Monday, December 21, 2015

When a Child is Bombed

A rescued Boko Haram child suicide bomber

When a child is bombed
The basis for rejoicing is stolen
The sound of laughter is stilled
Or it falls flat like the cackles of Gollum
On the eardrum making the sense of loss emphatic.

When a child is bombed
There's always an untold story erupting
Within calling out things forbidden to imagine.
A restlessness which amps up the fears of all the years
Confronts our doubts and strips bare our worst nightmares.

When a child is bombed
The weight of a shroud alights and grief is pronounced
As we recall 'tis the season the Christ-child came down.
Peace and goodwill become the substance of a fairytale
And our Xmas wish lists are like statements of how we failed.

Akpan




Christmas in Sambisa

A Christmas tribute to the Nigerian Armed Forces
for their unrelenting war on terrorism

I always had a hunch you was the prototype hero.
Now that I found the unique moment to express that fact
I'm gon' ride on the track and leave none in the dark from the intro
When the tribute engage their ears n' slide down their heart.

I really wanna invest the time to take you apart
And sink my teeth into the details until I feel the heat
Of the battle waging down on the inside as you rip open the enemy
And snatch victory like a trophy from the talons of the beasts.

Bae misses her man; the kids need their dad yet this Xmas
You'll lay down on a bed of grass; rest your head on a pillow of stone
N' if you're lucky sleep will find you cuddling a people's burden in your arms.
Yet no one deserves a better Xmas than the men who went and brought us hope.

You're the one my heart bleeds for it's of you I sing
And I will fear no evil walking thro the forest of Sambisa
Cause the shadow of a soldier supplies all the solace I seek
So let me take this time and shoot you a very merry Christmas.

Akpan



Unalloyed

Recently, the Nigerian military murdered (unintentionally)
some Shiite leaders. This is so they don't lose sight of the
big picture. The fight to end Boko Haram goes on.

The temptation to agree with your critics
Is destroying you gradually
Chewing you up on the inside like cancer;
Introducing rot into your emotional liver.
You don't make progress, brother
Riding one article of other folk's opinion.
But you'll commit blunders
On the most basic of criterion.
You really ought to know better
Ain't nobody taking the fall but you.
Who gets the blame for playing the fool?
They don't give a care
How well you fare.
Just wanna use you
Then they dump you like used up shoes.
Pry your eyes wide
Open brother, gatto be wise.
The night is young
It's the time when stars shine.
Shake off the dust and rise like a song
Flung all the way up to heaven soaring free of compromise
Like a true master of destiny.
And make it your responsibility
To carve out a personal path to glory.

Akpan



Otherside

Photo Courtesy: UNHCR (@Refugees)
For Syrian Refugees

Will I make it to the otherside?
Beyond this grave of dreams;
That special place where the imagination
Explodes in daylight?
My soul barely exists
Waiting thirstily for the delights
Of fulfillment in a world
Where patience is defeated.
It's hard not to kick against the goads
Cause the times is ill fated.
The quest for glory
Drains me and fills me with rage,
The road to immortality is paved
With hate-induced goals.
Yet mortal men thrust into it blinded
Multiplying well-avoidable throes.
But will I ever fill that space
And appropriately
Obtain the good grace
To equip the man of my dreams
With a tool to win in this spiteful race?

Akpan



Tuesday, October 27, 2015

The Assassination of X

Sometime in January, Boko Haram terrorists razed a town in
North East, Nigeria killing a 'woman in labor.' In the words of a
witness, “Half of the baby boy (was) out and she died like this.”
This poem is for the unnamed boy who I called 'X.'

And who hears when we call and comes running?
Who waits up for us and keeps the lamp burning
To show the path home when twilight is dawning?
Who reaches out when we face a chasm yawning?
And swoops us up just before we keel over falling
To our deaths in a fissure that is always gnawing?

The value of x is, for all practical purposes, unresolved;
He’ll for all time be a mystery because he died unnamed,
His spot is uninhabited for he never set foot on this sod.

The death of x is, beyond all reasonable doubt, a shame;
Not he or his Mama deserved that baptism in cold blood,
No one will ever know what x was cut out for or his gain.

The tale of x is, contrary to common belief, an ill weapon
To bludgeon the foe cause he died before he came thence,
We can turn pain to gain and make them pay for our loss.

The value of our x they must be made to feel, is priceless.

Akpan


Thursday, October 22, 2015

Dragons of Home

This war on terror is a lot more about the victims-the dead, the displaced,
the missing-than the psychos wreaking havoc. We shouldn't lose sight of
the big picture and end up defeated.
On the side, what do you think they did to this poor girl to make her strap
explosives around her waist? This is our future going up in smoke.

You’re not here n’ how the clause spawns an electric
Arc that saturates this terrain in a wakeless gray rage
I can still hear your voices carried on the night wind,
Deep down the cove where I tuck my private self away,
Full and inextinguishable as it rides down the throes
Of cruel death and irreversible moldering of the bones;
You come to me in my quietude and unknot the knots
And as the puzzle sorts itself out a shape starts to form;
A friend’s face bending in and out of form taunting me
Begging not to be an option but a number one priority

You’re not here and I’m not there and the difference is
All the world but I won’t turn the page and close my eyes
To the heat, it’s the thorn in my flesh that only I must pick
If I must find peace. It’s all about you, it’s hi time I realize
This war aint about Shekau but you free to breathe, to be,
To dig into all of life’s peculiarities as experience hands it
Down the tube. You deserve the attention and compassion
Showered on you and the memories of you will still live on,
That is one fine article of this assurance I will never break
Until triumph busts open the gates bearing you in its wake.

Akpan



Friday, October 16, 2015

Switched

For all those years I thought the Boko Haram insurgency was
an extended spell of the infamous Northern Nigeria riots


Incomplete, that’s the definition of me without a you
It’s taken me a while but the blinders are down it’s true.
I’ve seen my wrong I know I’ve been such a fool not to.
Unfeeling had me like and I said, ‘It’ll pass.’ That’s cruel.

Why do I visualize paradise but get paralyzed
By the sight of you otherwise immortalized?
I’ll rime till it’s sunrise n’ your night turns brite,
Time I switched sides, be a bona fide paradigm.

‘A few more days,’ I said, ‘and it’ll be gone with the wind.’
While you died in plain sight I let fear lax my heartstrings,
But time taught me not to wait for what tomorrow brings;
I am what brings tomorrow so I rise on a dayspring scream.

Why do I visualize paradise but get paralyzed
By the sight of you otherwise immortalized?
I’ll rime till it’s sunrise n’ your night turns brite,
Time I switched sides, be a bona fide paradigm.

Akpan



Thursday, October 1, 2015

Noble Cause

HAPPY 55TH INDEPENDENCE DAY ANNIVERSARY NIGERIA!
Updated: October. 8th.2015

I’m gonna fill the follicles of forever flaunting this fine moment,
Paste your name to eternity like the stars on the firmament.
I’m gon’ wring out the grime while I grind on your ingenuity,
Strive for the stupendous and stack syllables to share your story.

You are one hell of a survivor I want to take you up on the exhale.
You are spectacular it is such fun to be sprung on a stunning you.
I have found home lives in you so I pledge to sustain your fame.
There aint nothing makes me prouder n’ to bleed my pen for you.

I want to hymn the appeal of your seeds; the lost and the bombed,
This moment bonded us in ways far beyond what we could picture,
That’s why I stand up for your tomorrow; it’s death before dishonor,
I need no other argument I have found my one solitary noble cause.

Akpan


Monday, September 21, 2015

WWNF

WWNF is ab for We Will Never Forget. If the on-going negotiations with
the Boko Haram terrorists means the Nigerian Govt. is just gonna let them
walk after all the deaths and sorrow they brought on school kids...
Justice is indeed blind.

Wanta negotiate but forgot the children you torched
I betcha talkin’ ‘bout how ta regain yo freedom,
I betcha forgot the scores of times you played God,
Tossing bombs and pumping slugs all up the north;
Wasting gobs of young dreams in the name of religion,
Now you feel ya’ll just gon’ turn around and spill yo
Guts and make demands? But justice is a loaded gun
On a hair trigger and its cartridge is full of lethal slugs.
The lives you destroyed rise to judge you n’ yo cohorts.
A million wasted dreams signed your eternal damnation.
The only pardon you truly deserve is hell’s own option.
Ya’ll aint gatto make demands why don’t you just pop off.

We will never forget how they died the death of a dog.
We will never forget the fatal aftermath of Postikum.
We will never forget that the earth sucked up their blood
Because you strewn their cadavers in the streets to rot.
We will never forget the camp where ya’ll tripped a bomb,
Because even when they was displaced it wasn’t enough
Until they was wasted and their names wiped off this world;
We will never forget the abductions and forced wedlock.
We will never forget the unborn burnt alive in the womb
Because you fools weren’t man enough to restrain your lust.
We will never forget the schools turned factory for bombs
We will never forgive nor forget until justice has run its course.

You will get what you so richly deserve.
Hear me Boko Haram: judgment is served.

Akpan



Thursday, September 17, 2015

How to Hold Off an Idea Until It's Ready


I’d compare holding off an idea to the moment just before the needle pierces the skin in a hospital ward. The recipient is tensed up for the critical impact while the hypo, clasped between the trained fingers of a nurse cuts the air as it makes its way for the disinfected spot. A unique tingle comes over that part of the body as it waits for cold steel, hungry for blood to break skin and introduce its fluid into the bloodstream.

There comes a time when you know you are going to create something: a poem, a song, a story or even a project as tasking as a novel. I’m talking about those times when the idea presents itself to the mind as an impossible-to-make-out image, a piece of incomplete thought and you can’t readily settle on how it’s going to turn out. Here’s what you can to do to prevent yourself from ruining a great idea and end up burnt out.

Keep a Notebook or Sheet of Paper
Scribble bits and pieces of thoughts and phrases which you think have a connection with the idea at hand. You never know which of these nuggets will spark a flame and maybe become the first line of your story/poem. Jot down entire lines and sentences, from your readings if they so much as inspire creative thinking. Sometimes, a snippet from a billboard ad could be the seedbed for your idea.

Keep an Open Mind
Vague as this tip sounds; it is a really important step in cleaning up your mind and ridding it of leftovers from past write-ups. You can actually choke on a good idea while trying to force the pattern of a previous creation on it. Allow the idea free rein for as long as is required for it to ripen.

Play With the Idea
Don’t start the actual writing, yet. But do write it in your mind. Try a free association of the most persistent phrases—those expressions that keep recurring in flashes and seem to be the handle of the overall idea. By doing this you keep from trying to force it and also, get a better grip of the frame of the entire composition, at the same time. Richard Wilbur waited fourteen years while jotting down phrases before he committed his pen to paper to write his poem, The Mind-Reader.

Talk to Yourself
Do it aloud or silently. Talk around the idea; talk about its vagueness, how it squirrels away just before you can wrap your fingers around its essence. Ponder what style of writing it could turn out to be; if it is something fresh and unique or if it’s your regular thing. Brood over the theme (if you’ve figured it out), go deep and feel the weight of the inspiration which presented the idea and try to make yourself at home within it.

Take Long Walks
Here’s one surefire weapon you can use to tackle the edginess that accompanies the waiting period. Shorten the wait with walks and talks, is a saying you ought to give a try. Go on long strolls, if you can find the time and place. Take that time to tinker with the idea, turning it this way and that while you search for the key that unlocks the door and sends you reeling into the heart of your next creation.

Let the Initial Emotion Cool Off
Above all, try not to write in the heat of emotion. You stand a chance of muddling up the waters and scaring away dinner. Your emotions can totally blind you and make everything you write look awesome. A few weeks or months after your so-called spectacular write-up then you reread the work you have so wonderfully created and Ouch! *Palm over face.*
            A good fisherman knows how to tease the fish; when to cast his net; when to reel in his catch; and especially, when to hold off from upsetting the net. Now go and do likewise.

This article is actually a product of waiting. The idea popped into my mind around the month of April while I was doing NaPoWriMo but I kept putting the moment of actual writing off; kept waiting for the idea to blossom and produce fruit. I can’t tell you the thrill wasn’t worth the wait. And that’s the reason I believe that waiting is a game to the trained mind. Waiting is a writer’s game.

Keep your pens bleeding!

Akpan



Friday, September 11, 2015

Ground Zero

Courtesy: Twitter: @Patricia_Braun

I live in a time when this moment is a memory,
Where all of life enfolds you in the warmth of family
And your dreams lead you by the hand into euphory.

I live in a time where my hope is your reality;
When from within your walls busts a chorus of rejoicing,
And peals of laughter rip your kids’ throats continually.

I live in a time when every sunrise declares your peace;
When the tips of your towers slice the clouds rising still,
And nations marvel at the bounty of your beauteous bliss.

Akpan



Friday, September 4, 2015

Is Writing Poetry Intuitive?


Poetry begins in the head. The day had gone gray and I’d pretty much given up on fetching new stuff to celebrate the occasion. I was just settling into the fact that all I was going to do that day was set up a customized blog header when the line, ‘I wish you knew the man I called father’ blew in on the breath of inspiration. Details of the poem, dedicated to the memory of my father who passed on some twenty odd years ago, sorted itself out with the introduction of the phrase above.

Writing a poem can be either exciting or pretty much like cutting rock with an ax. It all depends on the angle of approach. Wordsworth took his cue from this when he said poetry “takes its origin from emotions recollected in tranquility; the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquility gradually disappears, and an emotion kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. In this mood successful composition gradually begins.” Underneath every good poem a carpet of refined emotions sustains the poem’s resonance, molding and loading it with deep meaning heavier than the metaphors presenting them.

Wordsworth composed the entirety of his poem, “Tintern Abbey” about 159 lines in all, in his head while taking a rather long stroll. “Not a line of it was altered,” he said. “And not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol.” How a poem begins and takes form in the mind; how the poet recognizes it for what it is and starts rubbing words together to kindle the flame; trying for consistency says a lot about the role intuition plays in its creation. When a poet tries to force a poem it often than not produces a composition which, comes off raucous to the ears like the sound broken glass makes trampled under heavy boots.

Poetry works best when it comes as a result of a free association of words in the mind, when it springs from an idea and develops through emotion that has been refined in the heat of tranquility. When I wrote the poem about my father, I’d had years to mourn his passing—the emotions within had blossomed from pure grief and outright bitterness to one of clear perception. And when the muses whispered those lines to my heart, the tranquility had traded places for recollected emotion. I knew what I was writing about like I knew my own heart.

Magic plays a prominent role in the writing of a poem. It is impossible to create one without help from the muses. Ask anyone in the know and they will tell you that, “Poets who have written successfully have done so largely through intuition. Poets often do this without being able to explain how, just as readers may respond to such rhythms without knowing technically, why.” A quote from Robert Wallace’s ‘Writing Poems’ which still rings true to this very day.

Keep your pens bleeding.

Akpan



Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Tightrope


For the Chibok Girls

Here I sit in my room alone but alone,
Tossed in mixed-up emotion’s throes,
Dying to live where your pain lives;
Breathless in anticipation of the impact
I want to hurt your hurt bring you release,
Trap the sunshine in a cup revamp your spark.

Tho I can’t read the scars on the skin of your heart
I’ll give anything for five minutes to play your part.
I wish I could trade an exhale for a million sighs;
Heave the tug of your burden shoulder high
Until I hear myself scream, ‘please, no more!’
Yet this much is true, no one can erase your worth.

Akpan



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