The Poetry Marathon

Like leaves in dry season

We fall in love.

Sometimes you fall in mud

Sometimes you fall into water

Some times you fall into fire

Sometimes you fall in green grass

Where beautiful flowers grow.

I got a dirge stuck on my head

And it is not a happy feeling

A thousand mourners marching through the lines ,

On the cornrows my mother painstakingly made.

Of wool from the from the akwete weavers

Who weaved gay palmfronds on a happy soil.

And royals having their elephant ride.

And the great blacksmiths of eri, the proud craftsmen of old.

Giving ancient orders that the iron obeys.

The land was happy and rich and proud.

But now it hides its head in shame.

The akwete weavers now dye their wool in blood.

Well the indigo wells did dry up and the rivers stopped.

And the blackmiths fire is covered in ash.

Little wonder this dirge remains unstuck,

And the mourners won’t give up their perpetual march,

On the cornrows my mother painstakingly made.

    HE WILL NOT SEE ME STOPPING HERE.

He will not see me stopping here

But then why should I care if he does?

My life, my horse, my pace, right?

I wear the shoes, what if they pinch?

What if my horse has caught a burr?

And all I can manage is limp by limp.

If life depends on the liver,

Don’t I have the right to choose my gait?

Does it matter if my speed is off?

By the way, whose speedometer is counting the miles?

Still my life, my horse , my pace, right?

Well, right?

If right,

Then I don’t care who sees me stopping where!

Credit: First line taken from line 3 stanza 1 of Robert Frost’s stopping by woods on a snowy evening.

The staccato drum of liquid gifts

Hitting the roof as the drop in flops

At first in slow fat lazy plops

Then fast long shards of heaven’s sieves

Gaia gulps in greed and happy sighs

As drop flow in with happy sucks

Till she no longer can hold her guts

As plop, the great mother burst her seams

Reservoirs threw up their hands and wept

Manholess in tears ask ‘just how deep?

Drippy gutters not ashamed to weep

Then who will see your tears in rain

A gift at first in lazy plops

Now greedy liquid swirls of hate

Sweepin and taking with angry whirl

Both home and house and precious songs

I am so pumped to be a part of this event again this year.

I did the half last year and i had a blast, so this year I’m going for the full 24.

I can’t wait to meet everyone.

Kudos to the organisers for this beautiful event.