Saturday, 22 October 2016

Morning is the rearview to newfound roads

This is what happens when your shadow
A bottle of cheap rum
& the stillness left over by strange women
Who once walked your periphery for money & warmth
Are the only things left to your hands to hold
I'll tell you
You pick up your sticks
& if they do not vomit fire
You pick up your stones
Leave the devil in you to his loneliness
& woes
Leave him to his grief
It is true you're often a rainy day
But it's okay to enjoy the slap of sunlight on your face
Wear your empty pockets - like your scars - inside out
Let them french the wind until money unseals its lips
Healing is but the cry of a newborn baby
So let the pain outweigh the pride
Do not follow Jesus
Be Jesus
Walk on water
Then turn it to wine
Laughter - however lonely - should be road marks
Leading you into dance
You're more than that wild thing stuck between god's teeth

Saturday, 10 September 2016

Longing | JK Anowe

                                 (I)

                        it is beginning
                             and all
                      but your tongue
                          harnessed
                         to my tongue
                         like stallions
                           to chariots
                              of troy
                              is void

                              all but
                    rippling silhouettes
                        aloft the ankles
                             of God
                             in dark
                      formless waters
                      calling out to us

                          spreading
                          like poison
                    the budding nectar
                          shrouding
                         your tongue

                         ever sonant
                      as melting butter
                             lurking
                        in the petals
                    behind your thong

Sunday, 4 September 2016

A voyager's song | JK Anowe

From a fast moving motorbus
A man standing in a field is a scarecrow
An albatross landing is a lost boy's kite
Or a vulture preying on his corpse
Women hunched over cassava stalks
Are adolescent palm trees drooping to the midmorning wind
& the children picking weeds almost as delicately as fingers do lilies
Are mud figurines shattered at their feet
An uncompleted house at the bottom of a green hill
Is as you haunted by stillness & longing
Its roof red as the earth of Issele-Uku is a rusted sky that allows no rain
A ripped billboard becomes the aftermath of your hands on my cloths & skin last night
& in truth your language was native to poems whose wordings
I've long forgotten
Of which I'd rather convince myself are best unwritten
Because I'm your passenger
Rickety body
A casualty waiting to unravel
& I cannot own you even if I wanted to
Nor walk this loneliness without you
If you loved yourself the same way you've often urged me
To leave home
Curse God
Forget you

Sunday, 17 July 2016

Another Ode (a response) | by D.E. Benson | Poetry

.
"my heart explodes
with you"
                 - JK Anowe, Ode
.
i close my eyes
and see all the things i couldn't be
before i blew to pieces
.
before i became ash
drifting in dark places
in search of an end
.
an end to you
.
an end to this feeling
stuck in the back of my eyes grief
that refuse to be shed
.
i surrender to you
a bird hit midflight by fate
as i spread my wings and soul
.
to sink

Monday, 25 January 2016

i try to capture you
bini
in these testaments
of what we used to be

i try to capture
your faiths and furies
your diabolical beauty
and splendid anomalies

as i walk through these
valleys of reminisce
where shadows
of chronic longing
swerve like troubled trees

but my instincts
are distant as
they are distinct
bini

they come slow
with the speed of love

and the memories
like boil
ripens with pus
as i indeed realize
that like diamonds
time only cuts time...

JK Anowe, Allergies.

Wednesday, 18 November 2015

Ode | by JK Anowe | Poetry

my heart explodes

with you


and i sink


sink deeper

into the malevolence

to chase light

from the darkness


sink because

i cannot wade

my way up


through the fire

through the smoke

through tears

that stream down

to water flowers of evil...


through gusts of ashes

like a fleet of locusts

filling our breaths

even our deaths

with travelogues...


you fear you never

will be whole again


lost in the echoes

of your own silence

in the throes

of your palatable desolation


the sun goes down

and the leaves turn

a crimson brown

as the wind has nowhere

to blow...


but i sink


sink because

there's succour

in falling

knowing you will

never rise up


...knowing you are free

as water...


...knowing you are nothing

but that graphic aftermath


of absence...

Sunday, 15 November 2015

DECENCY & Other Diseases: Of Green Prizes and Meager Watering

On 28 October 2015, I was announced one of four winners in the inaugural Green Author Prize, and a few days later, I turned it down.

The aim of the prize was to jointly publish four young Nigerian poets under the age of 24 as coauthors due to "the prohibitive cost of publishing that has silenced young writers without the required funds, limiting most to their Facebook walls and the occasional blog entries."

The authors were selected from four zones: North, South, East and West of Nigeria by a team of young and established Nigerian writers, and they would be offered a full traditional publishing contract under WRR LTD, an independent publisher in Nigeria.

About three months ago, when I'd read the call for submissions, I was ecstatic. I was grateful, especially to Kukogho I. Samson, CEO of WRR and sole proprietor of the prize. It is a rare thing for a publisher to want to publish budding poets traditionally. I felt I was one of those "silenced writers" that needed to be heard, even though I had a small readership already on Facebook, amongst friends and in school.

For a young budding poet like me, to be published traditionally is a dream come true. It doesn't just mean I get to widen my horizons and readership, it also means I get paid while I'm at it. And the idea of getting paid, even if in stipends, for your work as a poet is excruciatingly encouraging. Like I said, it was a dream come true, and the Green Author Prize was that metaphorical dream coming true.

Now, as to why I rejected the prize just a few days after bagging it, I would readily, and without laxity say, it was not beyond me. The move, like every move I make on a chessboard, was intentional, calculated and not uncalled for, though a handful of people still think it rash, selfish and even foolish, and I do not blame them. Moreover, what do I know? I will be 22 next year and I still live with my parents.

It just baffles me to think that people can no longer tell the differences between what comes out of their mouths and anuses. Take for example, the criticisms of the pray for Paris hash tag on Facebook and Twitter and you would marvel at how people achieve orgasms from myopia.

It turned out the Green Author Prize was not all I'd hoped it would be. The initiative was brilliant but I feel it could have been better handled. It was no different from a publisher publishing your book and then letting you do all or most of the marketing yourself. Something I think the present CEO of WRR had experienced with his first publishers.

So I'd thought it was going to be different with the Green Author Prize, and since it wasn't I opted out, primarily because I felt there were better ways the prize could have been run without spending more than they had bargained for and because I didn't feel it was enough to put four people's poems in a book, hand them certs, and then ask them to market the book themselves.

It probably sounds overly ambitious but I thought they were different. I mean, when was the last time we did something for the first time? Would it kill these publishers to do more than just publish books and leave their fates to the writer's inability to market them? I mean, what happens to these books when they are published?

Ironically, the people behind the Green Author Prize didn't create that "rare opportunity" for young poets. They simply created what every other publisher, who's making it all about the business, would create. Even though they seem oblivious of it.

I daresay it is not enough! It is not enough!!!

It is just as the literary critic, Ikhide R. Ikheloa, had written in an article and I quote:

"...many African publishers are pretend publishing outfits, giant stapling guns with a lot of heart but little to offer writers...." (Read full article here)

Which brings us to what I speculate would be Africa's biggest literary event of the year; the AKE Arts and Book Festival, taking place at the June 12 cultural center, Kuto-Abeokuta, from 17 - 21 November 2015.

The festival will feature 8 book chats, 3 art exhibitions, 1 play, 2 in-depth interviews, school visits, 18 stimulating panel discussions, 3 documentary screenings, 2 films screenings and a poetry performance event. In addition, it will run a large bookstore which will be open to booksellers, book lovers, pupils and students who benefit from Governor’s grants.

I hope I'm able to attend but I'm not here to advertise the festival, but to point out a shortcoming similar to that of the Green Author Prize;

"...the theme is Engaging the Fringe and dialogue will focus on the genres and creative endeavor that do not get the same attention as Art forms considered as mainstream..."

I, however, think this is bullshit; a conspicuous dalliance of the lips, and I'll tell you why.

A prose/photography competition was organized and conducted with the aim to sponsor three African creatives constrained by costs to attend the festival.

"...the prize includes an all-expense paid trip to the festival and EUR200 in prize money...."

I liken this simple act of goodwill to a 9-month pregnant woman ceaselessly ramming her stomach into a wall.

How can they claim to want to focus on the malnourished genres/creative endeavors but the aforementioned provisions were neither made for playwrights nor for poets even though it is no longer hearsay that these two genres are the ones lagging rigorously behind, especially in the Nigerian literary industry?

So where's the "focus on the genres and creative endeavor that do not get the same attention as Art forms considered as mainstream"? Where is it? That the Nigerian government has done little or nothing to ameliorate the arts and culture industry in the country is no excuse to wallow in our favoritisms and in depth laxities.

At this point, it is necessary to note that the Green Author Prize and the Ake festival are in no way peerages. Comparing these two is like comparing Nigeria to the USA in terms of development. Thus, just as I would be discomfited experiencing an unnecessary power outage in America, as it is executed nonchalantly by our amiable brothers at the powerhouses in Nigeria, I'm devastated, as a poet and as a lover of art, at this grave omission - intentional or not - by the key players in the Ake Arts and Book Festival.

It is about time publishers, and foremen behind these literary events realize that poets are not beggars. We are not beggars and we should be treated with respect. There are not many projects in Nigeria promoting poetry, at least not until the recently concluded Lagos International Poetry Festival convened by Efe Paul Azino, where they talked and talked and talked but mostly about performance poetry. I'm not saying it is a bad thing to talk but how many of these things said would be implemented? And how soon? Or is it enough to come and talk and rub your successes as accomplished writers on the faces of the budding ones? Nobody elaborated on how publishers should create more avenues for written poetry other than self publishing.

I scoffed when someone spoke about the idea of street poetry for the first time. I scoffed because it sounded like he was woefully late for the party. Street poetry is already a happening thing in Lagos!

Thanks to Bahati's youngest author, Caleb Okereke and The Sky People - a literary movement he founded in 2014 (you can register and become a member here). They perform poetry on the streets of Lagos, in BRT and Danfo buses. It's been going on for more than a year now. I'd say their only lapse is the right sponsorship and not getting their performances on video. Save for that, they are doing a wonderful job of promoting poetry in Nigeria. They even go as far as organizing literary events like drama, poetry performances and literary workshops in secondary schools in Lagos. And these they do with the little finances they're able to garner amongst themselves; I'm talking about high school students and undergraduates here. I don't think I'd be mistaken if I said I was the only graduate amongst them.

Small literary movements like The Sky People need recognition on big platforms like the Ake Arts and Book Festival, Lagos International Poetry Festival etc. It goes beyond just saying "catch your performances on video and send to YouTube". There should be sponsorships, financial and otherwise.

As much as I hate to say it, I would say it is somewhat excusable for the Green Author Prize to have a few lapses (even though I'd rather not be a part of these lapses) being that it is in it first year, but Ake has been a game player for awhile now and this is not a time for them to start omitting things as important as these. A competition for playwriting and poetry should have been organized too. Awarding only photographers and prose writers is not enough. Yes I said it! It is not enough. It only weakens the point they're trying to drive home.

Nevertheless, It is my earnest desire that Lola Shoneyin and other key organizers of the AKE Arts and Book Festival look into this. Equal provisions and opportunities should be made available to all genres, be it poetry, playwriting, photography or prose, and the sooner the better, if not the sole purpose of bringing to life this initiative would have been defeated with the organizers succeeding only in shooting themselves in the knee.

And as for the Green Author Prize, I cannot say I regret my actions but I do know I'm not unhappy.

Salut!