There is no poetry

Except as we insist

For we must.


No poetry

In the universities

Of bureaucracy

Though you can

Study our poets


Our lyrical jarring

Smashing rhyming

Word worlds

Our melodious singing

Farting whispering voices

Our compositions

Crying for another

Way against


The horror.

The poet

Of the particular

Has laced words


From death

Abandoned words


Ebola words

Deep beyond print



Comes to screens

As colour

Black, white

And cloth so bright


Should be

A bondo dance of brilliance

Instead of grief

And Africa’s mourning.


Weep then for possibility

A truth

Of this age

Any age

We are

Tainted by language

Long lost to the living

Inaction, inertia. . .



And Poetry waiting




Copyrighted by the author