SURELY YOU ARE

Yes, I'm sure you are.
You push doors that clearly say PULL.
You laugh harder when you try
to explain why you're laughing.
You wall into a room
and forget why you were there.
You count on your finger in math.
You hide the pains from your loved ones.
You say it's a long story when it's really not.
You cry a lot more than you think you do.
You care about those who care not about you.
You try doing thing before the microwave beeps.
You listen to me even when I don't.
Yes, a hug will always help.
Surely, you are - a woman!

Dance the Death's Beat
By Mutiu Olawuyi

From his foamless tiny bed I picked:
Loneliest home it is; darkest sight I see;
And silence drums my ears; beyond bad
my condition-I dare not sprawl when pain me
skin far beyond bone in the palace of six
feet - unfit any lived velum during feasts.
Here I am - the home of emptiness;
the hut of hotness; the fold of coldness;
the termite home that houses worms and rodents;
I live with my long elapsed dead deeds.
Love is lost; my properties - now turn lust.
Once I was a cemetery passerby
waving and wailing, to my beloved, goodbye.
The other way I picture, I poke, I pare
and tongue their tears as my divine fate live me.
Finally I have paid - my last debt I owe Death...
Cry not; dry thy tears - my return won't come.
thy last abode soon too shalt be formed.

I am One of The Caged Birds
(To Maya Angelou)

My shank pip out to spot my fellow wings,
though of different colors and shapes,
from the fluid cage since the shadowy point.
I sulk to flee the cold from the callous snowy soil,
though the coop metal gate was bolted,
with my bald and skinless neck.
And those like me in blood and eye-sights
crouch with outward smiley face -
built with rotten rice and cassava and maize.
Dogs eating dogs and things fall apart –
Our cooked foods are enjoyed by our visitors
and we – turned their watchmen.
And our crops turn their plants for us to buy.
They’ve swapped our bearers’ tongues with theirs.
And they on our wings now survive.
Our saliva is dry – we can no longer sing –
We wheeze and sneeze to feel an atom breeze.

Surely you may know – why the caged bird sings;
how the flutes of others fine-tune his throat –
hidden to the free bird flowing in the cloudless sky .
I am one of the caged birds – troubling my gangan,
bata and kora, yes, for freedom of my vein’s wits,
and of her sights and hers legs. The caged bird
no longer sings but wheezes, sneezes and drums not.
He shivers but never allowed to dance.

 

My Father's Thongs

One frozen silent windy day without sun,
I think I heard him once in his sitting-room:

Sulyman Ifawuyi - descendant of Elerin Mosa,
the manipulator of ladogba leaf who tripped
beyond Erin-Ile before the advent of the albinos,
turned Ifa to Ola and his opele to turban and rosary;
then incantatated in foreign tongue from the desert.
He warned never to place one calabash in another,
never to shun His foreign Deity or go back his ancestor's.
He bought for me the thongs of the desertman and the albino's,
even though the albino forced me to change my desert name,
and dance to the beats and lyrics of his deity called the Christ.
And I did. I did because my legs and palms would have halted
and my palate and lips would have been only sticked to the date
brought by the desertman. "An eater of honey in the rock
looks not at the edge of his axe." said son of Edumosa,
"And if your palm hasn't touched the sword handle,
ask not for the cause of your father's catastrophic death..."

These witty drops drench my ears as the moonlight crouches
in her hut...He too, I see, in his father's thongs calling his kin...

A STORY FROM A CARING SNATCHER:

On a joyous lovely day I snatched
Away her parents' heart
with my kin and flashy cars -
though borrowed from my folks.

On a frozen silent night I snatched
Away her long cherished flower
with my tongue and special rod -
though gently jerked with styles.

On some days of greyish leaves I snatched
her God given timeless caring smiles -
replaced with oval bearingless Aches -
though sorries took my tongue.

On the fateful day nearly I snatched
her irreplaceable pampered soul
with the passage forced ajar -
though at last she brought a life...

At His Burial Ground

On the day he said goodbye

to his friends like passer-by,

I was there with shaken heart -

for the way my friends depart…

So I had to fax his site -

to prepare for burial rite…

Then we called for Arik plane

on a night of heavy rain…

Monks appeared with chanting verse.

And they burnt my friend to ash…

And they asked for charities

to appease the deities…

For my friend to sleep in peace

with his Lord and feel His breeze…

I HAVE VOWED NOT TO COMPLAIN AGAIN -

Because I am Unique.

I yowled for days I had no food
till I met someone without tongue.
I howled for months to pay houserent
Till I watched on TV refugees.
I screamed because my boss loads me
till I met millions without job.
I bawled because I speak too slow
till I saw stammerers with B. Eds.
I shrilled because I'm blessed with rags
till I saw mad ones without clothes.
I used to screak for being alone
till I became a passerby of graveyards.
I sometimes screech because I trek
till I watched thousands without legs.
For years I squealed for seeing blackouts
till I watched babies born without eyes.
For timeless times I shriek for cash,
but now I know the rich too cry...

Message to the Septagenarian Poet President:

 From A Poet Without Border

“Latest news, The Jungle Poet!
Muse has raised a president
In a land of Commonwealth;
He appeared as ninth elect,”
Said on phone a sophist friend.

As I heard the sweetest news,
I was moved to call for dews
On the soil of Ireland
And alert the poesy band
To prepare to aid Higgins
In his steer of Irish beings.

Minds of poets are borderless –
They assist the powerless
And deny the tyrant beasts
To display their victory feasts.
That is why Higgins arose;
With the Muse and Ixchel’s rose
To reshape the squeezed parole –
And assure the Irish souls
That his term will strongly stand
For the beat of oneness band;
That his term will bomb the base
Of the minds of racist face;
That his term will stand for all
And the base will never fall;
That his term will cure the minds
And the brains of rotten kinds;
That his term will stand for peace
And the ease with common kiss;
That the land will not regret
To have made a poet the head…

I am proud to be a poet;
I can say I’m President;
I can say I’m born to rule;
I can say I’ve won the race;
I can say I lift the base
For the rest of human race –
Thanks a lot the Irish Poet.
May your term be blessed with ‘wealth’!

Mutiu Olawuyi
http://versesofthejunglepoet.blogspot.com/

Occupy the World Street – Not Only the Wall Street

Adbusters busted out a fateful day
With equity call in New York;
‘coz the purse of some emptied
For the purse of few to full.
We are all casualties –
Not only the York City
World should stand against the beasts
And alert the west and east -
For the purse of all to smile;
For lobbyists to close their files;
For the wrong to change to right;
For the right to rule the left;
For the cloud and land to kiss
And enjoy the normal breeze.

 

9/11

A NEWLY INTRODUCED FORM OF POETRY
CALLED
9/11
It is a poem of 9 lines with 11 syllables and 11 words. Two words in lines 1 and 9, and the rest with one words
See the below example titled 9/11:
...

9/11

A bird
missed
her
way -
streak
strike
broke
the
New World.

NOT YET TO ANSWER YOUR CALL

Dipo:           Our lives are shinning so bright
                    With hope and promises.
                    We hoped to find greener pastures
                     In our beloved country.
                     The flag of destiny is blowing for the winds.
                     Let’s taste the wine of cheers
                     And forget our fears and tears.

Jungle Poet:   The winds of Lokoja and Boko-Haram?

                     or the floods of Ibadan?
                     Bright with ties and empty purse?
                     Wine and dine with scattered home?
                      Using God to cover hope?
                      Though I stay afar from home;
                     ... here I smile at least a bit...
                     Time will come for me to come
                     Wait - I get the sword and kit...

ULYSSES WHISPERED

To sail beyond the sunset,
and, alert the stars of Muse
like you, to share the blood
of Poetry in us, until we die.
''It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles''

PERFORMACE POETRY: LOHIAN VERSUS JUNGLE POET

ARE POETS PHILOSOPHICAL? A Dialogue Between Lohian and Jungle Poet (Revised)
.................................................................................................. 


Jungle Poet:     Good Morrow
                          A new day has come.
                          Good morrow, Lohian!

Lohian:            Good morrow
                         DEAR, you got up with light in your eyes,
                         faith in your breath and might in your pen!.

Jungle Poet:     Thanks
                          So I think you did too!
Lohian:             (laughs)
Jungle Poet:     How is India today?.

Lohian:            India today is hopeless                        
                         and tomorrow too.

Jungle Poet:    Hopelessness is not for Poets!
                         By the power of words.

Lohian:            sufferings and hopelessness
                         give birth to fine poems.

Jungle Poet:    So do the happiness and enjoyment!
                         As a poet: The deeper your heart ;
                         the better you write.

Lohian:            Poet creates hope from hopelessness,
                         sure, happiness from sadness.
                         when more deep like an ocean ,
                         there won't be shallow waves!.

Jungle Poet:    What calls for SHALLOW waves?

Lohian:            Waves only appears in shallow waters, not in deep waters

Jungle Poet:    And what beautifies ocean? Only waves?
                         So do the creatures deeply in -
                         Minerals and Animals!

Lohian:            by sun, cloud and sky!
                         horizon!

Jungle Poet:   How does the sun survive?

Lohian:          islands and corals

Jungle Poet:   Cloud and sky and horizon?

Lohian:          even small wooden fishing boats with fishermen
                       and the kissing mouth of sea towards the shores!
                       all make up beauty of ocean!

Jungle Poet:  Which one of these is better of?
                       Ask yourself a million times!

Lohian:          the sun dips himself helplessly
                       in the horizon with his red hot face!

Jungle Poet:  Stealing from others' props
                      Just to live?
                       ...With frowning face?
                       Exploiting them?

Jungle Poet:  Is that your best?

Lohian:          No! there's nothing best!
the best is an illusion!

Jungle Poet:  And imagination?

Lohian:          (laughs)

Jungle Poet:  (laughs)

Lohian:          Imagination is a wish to see
                       what you like! An unconscious wish!

Jungle Poet:  And illussion is...

Lohian:          wish=perception,thoughts,
                       feelings,critical mind etc.

Jungle Poet:  Check your two definitions:
                       'wish' is just the meeting point!

Lohian:          agree. you can beyond too as a poet!

Jungle Poet:  False idea or impression
                       is termed as none but illusion!

Lohian:          all the poets are more or less illusive

Jungle Poet:  And for 'imagination':
                       mental picture creation
                       - and ability.

Lohian:          yes, there will be abilities.
                       poets differ from each other
                       in their seeing abilities.
                       Your ability may be my weakness!

Jungle Poet:  Perhaps you mean:
                      All the poets are less illusive,
                       but more imaginative!
                       ...correct?

Lohian:          for example you are nature poet
                      You see wonder beauty of nature.
                       on the other hand another poet
                       won't see it after all!
                       I mean won't see the beauty of nature.

Lohian:          children are more imaginative than elders;
                       can we call them poet in a normal sense? NO

Jungle Poet:  hmm…So you mean... in sum,...

Lohian:          I mean, nothing. To find meaning,
                       theme, moral, etc. is absurd
                       as far as a poet concerned!
                       He writes, eats ,sleeps, loves,
                       imagines , that's all.

Jungle Poet:  Are poets not philosophical?
                      Just psychological?
                       ... you mean?

Lohian:          yes, they are, just like any body else.
                      But they have a little bit of itch on their emotions.
                      Their ass being kicked by themselves!

Lohian:          (smiles)

Jungle Poet: (Smiles)

Jungle Poet:   So you mean:
                        Poets are not open-minded?

Lohian:          It depends on the way he sees
                      the world within himself.
                      One may be or may not be.
                                              (Exaunt Lohian)

Jungle Poet: (Laughs) Wait. Lohian. More questions. Wait!
                                              (Exaunt Jungle Poet)


                              (BLACKOUT)

Literacy Day

Learn to code and share
And decode to change the sphere -
If at all you care.

What I Heard From Indian Friends:

Brahma moulds and creates a being –

That is why He’s Mighty King…

When you fail to worship Him,

Shiva comes with painful cream…

When you show a sign of praise,

Vishnu lifts his smiling base…

Rama too and Lord Surya

often help like soothsayers…

Bhairav Lord and Hanuman

also flog ungrateful man…

That is why you see today –

Conscious men would never fail

to appease the Great Brahma

and request from Lord Rama…

A SPEECH FROM A DEAD BODY:

I Heard, I saw and I lived…

I heard: the death you stare away

will meet your sight along your way…

I heard: a man is fixed with time
and blessed with strength to coin his prime…

I heard: a man is blessed with mind

to watch the screen of earth or blind…

I heard: you frame your future bright

with hands and legs of left and right…

I heard: a man can beat the rest

with tiny tongue like teenage breast…

I saw: the grace of Mighty Being;

that He endows on human being…

I saw: and felt with free breathing -

the smiling eyes and those crying…

I saw: and felt the cupid face

with dangling breasts and queenish rays…

I saw: the rows of iron men

with combat strikes in reddish den…

I saw: a lots of man’s colour

painting a house without parlour…

  

I lived: a life with dignity

and faced the term – calamity…

I lived: with hope to shape my life

in such a way that smiles can dive…

I lived: with men of fading hopes -
with hatred hearts and scattered ropes…

I lived: to share with young and old,

but they opined to frown and fold…

I lived: to share my smiling face,

but sons of earth would want disgrace…

And here alone I face challenge

on how I lived my earthly age…

...............................................................................................

LULL THE CRYING SOULS

(Dedicated to Somalians)

The hungry land is swallowing
the helpless souls and wallowing
with frowning face and deafening drum -
beating bellies with deadly rum...

The heartless cloud and land connive
to sieze water - for man to strive
and claim the souls of young and old
with extreme hot and careless cold...

The smiling moon has gone afar;
the caring stars are now debarred;
the catering breeze is chased away
and aches has filled the night and day...

The legs cannot withstand the drought;
they only stick to what is brought
and call with tears the Mighty King
to bring relief and sudden spring...

I hear the cries of dying souls -
With pains they call for feeding bowls:
''We need your aids to live longer;
we quest for help to live better!''...

You need to lull the crying souls
and send your aids in million folds...

..............................​..............................

UNDER THE IROKO TREE (Classic)

Under the tree -
Iroko;
There we display
Our game…
We are happy;
We are healthy –
Under the tree -
Iroko…

 -تحت الشجرة
إيروكو؛
هناك نعرض
... لعبتنا
نحن سعداء؛
 -- نحن صحية
 -- تحت الشجرة

...إيروكو

IN DEPENDENCE – NOT INDEPENDENCE…

To join Indians in their Celebration of the 64th years of Independence -
(15/08/1947), I have a 64-lines poem written thus:

IN  DEPENDENCE – NOT INDEPENDENCE…
By The Jungle Poet

Heroes have tried to face the gun
to save our land and now they're gone
with hope to hear the dancing drum
of smiling eyes and new reform
but vice versa is brought in turn
by gold-diggers that share the corns
with selfish minds and heartless beings -
oppressing souls for worldly things...

Heroes had fought for freedom sake;
aliens were sent away with aches
and brought relieve to every mind
to share the smiles with living kinds;
but politics of modern days
has spoilt the fruits of freedom base -
Ranking the poor to super-poor
looting their purse to fill their store...

The gentle men of peaceful night
are none but youths with future bright
who faced the toils to go to schools
to shape their minds with earning tools.
With all their strength they tried to heave
the heroes' dream with strong belief
that once a day their road will smooth
but now today they live with sooth...

Elections call for shedding bloods -
And activists are flogged with rods;
The silent minds with beating hearts;
The ploughers’ tools are foes to earth;
Even inkers are not at ease,
And lovers too can never kiss.
Constitutions are turned over
To suit their needs and hold power
Without a fear of Human Right –
Without a care for crying sights…

They use the shrines to boost their ways
And never think to count their days
For they have bought the souls of priests
And think they’re now unconquered beasts…
They rape and kill and jail with ease;
Decrees are formed for mouth to wheeze;
They steer the land with hunger dents;
And fill prisons with innocents…

And those we called the government guards
Are just the tools to make it hard
And kill the dream of heroes past
And silent souls with deadly blast –
They lie and file against the souls
And work with courts to fill the holes
Quoting sections and subsections
In books they planned for oppressions…

Shakespearean time was filled with masks
Obama’s time has called for axes;
The public purse is blessed with tears
And masses hearts are filled with fears…
No one to speak the bitter truth
Atrocity has spread its booth
And stand at ease (like soldier’s boot -
Ready to clear the men on foot)
With Generals of soul clearing
And sharp shooters of no bearing…

And every year they gather us
For matching pass of men of force
To stab the end of alien’s rule
And mark the birth of selfish rule…
...............................................................

DOES GOD EXIST?

By The Jungle Poet

''Does God exist?''
I asked myself.
Where every palm
is filled of bloods?
And every tongue
enforces tears?
Darkness and light
Are all covered
with mourning here
and everywhere...

Does God exist?
I doubt he does -
The hereafter
is just a tale...
He gives a doubt
for punishment:
He never cease
to freeze a bit
on those that cane
without reason;
The rotten hearts
are kings on earth;
the cobra tongues
rejoice around -
They never feel
a bit of cry
and never taste
a bitter soup
and yet we say
that God exists...

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