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.