I come from fields of fractured ice,
Whose wounds are cured by squeezing,
Melting they cool, but in a trice,
Get warm again by freezing.
Here, in the frosty air, the sprays
With fernlike hoar-frost bristle,
There, liquid stars their watery rays
Shoot through the solid crystal.
Deep in th' abyss where frantic horror bides,
In thickest mists of vapours fell,
Where wily Serpents hissing glare
And the dark Demon of Revenge resides,
At midnight's murky hour
Thy origin began:
Rapacious MALICE was thy sire;
Thy Dam the sullen witch, Despair;
Thy Nurse, insatiate Ire.
The FATES conspir'd their ills to twine,
O Venus, the queen of Cnidos and Paphos,
spurn your beloved Cyprus, and summoned
by copious incense, come to the lovely shrine
of my Glycera.
And let that passionate boy of yours, Cupid,
and the Graces with loosened zones, and the Nymphs,
and Youth, less lovely without you, hasten here,
and Mercury too.
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return From Ireland
The forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing,
His numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unusèd armour's rust:
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
Eight years have come and gone, yet my people still remain blind,
Many a year our leaders shower us with their sugarcoated tongues.
A zillion promises they make now and then, fulfilling none;
Enriching themselves while the poor masses remain indigent.
Poverty in our land has been catapulted, unemployment is now our most High;
A posse of inconsiderate oldies we have as rulers, a bunch of purposeless grandpas.
Need we die before our voices can be heard? Are we even living?
Now and then we pray things be better, but I guess all is but a colossal bummer.
An ode to poetry
An ode to the poet
A celebration to the tree
A dedication to the leaf which fell from it
Shame the thief
from the Maelstrom beyond
Real, once named into Existence
exalted by the Universe,
echoing an extraordinary origin —
Port Harcourt, my Port Harcourt,
A baronial city, bedraggled and obstreperous;
A city with the good, the bad and the ugly,
Deprived of all in tandem with beauty.
Port Harcourt, my renowned Garden City,
Parlous, galling and , of course, shambolic;
A city where the gardens are but mere weeds;
One where looters and junkies own the streets.
Six years a waste,
I'm sure you can relate.
I needed us to be more,
But you turned out to be a whore.
Letting the world know about us-my biggest bummer;
I so wish we'd had, from the outset, the deserved sunder.
Woe is me, for I have made a boner
That swine has indeed defiled this stunner.