This is actually sourced from the first chapter of my novel, 'The Abyssinian', yet to be published by HarperCollins.
*Harmattan is the dry season in Nigeria
Ezeoke is the name of my village
And the leaves of trees start speaking.
They weep.
Because no rains fall on them.
They make noise.
They weep of the mouthy harmattan*
That squashes all through them.
Dust rebel against sand
They dance like fools in the air.
Like imbeciles.
They make colour of houses turn muddy-cuddy.
Bamboo, grayed like windmills.
The high-rise houses in the village
Shrink to the tone of exigency
And all the time, birds whisper below the pines.
The birds sing.
Sing like angels, if angels sing.
The croaking of frogs melts through the windows.
They are disturbing.
Buses blare horns like the trumpeting elephants.
Poetry by Onyeka Nwelue
Read 497 times
Written on 2006-05-16 at 12:55
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
*Harmattan is the dry season in Nigeria
Ezeoke is the name of my village
December in Ezeoke
It is always the time fresh fruits get witheredAnd the leaves of trees start speaking.
They weep.
Because no rains fall on them.
They make noise.
They weep of the mouthy harmattan*
That squashes all through them.
Dust rebel against sand
They dance like fools in the air.
Like imbeciles.
They make colour of houses turn muddy-cuddy.
Bamboo, grayed like windmills.
The high-rise houses in the village
Shrink to the tone of exigency
And all the time, birds whisper below the pines.
The birds sing.
Sing like angels, if angels sing.
The croaking of frogs melts through the windows.
They are disturbing.
Buses blare horns like the trumpeting elephants.
Poetry by Onyeka Nwelue
Read 497 times
Written on 2006-05-16 at 12:55
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Lourdes |
