Category Archives: Poetry

The Poet: Thank You For The Mockeries

Thank You For The Mockeries

Thank you for the rejections
They made me strong
And the backbitings
They made me focused

Thank you for the mockeries
HE was making me backstage
Your eyes shall see my rising
In a case of foe turn friend

If Joseph wasn’t betrayed
He wouldn’t emerge a star
You thought it was a mess
But HE turned it to a message

Thank you for the smiles
Emanating from your lips
And not from your heart
Judas smiled at HIM too…

Always, l wait on Him for all
Always, one second to my shame
Just one second, HE shows up
That’s why I call HIM “Jehovah every”

When life throws darts at me
I fight on my kneels
He who kneels before HIM
WIll rise above any challenge

HE is the reason for my season
Each time I see a new dawn
With the droplets of the morning dew
I bow and “Rababa” to His Majesty

Even the devil knows
I am too connected to be flustered
Friend, the good news is,
The world will soon know my name

By: Babatunde Raimi
Nigerian Author/Poet/Life Coach

The Poet: Do You Know My Country?

Max Ese Anderson, Writer & A Poet among others.

DO YOU KNOW MY COUNTRY?
(A Poem On A Failed State)

Do you know my country
Where the leaders of tomorrow
Are wallowing in perpetual sorrow
Where the rulers selfishly borrow
To make our future hopelessly hollow?

Don’t you know my country
Where “light” is never available
And potable water is not achievable
Where good roads are not sustainable
And security is woefully unattainable?

Tell me you know my country
Where corruption is applauded
And lies and failed promises lauded
Disregard for the rule of law is flaunted
And oppositions are relentlessly haunted

I am sure you know my country
Where hopes and aspirations die
As they feed us with this rotten pie
Cos today’s failure sits on yesterday’s lies
Chained to a bad system we cannot untie

Now you must know my country
Where we build places of worship
Rather than developing entrepreneurship
Where those who do not sow reap
While the suffering masses weep

What’s the name of my country
Where education and health suffer
To satisfy the avarice of law makers
And past leaders continue to plunder
Under the guise of being godfathers.


© Max Ese Anderson 17/06/2020.

The Poet: WHY POETS TAKE SNIPER

Prof. Wole Soyinka And Sa’id Sa’ad Abubakar

WHY POETS TAKE SNIPER
(For Everyone Who Lost Their Lives To Suicide)

Chukwuemeka Akachi’s Facebook wall is a museum today, with artefacts. It is a historical site where thousands of travelers walk in everyday. Often times, others invite friends and of course others went in to drop heartfelt comments, that might never be responded to.

Today, we have seen numerous death of young promising writers by suicide. Exactly last year, we lost the talented Chukwuemeka Akachi, whose death spreads like sandstorm. Same year, an online literary blog published the name of five young students writers who died by suicide. Shortly, we learned the news of another young writer’s exile who was never seen again. Again, more suicide cases were recorded. And recently, we lost Rachael Adeleke, another promising poet. And today,we hundreds of other Akachi’s or Rachael’s among growing writers battling with depression, alone. Therefore, one year after Akachi’s death, I was motivated to write this essay just the way Dr. Jennifer H. Mike of American University of Nigeria was motivated to start advocating for discrimination of attempted suicide in Nigeria, after Alachi’s death. As such, most of the finding mirrors Akachi. I write this, with sorrow of the lost souls, pity of those battling now, and hope for the future ones.

‘’I HAVE FINALLY LEARNED THAT POEM CANNOT SAVE LIFE” Pages Matam.
On World Poetry Day 2019, Akachi posted this thoughtful quote. Certainly, poetry cannot save a dying poet, for it is not always an antidote. Most times, poets didn’t find sorrow in poetry, but poetry find sorrow in poets. Many writers discovered writing or poetry due to some psychological ail they found themselves in, thus in an attempt to have a voice, they became writers. Poetry is a horse and poets are the riders. When poets climbed on the saddle, they lost their power to control the bridle with their hands. Thus their minds control the horse. In this case, a depressed poet begins to write ‘Dark Poems’. Poems spewing pains, anguish and grief. And now, their poem is no more a therapy to them like other poets, it became a weapon, an embodiment of shackles. And I ask, why do poets often times end up seeking for honey in their puzzled path that can’t save their lives? Are we the only depressed set of people, then why is ours different?

FAIRLURE AND REJECTION
Most times we openly say; ‘we are writing for ourselves alone.’ Everyone of us understand that writing career is never a rejection-free career, even those who haven’t had experiences have read about writers whose bellies were filled with rejection letters. However, the stark rejection of a work that you have put in restless weeks to produce in a place you were expecting resounding applause can be very frustrating. But I think Its more frustrating for a young writer who gets two acceptance out of fifty submissions per annum. On April 23rd 2019, Akachi posted one of his rejection letters with the caption; ‘Some Rejection Sef. SMH.’ A letter that starts with ‘’Thanks…unfortunately, the submission is not right for us at this time.’ And ends with; ‘We see you poet.’ After the post, a friend comment with ‘This is encouragement’. And Akachi replied; ‘Really? Ok. Well it is better than silence.’ This is not just Akachi, rejection letters have been breaking our spines. Presently, I am on a break after receiving over thirty rejections just from January to April. I suppose it happens to every writer, but what do you think of a young tender one who only finds little smile in their writings? And how about the young writer who only finds home in their writing, and rejection sends them packing? I think we should have an online magazine named TRASH that would publish all sets of trash we sent, without rejecting them. Lol.

WRITING IS A PRETTY DEMON
A lot of people see writing as a demon. Maybe a pretty cute one. Well I may not be one of them, but we can delve into their points as well. Many see writing as an eye opener that possesses one, introduce them to deep helpless thoughts and imagination, to the deepest point at which they wobble with questions that no one have answers to and answers no one can question. Introducing them to a new planet that stands atop planet earth and see differently from every other person. Maybe with twelve more eyes. Ifeanyi Nwakpoke, one of Akachi’s close friend in his personal essay about Akachi said; ‘’…And in most cases I have walk with him so we could talk. And in many of the cases, it is about ‘existential questions’, because of how a certain online magazine didn’t publish him….’’ So, If writing is truly a pretty demon (sometimes) when do we know the right time to break out or stay? How do we get to live with this beautiful pretty demon?

VALIDATION
I wouldn’t want to raise the old sleeping debate about writer’s validation. Perhaps not this time. However, as writers we know that we must learn to self-validate ourselves, and derive the pleasure, rather than validation or rewards that may or may not come. However, we equally need to be honest with the process, to understand the pain of those young dudes who have been doing it for a while and the world seems very busy to listen. To make us say the naked truth about what validity means to a writer; to be realistic about how Prizes presents a cake to writers career and how books see the eyes of the day for having ‘New York Times Best Selling Author’ tags on them. And lastly, to say the truth about how painful in can be to work, and work and work again, for years, and no one notice. On March 28th 2019, Akachi published a two words post, ‘Fuck Validation’. To me, these are words for aren’t just two words post, they are paragraphs of pain. Similarly, on 7th April, 2019, he posted a certificate of recognition as an editorial assistant for NantyGreens, with the caption; ‘This just came in. I am so happy.’ You see what validation does? Good. It is apparent that everyone has their own motive, but those who write for themselves alone are keeping them in their wardrobes. A little ‘Weldone’ means a lot. A month after the death of Akachi, I went through his Facebook wall. And I find out that a lot of his posts have few or no likes or comment. But the biggest irony now is that; all his post including those with as few as two words are getting hundreds and thousands or reactions and comments on them everyday. Moreover, during my research on this essay, I found almost 150 blogs, news media and literary and non literary magazines who have published or written something about Akachi. The world is crazy right? Now tell me, how do we confront this?

ROMANTICIZING SUICIDE
In the words of Kukogho Iruesiri, which I find very true, today people so much eulogize suicide so much that the young people get tempted to go for the glory. Many young people especially those experiencing psychological discomfort among the young writers see suicide as a medal you receive (or others received for you) after a 1000m race, that they make it look so golden, especially if it contains elements of suicide notes in them. This is not an attempt to disapprove the fact that people get depressed and think of suicide. Depression is real. Suicide is real. But the young people (depressed) go beyond to think that victims are people that won war without any scratch, and walking out proudly with the beats of victory drums. This is not my opinion, but what is visible. The question here is, why do we get applause when we write about suicide and death?

WRITERS ARE WEAK AND UNHAPPY
Writers are weak, strong, happy and unhappy. We are water, we don’t have forms, we take the shape of the container we are poured in. That is why we are writers, because we are humans too.

NB: Suicide is not an option!

The Poet: DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH ME

Stanley Ikechukwu Egeonu, Porthacourt, Rivers State, Nigeria.

Don’t fall in love with
me, I’ll will hurt you with
affection and gift,
I will kill you with kindness
and watch your heart fall
like a shell of groundnut,
I am romantically dangerous!

Be warn, my smile is
dazzling and penetrating,
like the sun it will scorch
your eyes and burn your flesh
on my bed of rose and make
you feel intoxicated like
someone who drank alcohol.
Don’t look at me like that,
I am romantically dangerous!

Don’t fall, no, I beg you
don’t fall, with me your life is
at risk, my charms are too
strong and I have nothing to
loose, if you fall, you can’t
resist me, my voice is gold
and my steps are lustrous,
i will break you with care and
leave you shattered like a mirror.
Don’t fall in love with me,
I am romantically dangerous!

I may appear tall and fair
and handsome but if you take
a closer look at me, I don’t mean
my eyes, but at my attitude,
you’ll see I am cursed by love,
I will unleash her spells on you
and melt your ice with my fire.
Don’t look at me like that,
I am romantically dangerous!

Don’t fall in love with me,
anything that falls get broken,
I will hurt you with affection
and crush you with load of gift,
I am romantically dangerous!

From; “The Mad Writer’s Reality”

By: Stanley Ikechukwu Egeonu

The Poet: DEMOCRACY TO ME – Zarban

I was born inside darkness,
I grow inside darkness,
But they said, Government of the people.

I study inside poverty,
I walks inside poverty,
But they said, Government of the people.

I study day and night,
I graduate with flying colors,
But still am jobless.

I vote him with my finger,
He cheat me with his pen,
But they said, Government of the people.

I slept with mosquitoes and cockroach,
He slept with air-condition and diamond,
But they said, Government of the people.

People are dying because of hunger? joblessness among youths is increasing?
But they said, Government of the people.

By: Zarban Yusuf Alhaji

The Poet, is Daily Watch Press platform that feature young Nigeria’s poet. Dedicated to the promotion of literature and creativity amongst the youths.

You can send yours for consideration through dailywatchpress@gmail.com

The POET: NEW NIGERIA – Peter Ekpe

They might certainly say the obvious
They think we do less right and more dubious
Like One Aliko Dangote and a million Hushpuppi’s
Please hold on Mr. Racist bobby
We are more than just what stinks
And way above what the west think
You think what defines us is to do what we are told?
Cos our nation is in the market of powerful elites sold
But we are more than civilized
We are an idea in the process of being realized
Our culture strung together in woven aso-oke tapestry
And the colourful design is what makes our history
With influences that range from A to Zed
And yes, we say Zed instead of Zee
We are the brightness of all that is black
The Titans around the world that never slack
Our ambition is called an advisory content
Though we hope for the President that is God sent
Cos we believe in generation beyond our own
Knowing many of us intellectually have grown
Like the Women Gladiators against the democracy of dominatrix
The young generation plotting the graph of our political matrix
Summoning the courage like cathexis
To fight same Politician’s shedding like ecdysis
One day, the take over revolution will be televised
And the balance of restructuring will bring forth a rise
From the battle zone of Sambisa forest
To the borders of eko we shall build a fortress
More than the Danko hills to Munungu mountain peak
And on the country side of the Mambilla plateau we will seek,
Knock, progress, tick tock, tick tock like a clock
Standing for ages in unity like the Olumo rock
Deep inside the ancient Ogbunike cave
To the ambiance of Abuja we will crave
And merry with the bliss of Orido’s palm wine
For our eyes will glisten like the northern sunshine
Because we are myriad choices in the South and West
And million upon million striving voices in the East
Shouting, exploring the earth like merchants
Industrious in the battle of survival we chant
For pacifism and the dividends of democracy
Against bad leaders demonstrating nothing but demo-crazy

By: Peter Ekpe.

The Poet: Momma’s Word

Adewole Haneephat, A Young Poet & Writer, Lagos State, Nigeria.

The Poet: Momma’s Word

Its a brand new day,
Momma told me to let my pain pass away,
She said I should look at the sky,
I told her if only I could fly.

She said it is quite a mile,
Always hide your pain with a smile,
Decision you make must surely be important,
That I should not choose because I want.

Always attain the best with all your night,
Never let your goal out of sight,
I should decide if its right,
Don’t end your friendship with a fight,
My problem should be my plight.

My momma is my source of inspiration,
With her came my sensation,
Through her came my creation,
She will forever be my motivation,
She will always be my benefactor,
I give thanks to my creator.

Momma told me her love for me can’t be measure,
And that I may not be so sure,
That I am more than a treasure.

The Poet: Black PRIDE – Ifeanyi ONwuBU

Photo credit: Walter photography.

THE POET: BLACK PRIDE – IFEANYI ONWUBU

Who can match the
glory of the black
woman?

Adorned like the hanging
gardens of Babylon,
crowned like a lioness
in the jungle.

The swing of her
hips is the downfall
of kingdoms,
her brown lips has
lulled their mighty warriors
to sleep,
as she has stepped
into the city and
executed a great kill.

Shooting the sharp arrows
of a darkened eyes,
any man in her sight
she’s left stunned.

Her bosom is a
cradle for kings,
her soft breasts has
nursed giants.

Yet she ties a
down-to-earth fabric
around her chest,
and she smiles while
the whole world admires.

The Poet: A FALL FROM GRACE

Joy Ahmed, A Poet, Student, Young Writer From Abuja, Nigeria.

The Poet: A FALL FROM GRACE

I fell from grace
That’s a total disgrace
I slowed my pace
Because my sins were too great to run the race
I forgot that there is a place
Where saints and sinners are placed.

I fell from grace
I could no longer behold his face
I no longer feel his overwhelming peace
I’m troubled as one lost in space
I became too far away to see he still cares
I’m even ashamed to pray in his name.

I fell from grace
I went so close to the grave
I was confused as one in a closed cave
I wanted to gain the fame
But ended up in pain and disdain
Everything became sour
I was slowly drowning.

BUT MERCY SAID NO

And he raised me up again
He gave me a chance so that my glory I can regain
In my mess he held me closer
When others had called me a loser
My world was recreated.

Grace spoke for me
And to me a new name was given
He wrapped his arms around me with love
And like the prodigal I was welcomed with a feast.

He clothed me with honour
He anointed my head with the oil of gladness
He took the shackles of shame off me
He restored my lost glory
And granted me abundance of peace.

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