Tuesday, 27 December 2011

IN THE STRUUGLLE AGAINST PAIN





Like salt on earthworms
Men
      Women
              Children
Rattling, coiling alive

Their screams,
…unheard in it hollering echoes
Dying in flaring fuel

Their voices,
Gulped in fiery gas

Different people of a same faith
Wailing tears to a thousand bleed

None survived, none arrived

Their frames flame in bubbling scars-
Spreading like gluttonous ocean’s billow
To conserve not even the finest scalp

Our good-bye kiss
Our last hug
Turns an effigy of toasty carrion sores

And this generation
Cannot begin scavenging the scenes
For traces of faceless littering carcasses
When history too is dead
We can only recover fear
In figures of uncountable despairs and deformities
In this struggle against pain
Yesterday refuses to give way.

 © Uche Uwadinachi


Sunday, 20 November 2011

WALLS OF UNENDING SCARS



I

I have seen
The four walls
Coated with gory hand-prints
Of criminals and suspects
In-scripting awkwardness
Pleading for a public presentation

I stared at slogans
Screaming….
“we die…innocent”
“i was here”
“and so what”
“are you the president?”
“dem go fire me”
“na today”
“…save us”

My heart tears my eyes
And the graffiti spawns
Ceaselessly…

My head smothers
As ravaging foul odour
Of urine and shit
Shutters me to worship
At the walls of unending scars
With my own “craze-words”.



II

Hell is cell!
The black bowl
Smiths into a black hole
Bloats for the unborn convict
Guilty – of life, wanting to survive
…raiding flames at night
…beaming red in flight
…yellow coal for ice
Collies for the burning
Of our already hurt hearts.

“Pollease”…police
Poll for faults
Lease of crimes
To catch and lock our lives
Into the bloating black hole
Of a cell.


And so
The walls persist
A writing cry of the weak
Dying…to die today
And died…. Tomorrow
WILL DIE NO MORE.



BY  UCHE UWADINACHI

Saturday, 12 November 2011

SCAR SPOKEN WORD POETRY ALBUM- INTRO

Saturday, 5 November 2011

Priest of Poetry- e fi mi le joor

FLAMES"Priest Of Poetry"(e' fi mi le joorr') feat D-TRUCE

Monday, 24 October 2011

ON WATER



Hunt me
Below clump prairie in the forest,
 

Scourge me
On ridges of tallest hills,
 

Taunt me
In my cramped dark burrow,
 

Scare me
Behind leaves of crooked trunks,
 

Shoot me
In this tranquil flight in the sky,
 

Chase me
Through hazy streets of the slum,

But don't dare me
On WATER! 


©Uche Uwadinachi


Thursday, 13 October 2011

RAIN KEN SARO-WIWA



As the rain gathers
Your grave torments
The rot of the soil
Where blood turns oil
For the barrel drunkards
In pot-belly shells

“…like the Ogoni
Battered, bruised,
Brutalized and almost buried”
Your eyes tears to see
The fishes coughing blood
Vegetables strangled by petrol
Infants pant of cancer

Pipeline becomes lifeline
To swim ashore to safety
Where tankers sit like bankers

You queried the earth
For spouting oil
And the gods for not
Drying its wide well

Your protest bang loud
Against the loot of roots
Belonging to the poor farmers

Ogoni’s Forest of Flowers
Becomes a desert of dragons
Basi & Co attempts  a suicide
Sozaboy ends up a casualty
Of harrowing dead history

Ken was keen
Warning them of the eco-war
They had began against his world

The junta boots your throat
Marred your nights with threat
Their next words was a death sentence
On you and the eight others

As this rain summons

Your songs wake the thunder
Of Okigbo in echoes of gold
The dead fishes rose
Mangroves forest raptures
The rain forest resurrects
And swamps bubble alive

The Junta shivers in their shell
The council can no longer hold
For your grave have broken the cave
 Of their hidden crimes of decays

Rain!  Rain! Rain!
Ken Saro-Wiwa reign
And flush their black rums
Of evil away from our lands.

©Uche Uwadinachi



Tuesday, 27 September 2011

WORDSLAM 5




Culture Advocates Caucus, CAC, in collaboration with the Goethe-Institut presents the most vibrant voices in performance poetry in the fifth edition of the prime poetic on Lagos stage, WORDSLAM.
http://wordslam.blogspot.com/2011/09/wordslam-poetry-takes-on-environment.html
http://wordslam.blogspot.com/

Thursday, 11 August 2011

THERAPY OF POETRY: 2







More common, you find people withstand the agony of bruises, deep cuts, acute fractures and major physical injuries than bear a sorrow lodged in the corners of the mind. The suffering from a sad memory can last longer than the scars of an amputated leg. The body can only be bait to the being but not the source of the pain.
All scientific medications and religious recommendation strongly rely consciously and unconsciously on the initiation of the natural therapy of poetry. The whole drugs, incantations and  scripture depend on the  activation of the “I” with all its units at function less you are administering your experiment on a lifeless specimen or a weight of carnivores without  a soul.
The word of poetry  is the will of the heart been wheeled as a  cargo of ship at a distance, it is the prayers traveling in the throat of the wind, it is the bounty wishes being herald by the pilgrim eagle, all sailing, moving to the shores of the tongue . With an amen, the army is turned around.
Poetry is a gun that can shot the morning into the night and the moon into the sun. You can joggle history like pancakes and yet you never mumble of hunger.  Poetry has loaded pens with bullets that can shatter machetes. It becomes the last resort of weapon and a best consult of armour. Children have appealed to swords and they return to their lost scabbards without a blood stain. Tyrants have set their selves ablaze at the thundering of words. Climes have erased and tribes have been born to merge together in peace, all to the course of a poem.
The entire future begins in the calmest consciousness of your heart to the most agile activity of your pen soiling the palette of your tongue in the words you compose and pronounce today for your healing.

©Uche Uwadinachi 

THERAPY OF POETRY: 1






In the open cabinet of a dusty library shelves are laid the custodian of history-books: they are the facts of truths and figures of revelations. Since the inception of the book form, they have stood side by side with time as witnesses to every presented legend as told by the narrator. A much more living and selfless record is it been a vault of reliefs shouldering casts of told and untold tragedies. Like crucibles, they absorb burden and melt it to the form of the desired.
The act of writing has bored books that have produced a new world of unlimited solutions. That act has become an art of healing. The entire framework of the human mental impulse pivots on certain external activities exercised by the character. They connect in such a way that  even the crucial of surgical administration would highly rely on the performance of this bond in the being involved to be effective.
Art caters for our general human creativity especially in tendering to see life in matter. In creative writing, the function of expressive art is well active in reaching the centre consciousness of man. It is a therapy. In the crystal-clear mirror of art to life, poetry lives closer to man and is found residing in that core of the human consciousness. In the writing therapy, poetry is a natural self healing activity. It process of the written word spoken has testified itself as an effective tool in the treatment of human maladies and infirmities.
The motion of the ink, ascending into the condensed imagination, examining the body, bones, the bloodstream, the heart; signaling the weak cords to wake the tissues within…. therein the flow runs again and the beats are resumed.
Poetry writing more than any other genre resists the mind of everyone but the individual, the creative self. The “I”.  This is the foundation where the real poem comes from and the journey to that source of creativity is so natural, easy and instant.
Poetry for healing is self encounter and resolution. You reach for yourself to find yourself. The strength in your worst weaknesses. Poetry as old as it is is the new religion that has been able to heal itself to heal the world.


©Uche Uwadinachi 

PRIESTS OF POETRY





Poetry as therapy is reluctantly a new development in the expressive arts, however it is as old as the first chant sung around the tribal fires of the primitive people. Then it was used by some selected elders to bring healing to the sick ones. The word ‘Therapy’ came from the Greek ‘therapia’, meaning to cure through involvement in one of the expressive arts: dance, song, poetry or drama.
Poetry as a therapy uses the traditional techniques of poetry-rhythm, sound, metaphor etc but the focus is the person writing or performing the poem. When it is used for healing, expression and growth tool in the hands of the individual.
Of course every genre, civilization, forms have employed the use of the imagery, metaphor, rhythm and other literary devices to teach their stories, fable, drama, passing their information. Poetry in it condensed form, lyrical quality, and flitting thematic preoccupation is a typical evocative form of literature that can command surprising positive responses from people involved irrespective of ages, state and culture.
Poetry is very efficient in self purgation in this modern time when been conducted as a therapy in an interactive process. It releases catharsis, enhances self awakening, gives new thoughts and hope to one.
Poetry therapy goes different ways with the so called highly intellectual and selective course of the English literature class. The essence of it process begins in reaching a poem to the facilitated discussion of the readers-response to a poem. The poem in question may be the reader’s piece e or someone else’s own. This is not using a ruler and an advance dictionary to analyze the metre and ideology of the elite poet who authors the book. It is seeking to discover the reader’s own intuitive understanding, connection with the story and application of the meaning.
In present day poetry for healing, we become doctors to our sickness and troubles, the poems of our own stories, and priests of our well-beings.
 ©Uche Uwadinachi 



I AM A POEM





A poem educates and exposes us to ourselves and the world around us. In our personal encounter with challenges, is the experience of the larger society. When we cry the world cries; like crickets would join themselves in the sonorous songs of the moonlight. An essential part of reading and writing poetry is not only does it attempt to construe or define the “I” but fortifies it as an integral part of the world. We fetch these thoughts from the same source irrespective of location, space, race, age or intellectual denomination.
The process of engaging a poem attaches us to the greater and precious aspect of ourselves, to all that is whole, good and beautiful. Thus we realized ourselves as unique and vital; part of all that exist. We see that we are not alone and can’t be divided but only to remain strengthened in our stretching mind, esteem and thoughts.
The will is a stronger energy that multiply itself against it host. And that’s why when a poem is able to knock a cliff, it brings down the whole building like a falling pack of cards.  Without hesitating, write the lines and say the words, there your poem is born.
The “I” is the bowl of our creativity and freedom. It is the pronoun that stands for your capacity-the personality of your individuality. The “I’ is your poem. It is your story: the terrifying secret that’s been unleashed out of you to give way for hope to come. It is the reason why you want to live and stay alive amidst the incessant surgery you’ve had. It is the only companion you have when closest kin molest your tender under-age feminity.
When civilized diseases cripple your limbs and you cannot even find tears to help you cry, your poem can save you. Turn a fresh leaf, and paint your story, your will definitely find you to the greater world that writes with you in poetry.
 ©Uche Uwadinachi 


Friday, 15 July 2011

TESTIMONY OF A POETRY PROPHESY



On July 14, 1984, I met a woman who changed my life. She was dark and pretty in her early forties. She wore a faded red gown crossed with bold native beads around her neck and wrist like a funky city nomad. The obvious distance that her kind of person suffered from people was not just because she looked primitive and weird but this was a town where Christianity and Islam were considered as the popular and sensible religion. She is a voodoo priestess. Unfortunately, i did not visit her temple but met her on transit in a bus, sitting next to me, after waking up from a long migraine sleep.
She stared at me, in a fixed gaze and said “learn to write your predicament into poetry, then you will sleep no more.” This wasn’t an endless pilgrimage to the hillock of the moon or a fasting for the next ninety nine days to find a cure. Just write your poems to paint your problems, and that is the remedy in solving my long cry in the dark room library.
Before then, I had lived my entire life around a terrible phenomenon I suffered from childhood. I bored it ever then, on me like a protruded mole cheek, disfiguring and saddening my happiness. That heart-burden was the scar i lived to erase. The worst was when I lost my “I’’, the essence of human hood. I could not face myself or stand to watch the shame; I gave up and began living as a masquerade among people.
This thought was what banged my head until I slept off on board that bus. Following her words, I began learning to concise my whole dilemma into verses, making them bleed exactly what I feel in imageries, trying to examine and test them in rhythms and rhymes, then using them to compare and represent other worst issues for some other persons. Like Arithmetic, it broke into smaller, simpler and clearer basis of analysis. And, I saw nothing but my naked self discussing with the so called unseen grand master of my “self’’.
My fears, scales, speck falls off me! My sight became crystal clear to see the real me in me. Through this therapy, I discovered that scars though inevitable in the development of every man, yet you learn to face and manage them, ultimately allowing nature to take care of itself. Like the flowing river, our dreams will stumble on rocks, hills and weeds, however these, cannot stop the journey to the destination along other rivers.
Life is not man-made, even if it major forces are. If you impede it, then it will explode; so destiny can be delayed but can never be changed. The more you try to hold or hoard it, the more the pressure gathers, thus the more the blast of its outbreak to come.
Writing generally helps us to pour out our burden on papers, but poetry helps us to capture the consciousness and feel of our raw selves in the pen: our control over such circumstances, through our omniscient mind. The unique thing about poetry is that, though it employs literary features but most times does not compromise with conventional linguistic regulations and conditions.
Poetry is free and liberal. The indispensability of learning its art, must begin with the originality, liquidity and sincerity of your simultaneous gushing emotions, then the rules can set in and not the rules ruling the mind. Poetry is free to all: ageless and shapeless like water. The thick diction in your environment changes in another society. However, it liberality still allows you to code it for some select mind but universally poetry is voluntary and benevolent to all seekers.
When you have a burden or pain in your heart, attempt to write them out in poems on papers. Then take a next look after a while at these same poems and see if they have the same weight like they do in your minds, or if your mind is as pessimistic as it use to be. You don’t need to be an expert to write a poem for therapy, only make it less wordy, concise, thoughtful, then make it a lyric that best expresses yourself and definitely, a solution is sure to come.

©Uche Uwadinachi

Wednesday, 13 July 2011

The Taste of Poetry


To read a poem is to taste a poem. Like a hot chunk of bean ball within the upper tongue and soft palate, you can’t immediately swallow it instead you gently crunch, licking it spice with your saliva until the very taste is squeezed out for utmost satisfaction.

Poetry brokers no fast reading like is done to a newspapers, newsletters, magazines and some other piece of official documents where you read ,hurrying to get to the end of the story for the basic information or resolution-thereby swallowing the whole content without waiting to taste the words, the context, and it concurrent relationship with the other unit of words. And the result comes out against consummation, what has been achieved is mere consumption, a bowel movement without any meaning gained therein for the whole body and the life so lived.

The sound, shape and arrangement of the words are of essence to a poetic piece as much as the message. Infact, the appeal commences from the eyes, to every other organs: the ear, nose, mouth, tongue, and the ear, all alert, alive and aloud to enable the maximum derivation of the best. The brain, coordinating all these senses, the heart pulsing beat to match the rhythm of the poem. The failing of any of these attributes is a minus to doing justice to the poem.

To learn to savour a poem, one has to realize that poetry is concrete and sensitive. Reading a poem is to first realize it a physical object though in An Abstract medium by which ideas conveyed. A piece of poem whether short or long, possesses a presence which is equivalent to a material existence, just like a standing sculpture, a painting or even a meal of tasty barbecue.

TASTE is an internalized self receptor which is felt in the bud-deep down inside of the individual, which is when a poem can begin to communicate. So even when one listens to the poem read by another person, it is still not adequately felt because taste differs in tongues. It is pertinent that you read it to yourself-by yourself, aloud or at least mouthed to oneself.

To read a poem is to taste a poem. When you feel a poem, you have succeeded in creating your own sound of the perception of the words you speak. Your mouth is the taste bud of poetry and not your flipping eyes. Thus a rich poem is a rich tongue.

©Uche Uwadinachi

Friday, 3 June 2011

The Power of Chanting with the Priestess of Poetry


The nursery rhymes of unending skipping sound resounding from the high-rise windows and the slit walls of the kindergarten school, remains the oldest known and surest way of imparting alphabets, sounds, objects and ideas, to a classroom of children, who are freshly being opened up to the mystery of learning and acquiring all the needed skills with which to gulp up knowledge as they grow up.
The fundamental of nursery education is the very tool employed by the poet who takes after the method of the teacher, who must function as the choir master, charging out the call to chant that is automatically echoed by the pupils to glean the golden fleece home.
The chant of poetry is not any different in the hands of the priestess of poetry, the wildest of imagination engages the emotions in a celebration of words in its ever best use-in a crescendo of rising staccato that leaves the poet and its lovers in an exchange of fulfillment striking the cord of the heart into an orgasmic climax that homes the being into the soul.
From the first exercise of one trying to word to oneself or other selves, some structure of finely written poems riddled on paper, to the point where the personae or reader's innermost cavity is filled and the exterior body overflows with interpretative high spirit, chant sails salient to the meaning of poetry which enfolds the whole conundrum of life.
In contemporary literature, poets in tameless adventure have seek mediums, not just to make this genre more relevant and alive but to bridge the TEXT to the WORD. Chant eventually aroused as the most efficient and strongest tool adopted by the priestess of poetry who led the search. To relate this is to fore mostly understand the basic of chant.
Chant is the rhythmic speaking or singing of words or sound often primarily on one or two pitches called reciting tones. it may range from a single melody involving a limited set of notes to a highly set of complex musical structures, often included a great deal of repetition of musical subphrases. Chants functions as a heightened or stylized form of speech which though exist as a genre of its own yet allies with the priestess to render, perform and execute a poem.
The priestess is that devotee poet in the shrine of poetry who is most passionate and liberal in worship. To read a poem goes beyond the mere silent stiff absorption of the lines as text, to the lowest motion and loudest recitation celebrated in chant. It is this act that makes it more ritual to the self.
There exist several means and routes to approach poetry, such as writing, reading, listening,reciting, etc but to enter the altar of poetry where the priestess dwells, you must leave behind your media and gadget, to enjoy the secret powers inhabited in the realm of this veneration which is an open home to all and sundry.
When a devotee recites a poem, chant heightens the notes of mood, fires the tone, repeating the lines then drags the being(s) to where you confront your very thoughts BARED. Leaving you before yourself is the best resolution any fellow seeker can derive when you read a poem.
Chanting does not change or cheapen the form of your poem, best seller or award(s)-winning poetry collections, instead it exhumes life from the dumb gawking words, rendering it, a priceless performance which creates an unusual symphony of stress, style, and state to the original form that in no little measure helps to bring a better understanding of the meaning chased by the poet and the piece itself.
No wonder when chanting a verse line, getting caught in the rhyme and rhythm, one begins to tail the beat before the long , gesturing, fingers and hands swaying on foot tapping, while others completely internalized the process before them, are entrapped into a cocoon of themselves and can only return to themselves to seek meaning.
The priestess is a seeker who lives to proffer poetry not just as an inanimate text idol stagnated on colossal forgotten shelves for some chosen cerebral minds but as a free theatre for all who quest for purification and restoration of body, mind, and soul.
Poetry is a religion, it is a tradition, and those whose must follow, should worship in chant and spirit.

©Uche Uwadinachi