My Woven Poetry: An Anthology
of Art and Words.
One image, one month.
Not more than 20 lines.
Let the image be your muse,
the text is up to you.

Welcome Note



Olabisi Akinwale

carry your dream within you
to shut your name into a yeast on fire & rise
like dust rising above the turgid silence of Sahara,
like air spreading her tentacles into a bouquet of faith.
while the bird sings, history is bleeding on a black country
with bodies falling into an endless abyss of wounds,
& you are the future yoked with wings & love & light,
the soul created to be engrafted into a messiah to bring
an end to the leaking of blood in the eye of momma Africa.
while the bird sings, reach for the sky & pluck starlight
for night cities to see beyond their broken estates.
true, you carry resurrection on your palms
& in your body is a castle of bodies flying to freedom.
true, your voice is a cave filled with feathers
& for reasons I cannot tame, I think of you
& hear footfalls of rain racing towards a savannah.
& while an uncaged bird sings, listen,
it’s the song of black nations desiring to bloom above their gloom,
a song at the breast of dawn, waiting to wear your voice.



Ajibade Basit

Kitchens will wake up, from
the barren state of days.
Not too long nor soon,
spoons will work again. And
the cups will sit up with no sways
to hug the dry mouths. And
smiles will crawl in to form
a pool for teeth to swim.

Light will arrest the darkness
hovering over our souls.
Music will sound great. Our
ears will know joy. At least once
in many tick-tocks of twenty-four.

The foam and quilt will grasp
the mass of bones and flesh.
As sleep will fill the void.
And arrest the night, that
showed us gladness.



Baffa Hussaini Gantsa

One day I will go and tell the world
Of how the world sunk to a bottomless pit
Of how we were caged like prisoners of war
Amidst the four corners of our rooms.

If I get to survive this sporadic shot
Of this creature shy of naked eyes
I will tell the world how we cope with growling stomachs
Roaring like a thunderstorms to eternity.

If I get to survive this, I shall go through memory lane
And tap from time’s mountain where death hunts
With baits of breeze we breathe as we sojourn in isolation
Waking up with mournful news of departed souls.

If we get to survive this, I will tell the world
Of how schools and markets tied a knot of enmity with men
Of how the streets are silenced from booming noises of engines
For that was the time when the world was on its knees.

One day I will tell the world of how we survived
I will bare my heart like a plain paper
And pen those songs we wrote with our tears
Mourning the death of our grey hairs as they bid us an adieu.



Ugochukwu Anadi

You can only know a man’s murderers by knowing those who chained him; they’re always one and the same.

Like wine does to the tongue,
And water on the flesh of a fish;
Like oxygen does to the lungs,
And carbon monoxide to the gills
Of a gaily, girly, glit-edged plant,
Freedom is to man the acme of being.

On its wings, the poor flies first-class,
On its back, beggars ride the best of horses;
Walking is for the crippled, hearing
For the deaf, and speaking for the dumb,
On a land owned by freedom.

You cannot know the taste of
Freedom, unless you know the taste
Of water on a sun scorched, thirsty tongue;
Or the taste of honey, on a tongue that only
Knows bitter-leaf, and galls, and bile.

Putting man in chains
And putting man in graves,
Therefore becomes one and the same.



Bright Ugo

Our motherland sighed, she heaved in grief.
Her soul is heavy; her spirit spent.
She watched her children shackled;
By chains of hate, crimes and subjugation
A hate of self, a hate of our spirit, our culture.
Too long have we sat in the stillness, married the shadows,
Waiting for our chains to fall, waiting for crumbs.
Too long have we squandered the fruits of her womb,
Our spirit battered by centuries of colonial powers.
But alas and alack! For our oppressors.
Our dawn approaches, the black man shall awake,
And find his limbs charged and mighty,
He shall shine among nations.
From our motherland we shall draw strength to stand.
We will be the symbol of the freed.
Like the lions of Namibia, we will roar,
And like the eagle, soar.
Our song will be one: victory, freedom and hope.



Precious M. Oludare

I have come to know that I am meant to be the
one always in a dry night, with the moon
dropping in its ears the tales of my mornings
and afternoons; how the market is a clumsy old
dungeon and my feelings for the ladies at the
yellow oceans

Who says the moon is a dim bulb? That
sometimes I find glee each time I whisper
and vomit all my sorrow — and its ray only
soaked it up like a cold bird warming its
wings by the heat. Looking up to the sky,

inhaling the breath of the leaves and gazing
the fire-flies around. Who then says—night is dark?
I cannot say the world is a dark hole we crawl—in
when we we have the sun for the day. And the moon
for the night.

With the help of the moon and stars, I have learnt
to cast my qualms on hungry leaves as the moon
lightens my heart burdens



Emecheta Christian

I would rather do me and be free
Instead of mimicking your way and sway
I would rather live wild like a child
Instead of programming my mind like your kind
I would rather do good and be booed
Instead of being loved in a life of fraud
I would rather be single and sociable
Instead of being in a relationship sinking like a shipwreck
I would rather pray for better days
Instead of hating my life and drowning in regrets
I would rather scamper from danger
Instead of acting brave and earning an early grave
I would rather have less with a mind at rest
Instead of having it all with a chronic fear of an imminent fall.