24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Ofuma writes poetry and fiction as his current genres of interest. His works have appeared several art pages of newspapers in Nigeria, such as The Guardian, The Vanguard, National Mirror, and The Post Express Literary Supplement. Outside Nigeria, his works have appeared in Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Praxis Journal of Gender & Cultural Critiques, The Kalahari Review, The Purposeful Mayonnaise, among others. Five of his poems have also been published in anthologies (including The Poetry Marathon Anthology). He received an Honourable Mention at the 2001 MUSON Poetry Competition, and has written a collection of poems as well as two unpublished collections of short stories. He is currently working on a third collection of short stories and a second collection of poems. While making attempts at residency writing, he emerged a Finalist of the 2019 New Orleans Writers Residency Program. Ofuma lives in Lagos, Nigeria where he has been a journalist as well as a communications practitioner. He had also been editor of two national specialised magazines. He has been involved in many writing projects he is open to proofreading, editing, and ghostwriting gigs.
They are burying
their witless open secrets
in void orisons
They are seeking the
faces of supplication
merchants, in vacuums
They are plucking out
stars from the dark skies, sweating
All wide eyes on them
They are exhuming
their decayed consciences from
graves of opulence
They are sending scared
sacrifices to a heaven
that will not open
*Inspired by the image prompt
Laughter shows itself bare
It’s the moment the garment over it is unveiled
Feet tumbles with the reverberation
It’s the vibration of the contagion
The course of sound and rhythm and symphony
They are jettisoned for the path of the blue ocean
The muse of deviating, aided by the laughter
Finding manifestations in impossible abode
*Inspired by the image prompt
I grew up feasting
my eyes on the hypocrites
Their speeches heightened
And they grew grey hairs
feeding from the swamp, stomach
wars and woes, shame void
The swamp had been a
haven where harvests of deceit
heaped up for years long
The hypocritic
rises out of the shamed swamp
their feet sank deeper
I am growing still
witnessing how time migrates
against them, with cuffs
*Inspired by the text prompt
Oh, in these times of
multiple crossroads, the blind
now sees through the fog
In this cacophony
bouncing echoes of babble
the deaf hears afar
And they act like ghosts
slitting through the commonwealth
as visible ghosts
Yet, in these mean times
their harvests drain into seas
their foolery bare
As thoughts and wishes
actions and providence rise
to reset the norm
*Inspired by the text prompt
Hello Poets from around the world,
I am Ofuma Agali. I write poetry and fiction.
This is my fourth consecutive year with the Poetry Marathon.
This year, as I have previously done, I am writing from Lagos, where I live.
I am looking forward to reading your poems.
Warm regards!
In that blurry kingdom of inspiration,
muses are trapped in coloured bottles
where grain alcohol transports them onto blank pages.
These muses dance on the slippery pages,
making efforts to stick, to be counted, and be read.
Sometimes, the birthed words fly into the eyes of the drinker
who then shakes off catapulted confusion by seeking the bottle once more.
Paper balls, cracked pen stems, and white spaces adorn.
In a sane minute or two, a sensible chord is struck
in that cloud of dust where clarity is ephemeral.
It might be great art to gamble with muses resident in a bottle;
perhaps not the thought that they live anywhere at all, muses!
The man at the traffic light was the genesis.
The blindness plunged him into a milky sea.
Then a lot more followed:
the car thief,
the fun-seeking lady,
the ophthalmologist,
even more.
In that deserted clinic wing
where they all ended up,
it’s a delight how Pramoedya Toer
made the doctor’s wife see
far into the story, until the end
when she finally drowned
in the milky sea of bright blindness.
It’s a delight how blindness
isn’t dark but milky
in This Earth of Mankind.
A book-to-poem on Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s This Earth of Mankind
Tendrils grow out from you,
entwining me like your prisoner;
you are the one crime I ever committed.
Tentacles grope out of you,
guiding me as I sail through dim lanes;
you are the illumination I ever desired.
Tapestry hung out of your wall,
decorating my thoughts as I envision;
you are the image I ever sought.
Tenderness wafts out of your soul,
enabling elasticities as I walk;
you are the song I ever wished to sing.
Your thoughts pile up in my heart;
its flow suppresses the bitter spurt of bile.
These thoughts chime with the beat’s rhythm
composing sonorous melodies,
not good enough for deep dreams;
they keep the waves calm and refreshing,
like an umbrella that keeps the rains off
even though the splashes touch the body.
Palm trees inspire us aplenty,
one tree that’s not even on a tap root.
Red palm oil makes native soup colourful,
creamy palm wine clears blurry eye sights,
palm fronds transform into domestic brooms,
rare oils squeeze out of palm kernels,
kernel shells make great buildings,
kernel fluff lights the fires as fuel balls,
stalls, mats, and baskets can sprout from it too,
a pretty sight yet, standing there for us all to see.
Palm trees inspire me aplenty,
like it should be a pen whose ink flows
into plenty, plenty creative harvests.