By
Shola Balogun
Metaphor Of My Wasteland
The chorale of the balladist
in the Akropolis
is the metaphor
of my wasteland.
There is communion
in the silence
of the millstones
and in the dimness
of the eyes.
There is union
in the absence
of songs
and in the ravages
of the sun.
Restless run of the unrest
at the polling booths
is for rice.
My people pant after rice.
The beggars and the abandoned
street children grope for oil lamps
as darkness draws the veil
over their plea to the state.
Patrol wagons rid the streets
of probing eyes of the poor.
There is bond
in solitude
and in the limits
when the heart envy the birds.
The loneliness of the homeless
is the metaphor of exile.
Crusoe
I ride on the waves
of their lies
and tell how vicious men
master vain manners
for a piece of unhallowed bread.
I ride on the waves
of their rumours
and belch at the ridiculous riddles
of the swindlers babbling boisterously
in the scam of their filthy scandal.
I frown at the unholy fragrance
of their floppish feats
and gaze with contempt
at their lusty eyes
longing after the lucre
of the poor;
I mete also the verdict
of the cohorts of vandals
and in no little weight
find in it
the thirty pieces of silver.
I ride on the waves
of their humours.
In The Slum
Deep down in the slum,
There is more sacred baptism
in silent doctrines.
Invading fears are ripen
nightmares.
They keep you
bellow the pool of debris
to keep you alive.
Your baptism is complete
when you rise slowly above
the muddy waters,
and in a sudden roar
laugh at the charity
of the state.
To A Friend Who Died In The Swamp
Rivers meet in my eyes
for you.
Transfixed on the veiled
Mound of the swamp,
Lone Beholder of unsteady opera
On rotten marble,
You saw the reeds dancing
To unknown winding plight,
Smothering storms broken
At your feet.
Doors of the earth swung
Into the dark footage of the waters
As they took you in.
The river that meets rivers
In my eyes for you
Is a lament for a nation.
Great poetry from a profound mind!