by Umar Abubakar Sidi
An excerpt from ‘The Poet of Dust’
in the pantheon of words
P O E T R Y R U L E S
in the pantheon of words
POETRY is the wind, the clouds of fragrance, the breeze, the breath of GOD, foul odour, the rotten smell of truth, the monstrous phallus, scrotum of the inner corridors of the vagina, luscious liquids, delicious meal, firm buttocks, inviting thighs, episodic fragments of LUST in love, the secrets of the aphrodisiac, the KAMASUTRA of words, the katap, the kitip, the kurup, the expansion of ambitious climes, the white teeth of the brown ZEBRA, the innocence of
By Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún
“Context: The circumstances that form the setting for an event, statement, or idea, and in terms of which it can be fully understood and assessed.”
– Oxford English Dictionary
In the early twenties, Professor Ivor A. Richards, in search of a new way to teach the assessment and appreciation of poetry, came up with an idea that seems commonplace now, but at the time was interesting enough to challenge existing conventions. What he did, an experiment he detailed in his book Practical Criticisms (1929), was to distribute to his students, poems written by a wide range of people from ancient masters to modern practitioners, from Shakespeare to a random poet in the reigning literary magazine, without the names of the authors printed on the pages of the poems.
by Abdul Adan
One afternoon, three young people were sitting around a table at Khalfan’s restaurant in downtown Mombasa. Their gestures and murmurs were like those of disloyal soldiers plotting a mutiny. The trio was comprised of Khalid Bawazir, his cousin Ayaan and her forbidden fiancé James Karangi, aka Mohamed.
“I told you from the beginning,” Khalid was lamenting, “there’s little hope along the line of religion. You could be the Imam and lead all of the late-night prayers in the month of Ramadan, but the Somali guy who steals shoes from the mosque would still stand a higher chance of taking her hand.”
“This is tribalism! It’s un-Islamic. You should have told them that,” protested James.
by Michelle Angwenyi
dans la maladie
I came across it in my dreams and I woke up singing the French for it – dans la maladie, dans la maladie.
A meshwork of metal
Inside the disease
Becoming an illness.
I saw it the next day and it was
All over the place, in pieces.
It must have taken more than strength to pry my eyes open and
collect them, and once there, put it together again, paint it
tell it to relax, try not to kill me.