The Poetry Marathon

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

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.

Close knit, level head;
elements that work, peace;
unlike the islands.

That moment when fear is afraid of me…
That moment when darkness is the stressed one…
That moment when thoughts of fullness overwhelms the reality of blankness…
Those moments of connected assurances and certain manifestations…
That for me is joy amplified. Unlimited!

There had been an unseen monster,
a trickster, a sweet-tongued deceiver.

There was its menacing impact
from misapplied influence of the stronghold.

There is a gush of light,
shinning bright, divergent, and full,
beaming brightness into the monster,
eating up every iota of the dark,
with blindness, deafness, and numbness.

Finger by finger,
toe by toe,
I am getting away
from you.

I am getting away
from the lazy snake
called your vehicle traffic
filling roads in dormant states.

I am getting away
from nine to fives
that work like five to elevens

I am getting away
from the thick population
the noise and the rush

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After all parts of me have left,
I find my whole self still in you.
What in poetry’s name are you?