I fly but I am not a bird!?

No, wait.

I lay eggs but I'm not a bird!?

No. Not that. This:

I give birth, but I am not female.

Hilarious paradox, actually.

You were the one who once told me my writing was of different nature than yours and you know what? I am glad that it is.

I like the fact that your writing is indeed different in nature from mine.

But why do I get a feeling that there's something else in that sentence of yours that I have not got, something along the lines of your dislike for my style, or the nature of what I write?

gwatala:

I fly but I am not a bird!?

No, wait.

I lay eggs but I'm not a bird!?

No. Not that. This:

I give birth, but I am not female.

Is it possible?

There're boundreis you're allowed to tred, when you do things but refuse to be atypical. _{I fart but I'm not a farter . . . . it could get much worse.}

@Gwatala: I wanted to send you this one but there was a problem and I was in a hurry:

No! I just like that for me it is a game, something that I can enjoy and not an obligation. To me, the writer's block is nothing I must fear (unless it should affect my academic work)! And I am glad for THAT.

Let me run for my class now so that olukoo mi won't tell me: O pe pupo!

macalurs: [---] but refuse to be atypical. [---]

Did you want to write "typical"?

thanks for the correction. You do come in handy you know that right?

Ko tope.

Question, somegirl and gwatala, are you guys an item? Just asking ni o. nice poems tho.

No.

Great work,Gwatala. As a budding poet,you are one of my role models in this forum. Pls view my poems too and let me hear your comments;whether good or bad.

Great work,Gwatala. As a budding poet,you are one of my role models in this forum. Pls view my poems too and let me hear your comments;whether good or bad.

Hi Basic. I like your name.

I shall look at your poems. I presently and send you my comments.


Be good.

Dedicated To My Favourite Radio Channel
“Radio Nigeria”

They made an interview with me,
Asked to which channels I listen.
I answered them very politely,
“Gentlemen, ladies, there’s just one.”
And eagerly they wrote it down.

“Would you tell us the name?”,
They inquired with their pens ready.
“You wouldn’t recognize it anyway,”
My reply ticked them off, so I added:
“It’s an old signal from a distant past.”

“My favourite channel broadcasted
For only one single hour, decades ago,”
A dozen eyebrows were raised,
“However I can’t forget the moderator,
His voice still vibrates in my head.”

“This is Radio Nigeria … Radio Nigeria,
We are broadcasting life from Ibadan.”
Twelve pairs of eyes looked up,
In surprise to what I just had revealed
And recalling a footnote from my memoirs.

“‘Twas Ibadan where I lost my heart,
You remember well, just as do I myself,
‘Twas Ibadan where I fell in love
For the first and for the very last time
And now I listen to a channel that is no more.”

“What happened to the moderator?”
One of them asked with a hint of kindness
“Is he still there?” – “Yes, still in Ibadan,
You might have heard of him if ---
But only if you loved Nigeria and its poetry.”

“His father once was a famous man,
Until the son’s light grew brighter,
Now the father’s star has disappeared,
And only the son’s name reminds of fame
And of success beyond a radio show in vain.”

A great silence followed after this,
Neither me nor they said a single word,
As if we just had to wait a little while,
For the cracking sounds to give way
To a voice unheard for many, many years.

Yet even before the last of the bunch
Had disappeared, clenching on to their notes,
Old, weary me had drifted off to sleep
And in my dreams it was I heard him say:
“This is Radio Nigeria … I am here.”

Lust, call it lust to avoid distress,
On a second thought, call it pain,
Vanished solitude replaced by loneliness,
Even if you yearn for little, it is in vain.

Is it only from afar that you can love a sparkling star?

Once, a hot star scorched the ones he loved,
Wild outbursts of lava erupted from an icy heart,
His wife, his little ones, all were left with scars
And the smallest son with fingers frozen off.

How can one write with only stumps to hold the pen?
How can one love with an inner turning colder?
A new star was born, blistering and bitter,
Doomed to circle lonely around his blazing dad,

While there is a fruitful rock waiting to bring forth life,
Not to become a fierce star herself but to love one,
To bring harmony to his different layers and tones,
And all she asks is what he can’t give: a gentle light.

ah, great poem. I must now find a way to match this

Sigh.

Please mon amie, would you deign to give a little insight into this one?

Mais oui, mon amour, but which one of the three above?

The three of them my dear. Well, maybe not the first one, except if you insist.

Here is my first response:

To the Rugs of Noffield House, where it all began

Since they won't squeak when our host lay next door
snoring, reading, or wondering the evening away like us!
Even the Cameroonians missed the tryst that played
like a serenade beneath the walls of their gathered nose.

(1) Too long --- tell me, what is unclear?
(2) Did you find the "hidden" word?
(3) Oh, how to explain this? I thought a second-generation poet would understand. Is this hint enough?
(4) Almost had forgotten those rugs. I won't say no more.

I get it, and that's why I ask. I gotta go now. Wanna start my own autobiography

Ok, gotta go soon too. Technology is starting in an hour. Looking forward to reading that autobiography. Gonna be short, abi?

I'm kidding about the autobiography part. I aint got the computer to even write the shortest line. And you know my aversion to handwriting in such a case.

Well, shit happens. All these reminisences are threatening to run me nuts.

The sky is mine. The world is mine.  I can go anywhere.  I can do anything.  Am I God? No! I am hope.  

@gwatala and somegirl

While I enjoyed both you guys poems I found myself more interested in the conversation that has continued between the two of you since August.  Somegirl appeared to be an enemy yet strangely gwatala has made her a friend.  

Just one thing though, great minds do NOT in fact think alike but rather, they think for themselves.

Eyes wide shut while diligently seeking
those key things that makes ones soul sing,
Happiness, love and liberty.
                            - Goddess Jones

@Gwatala: Pele --- but, nuts? Se iyee koko ati koro inu-eso ni?

Rara o.

@ Chiluvgod. hmmm. Interesting analysis.

No need for apologies somegirl.

What I meant was that I think that you are both great writers. Also that somegirl you seem offended or threatened when an opinion differs from that of your own- hence the quote
", great minds think for themselves."

Secondly-
Eyes wide shut while diligently seeking
those key things that makes one's soul sing
happiness. love and liberty.

It comes from an American poet- a revolutionary.
It simply refers to a certain perpetual blindness that we all suffer from.
The blindness is due to the inability for us to see all and know all etc.
Yet despite the blindness we are constanly in search of the things that will satisfy our souls.
These things ultimately lead to happiness, love and liberty ( freedom { usually mental})
Ironically, because of our perpetual blindness, we sometimes fail to see that those things are right in front of us.

Hence the analysis that you all seemed to have become friends. Which in my opinion is what somegirl really wanted.
This is not a smack at you but more of a compliment.
I merely enjoyed reading intelligent insight from intellectually astute beings rather than read about "Beyonce's booty" and "can you love a married man".

Words are sometimes used as metaphors to paint a picture or to depict in colors what one couldn't physically act out. That's poetry. Sometimes it's abstract.

@chiluvGod8:

Which appologies?

And, NB, Gwatala and me were not talking about opinions but the reality.

Reality,

and opinions.

Sometimes often the different sides of the same coin.

@Chiluvgod8

You did not just join Nairaland, did you? Just curious.

If you did something, then it is reality and not just an opinion.

gwatala: I get it, and that's why I ask.

Sorry, now I have to ask: What is your question then?

But if you talk about something, then it is an opinion. An informed opinion backed by reality.

I ask why you write. i.e. What is your immediate motivation for those two last poems. My (former) blogger profile? Recent conversations? Stray thoughts? or just the almighty muse in its recurrent mischief?