 June 2017

Autumn leaf in spider webto build the bless of a soul spun in curled leaf left since autumn dry on the stem (another is unstamped in the box beneath the latest literary magazine) my fingers tentatively test it for spinners and for silk that shivers with prey ...


Our addiction to connection is centuries old

4 Comments
Sarah Klenbort | 15 June 2017

Posting It: the Victorian Revolution in Letter WritingOn a recent tour of Vaucluse House in Sydney's east, I couldn't help but notice, in every bedroom, a writing desk. I imagined Sarah Wentworth scribbling away with inkpot and pen 180 years ago. I wonder if the Wentworths went straight to their writing desks first thing in the morning, the way some people check their phones? The desire to receive news from someone somewhere else is century's old. In 1850 Tasmania had 11 newspapers, for a population of 70,000.


The story of the dog who wouldn't be ours

11 Comments
Catherine Marshall | 15 June 2017

DogsIt was humiliating, being refused adoption at an animal shelter. But it was worse knowing, in the ensuing months, that there was a little dog out there, and lots more besides him, who was being withheld from a genuinely loving family simply because they had failed to meet unreasonable demands. We tried to find a suitable dog at other shelters, but the pickings were slim. And so we did the very thing the shelter that had refused our application railed against: we bought a puppy from a pet shop.