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Wednesday, 31 January 2018

Night by Wole Soyinka

Your hand is heavy, Night, upon my brow.
I bear no heart mercuric like the clouds,to dare.
Exacerbation from your subtle plough.
Woman as a clam, on the sea's cresent.
I saw your jealous eye quench the sea's
Flouorescence, dance on the pulse incessant
Of the waves. And I stood, drained
Submitting like the sands, blood and brine
Coursing to the roots. Night, you rained
Serrated shadows through dank leaves
Till, bathed in warm suffusion of your dappled cells
Sensations pained me, faceless, silent as night thieves.
Hide me now, when night children haunt the earth
I must hear none! These misted cells will yet
Undo me; naked, unbidden, at Night's muted birth.

                         LITERARY ANALYSIS  (summary)

       Wole Soyinka also known as Akinwande Oluwole Babatunde Soyinka was born on July 13, 1934 at Abeokuta, Nigeria. The foremost Nigerian Playwright is well known for his plays; The Lion and The Jewel (1959), The Trials of Brother Jero, Death and The King's Horseman (1975), and Madmen and Specialist's  (1970) amongst his 30 plays.

       Winning the Nobel Prize in Literature (1986), Wole Soyinka is not only regarded as a playwright but also a Poet as well as a political activist who was arrested and placed in solitary confinement for about two years by the Federal Government of Genral Yakubu Gowon during the Nigerian Civil War (1967).

Monday, 29 January 2018

We Have Come Home by Lenrie Peters

We have come home
From the bloodless wars
With sunken hearts
Our boots full of pride
From the true massacre of the soul
When we have asked
‘What does it cost
To be loved and left alone’

We have come home
Bringing the pledge
Which is written in rainbow colours
Across the sky-for burial
But is not the time
To lay wreaths
For yesterday’s crimes
Night threatens
Time dissolves
And there is no acquaintance
With tomorrow

Friday, 24 November 2017

Black Woman by Leopold Sedar Senghor

Naked woman, black woman
Clothed with your colour which is life, with your form which is beauty!
In your shadow I have grown up; the gentleness of your hands was laid over my eyes.
And now, high up on the sun-baked pass, at the heart of summer, at the heart of noon, I come upon you, my Promised Land,
And your beauty strikes me to the heart like the flash of an eagle.

Naked woman, dark woman
Firm-fleshed ripe fruit, sombre raptures of black wine, mouth making lyrical my mouth
Savannah stretching to clear horizons, savannah shuddering beneath the East Wind’s eager caresses
Carved tom-tom, taut tom-tom, muttering under the Conqueror’s fingers
Your solemn contralto voice is the spiritual song of the Beloved.

Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Ours to Plough, not to Plunder by Niyi Osundare

The earth is ours to plough and plant
the hoe is her barber
the dibble her dimple

Out with mattocks and matchets
bring calabash trays and rocking baskets
let the sweat which swells earthroot
relieve heavy heaps of their tuberous burdens

Let wheatfields raise their breadsome hands
to the ripening sun
let legumes clothe the naked bosom
of shivering mounds
let the pawpaw swell and swing
its headward breasts 

Let water spring
from earth’s unfathomed fountain
let gold rush
from her deep unseeable mines
hitch up a ladder to the dodging sky
let’s put a sun in every night

Tuesday, 21 November 2017

The Casualties by J.P. Clark

The casualties are not only those who are dead.
They are well out of it.
The casualties are not only those who are wounded
Though they await burial by installment.
The casualties are not only those who have lost
Persons or property, hard as it is
To grope for a touch that some
May not know is not there.
The casualties are not only those led away by night

Wednesday, 15 November 2017

Song of Lawino by Okot p'Bitek

Listen, my clansmen,
I cry over my husband
Whose head is lost.
Ocol has lost his head
In the forest of books.

When my husband
Was still wooing me
His eyes were still alive,
His eyes were still unblocked,
Ocol had not yet become a fool
My friend was still a man then!

He had not yet become a woman,
He was still a free man,
His heart was still his chief.

My husband was still a Black man.
The son of the Bull
The son of Agik.
The woman from Okol
Was still a man,
An Acoli.

My husband had read so much,
He has read extensively and deeply...
And he is clever like white men

Friday, 13 October 2017

We Are

We are born with skin.
Defined by our skin.
Confined by our skin.
Awarded for our skin.
Disgraced for our skin.
Pitied for our skin.

Saturday, 7 October 2017

A Plea For Mercy by Kwesi Brew

We have come to your shrine to worship
We the sons of the land
The naked cowherd has brought
The cows safely home,
And stands silent with his bamboo flute
Wiping the rain from his brow;
As the birds brood in their nests
Awaiting the dawn with unsung melodies
The shadows crowd on the shore
Pressing their lips against the bosom of the sea;
The peasants home from their labours
Sit by their log-fires
Telling tales of long-ago.
Why should we the sons of the land
Plead unheeded before your shrine?
When our hearts are full of song
And our lips tremble with sadness?
The little firefly vies with the star,
The log-fire with the sun
The water in the calabash
With the mighty Volta,
But we have come in tattered penury
Begging at the door of a Master.

                         Literary Analysis(Summary)

The struggle for independence has never been easy. Many African countries triumphed through trials and thorns, blood and brothers to gain their freedom. Ghanaian born writer, Kwesi Brew, makes this the theme of his poem,"A plea for Mercy". In 1968, Kwesi Brew published his first collection titled "The Shadows of Laughter" which is divided into five thematic structures including"A plea for Mercy".

Sunday, 1 October 2017

Freetown by Syl Cheney-Coker

Africa I have long been away from you
wandering like a Fulani cow
but every night
amidst the horrors of highway deaths
and the menace of neon-eyed gods
I feel the warmth of your arms
centrifugal mother reaching out to your sons
we with our different designs innumerable facets
but all calling you mother womb of the earth
liking your image but hating our differences
because we have become the shame of your race
and now on this third anniversary of my flight
my heart becomes a citadel of disgust
and I am unable to write the poem of your life

my creation haunts me behind the mythical dream
my river dammed by the poisonous weeds in its bed
and I think of my brothers with “black skin and white masks “
(I myself am one heh heh heh)
my sisters who plaster their skins with white cosmetics
to look whiter than the snows of Europe
but listen to the sufferings of our hearts