African Books Collective: Les Douleurs de la Plume Noire Posted using ShareThis Continue reading

Ma venue n’aurait été qu’un début Du retour qu’aucune personne n’aurait crû Lors duquel rencontrer ce clown à sept Tête produirait tous les jours une grande fête Bouillonnant dans le cerveau de ma plume Dévêtue de tout ce qui est costume ; Ne fus-je point né avec de vêtements Pour qu’à visage nu portes-je mon testament Langoureux pour toute oreille attentive Mais dépêchant un camp à la dérive ; Çui du lynx se disant indomptable Tout pour masquer qu’il est incapable Et mesquin, cultivant grande peur partout Or ma venue sert aux miens le ragoût. Continue reading

Bill NDI's Toil and Delivery can be as playful and loaded as the clues in a cryptic crossword puzzle, which is to say that they are marked by a strange, energetic hybridity. They occupy a dynamic space between nursery rhyme and visionary Romantic verse, between the colloquial and the archaic, between post-modernity and anachronism. They are local and global, political and personal, Western and non-Western. With experiences traversing both Africa and the West, Bill F. NDI is one of those poets who gives meaning to the word globalisation. He embraces poetry as a material act in a troubled world, with... Continue reading

Blood ’twixt Green & Yellow When the waves wash off our coast Not far from the Chariot of God, our boast Spitting flames golden yellow Telling of forebears’ Sorrow In Victoria near Cape Limbo In our twisted tongue, Limbe We dream the flames will be out When the waves have come and gone We wake up to see nothing undone Not even the blood stain ’twixt green and yellow On the flag flapping as the waves goad us follow Not as our parents did with the République That burnt, killed & buried Federal Republic Where Paul as Jo before does... Continue reading

Excerpt from Mishaps and other poems. Kamerun’s August Visitor. When a thief gets into the safety vault It is never any one’s fault Not even when all is evident The mission was by Mr President Ordered just as I did to kill 1985 And to bury 1985 With none seeing me welcome 1986 Whose ghost, in this month of my birth since Pursues me. And the journey I remember; Awaiting high school GCE results Harbouring no thoughts of assaults And on board a bus from the Tropical Rain Forest To the Grassfield where rest I hoped I find, To my... Continue reading

He called himself a poet Knowing his days were numbered He shamelessly quintupled his shame. What a shame! When wind brought home his death Instantly knowing not, pity rained Before coming to learn of his game Faking everything he ever did claim His death for sure, he didn’t fake. Yet his life and his death did justice cheat Leaving all those trapped in his game maimed Mol, Mol, Mol all fake dead or alive nothing has remained Consciously he left that ‘E’ out of his name A letter to have defined the spirit in him concealed What other spirit could... Continue reading

Tamara Little Mexican girl, when we met that summer Your crimson red did stick out just like a flower We fell in love Madly in love Led by Jove To the cove That’s where we came And without shame; Doing it in all positions Caring not in what situation Falling Standing Lying Spinning Sitting Jumping Flying Landing And to the ground You turned around In your words: “You know what?” And I sought after that! Hearing I’ll be father of four For you and not father for four Preordained before hand by a wife Meeting one like you must be... Continue reading

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poore: With thee Oh let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me. My tender age in sorrow did beginne: And still with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sinne, That I became Most thinne. With thee Let me combine And feel this day thy victorie: For, if I imp my wing on thine Affliction shall advance the flight in me. Continue reading

Goat in Black and White Skin Running around DC hotels Turned headless chicken Scavenging for a man and a woman Both mad in Love, caring less For madmen, specialists, fools and goats Who would find them in their hive As if stumbling on a pasture These goats nod with satisfaction They’ve humiliated lovers, finding them! Love in its wake, in its stormy sea Laughs at the song singing down love Laughing and laughing heartily Prayers raining grey matter for this goat, A lawyer robed in black and white. Continue reading

A single piece with bare and windowless walls; a cracked concrete floor crammed full with recyclables and plastic storage bins; three simple Styrofoam mattresses lie close to each wall: one’s for mum and dad the other’s for my younger sisters and the last is for my brothers and me. We’ll lean them up against the walls at daybreak, just in case it rains. The fluorescent flickers at 6, and we start up – like meerkats, and breathe in a new day. We’re happy to have a place to stay, three square meals a day, and one another. Achirri May 15,... Continue reading

Shall my country feel let down? Yes! The King’s! When he shall drown! In his mansion flooded with wealth That from our nation steals good health Like cancer compounding with might Our socio-political plight That’s left our nation depleted; So, why must the King not be ejected? Now and just now push him to drown And let woe sweep him off the ground; Our ground he has stolen and sold Wanting his deeds to go untold. Upon making the scribe beggar He makes his might appear bigger Giving to him and his a leeway To duplicate highwaymen: Waylay! Our nation... Continue reading

Notre radio m’avait tellement chanté A l’époque je fus très enchanté D’entendre que débrouiller n’est pas voler Profane, mes oreilles la buvaient Heureuses d’apprendre une rime Ignorant la justification de leur crime Aujourd’hui d’homme de la rue aux politiques Ils ont des ailes pour voler ; pour eux un art ludique Qui me laisse sans savoir qui des deux se débrouille Et qui des deux la piste me brouille Toutefois, les deux se disent se débrouiller Et en flagrant délit, je les vois bien voler ! A Reader's comment I like this take on what one might term “la culture”... Continue reading

Who said sunset was not a medicine man? Is the gruesome night with mysterious calm Not the devil himself who would smile At this old fool driven and left senile To thinking himself Donne’s busy old fool Swimming in ignorance, his glorious pool? Old senile King, after twenty seven Odd years, you’ve left our country so broken By your deep greed the waters of the seas Won’t come close to washing the joy that fills Your measure so corrupt earning your name That stinks a stench so putrid; what a shame! Continue reading

Welcome to TypePad! This is a sample post you can edit or delete later. Continue reading