"calabash" poems
I’m a child and not a bride, but
Last month you made me marry you.
You know it wasn’t love that made me say yes
But the fear of what shape my death could take
If I were to turn you down. Of course
I had no voice. I could only muse to myself
In the dark closet and imagine myself
A mother at thirteen: would it be awesome?
Would it be dreadful? Would it…? I died of anxiety.
Last month you made me marry you.
I had no time to discover me for myself:
Who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be;
I had no time to think before I had to say yes.
But it pains my bones to the marrow.
I am an unripe fruit for the eating.
I am a piece for the show-glass.
Last month you made me marry you.
I spent nights upon nights weeping over how you’ve
Broken me; how you’ve set my life ablaze
Like a forest in a wildfire;
And now the once-upon-a-time sweet sounding music
Of my soul is burnt into silence.
I have forgotten the dialect of my soul.
I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush.
You have beaten silence into me,
And now I have to prepare to moan and wail
Beneath your weight, while I watch you helplessly
As you bite into my innocence,
As you suckle the un-ripeness out of me,
As you dig into my childhood and pleasure yourself
In the childhood screams you hear from me.
But it isn’t the fun that makes me scream.
It is the bitter pain of knowing, of remembering
That my life ended at thirteen:
Broken like a fallen calabash
In the hands of a fifty-five year old man.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
EPILOGUE:
When wisdom fills the old calabash,
It overflows and seeps in
The sun dries it to be stronger
That way it lasts with experience
So was the calabash of Atanga’s Granpa
On his very dying bed
He called Atanga to his bed
And had his last stream flow to him
GRANDPA:
My dear Atanga,
Please in the name all great Atangas
This is my last advice to you
If you wish to take a wife
Never choose either of these:
The woman with light skin
The woman with dark skin
The woman who is short
And the woman who is tall
ATANGA:
Ei! Grandpa!
Then tell me not to marry
Who then do you want me to marry?
Not the fair
Nor the dark
Not the short
Nor the tall?
GRANDPA:
Listen my boy
To words of old
The light skinned woman
Is the fantasy of all
If you choose her
None will help you prosper
Every man wants you to fail
So they can quickly take your place
So never dream of the fair woman
No matter how much you crave for her
ATANGA:
Oh! I see
I think I do understand
Grandpa what about the rest?
GRANDPA:
Never go in for dark skinned woman
She is the one that all your people loathe
She is the one whose people hate you
The only people interested are you and her
When disaster strikes, none will hear
So never go in for the dark skinned woman
ATANGA:
Oh! I see
Now I know
It is not the colour
Nor the character
A woman like that
Would do me harm
Now let us go on
Explain the rest
GRANDPA:
Never go in for the short woman
A short woman is the neighbour’s daughter
Her house is so close to your house
You can never have a moment of peace
Whatever you do
Her people poke their noses
You can never have your lives to live
ATANGA:
Grandpa is wise
So what about the last?
GRANPA:
The tall woman
Is the woman who comes from afar
Her home-town is far
So you can’t have peace
Any time there is trouble in her home
You need to pay
To get your people to go with you
Amidst the feeding
And transportation
How can you proper?
ATANGA:
Granpa is wise
Grandpa has lived
Who would have thought
Of these wise sayings
To an infant where thoughts are concerned?
Thank you Grandpa
So which type of woman
Must I marry?
Grandpa?
Grandpa?
I am asking you a question!
Grandpa!!!!
Grandpa please answer!!!!
MMA:
Grandpa is gone
To the land of beyond
Where sorrow is nil
And thinking is unreal
Just be glad you sipped from his calabash
Of wisdom before he left
PROLOGUE:
And that ended
Grandpa’s advice
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
When you hear the lines
We can be friends
But not as you want it
I don't deserve you
These are legends
Masters of breakups
Know it's time to walk away
Can't you see there is lockdown?
I'm observing social distancing
Someone who once stole your heart
You even promised heaven on earth
My Dear, the calabash is crashed
Give yourself some dignity
I need a break my dear
I want to re-discover myself
My Mum said we can't marry
Sincerely, I truly love you
But if you see another, say "Yes"
My dear, please, walk away
Let's avoid imminent divorce
Especially when the signs are clear
They have a masters in heartbreaks
I got a revelation last night
My Pastor, my Prophet said
No calls, no messages, just blanks
If you've witnessed this
Please, come, let's cry together
Just believe that "Cue sera sera"
Maybe you even just delivered...
Breakups are never easy
It has sent many to depression
And some, early graves
Love cannot be forced my dear
If you are not valued and appreciated
And ghostmode is activated
Take the honourable part
Just walk away...
Where there is pain
I wish you immeasurable love
True love is never hurtful
Your setback will be a setup
For your glorious come back
And it will end in praise
Just like a Cinderella story
You aren't alone, I've been there too...
May 22, 2020
May 22, 2020 at 8:06 AM UTC
*where are women really safe?
how is it that society-collect FAILS
as humanity stumbles yet again.. and again?
our lady-folk are not safe*..
Amaya-bai finds little comfort but in sibilant-twin
as no eye of sun nor ginoo laid eye on this binukot
Olga is the silent-saint; believes in charity at home
yet chaos ensues too easily - she is wronged and just gets.. lost in the system
Zandile fetches precious amanzi in her sun-soaked calabash
her vigilant-sister falls.. roving guerrilla-men from the river's edge
Michelle, la petite belle, survives the daily-grind via low-coin
tubes to Champs-Élysées as assistante-de-pharmacie
Aadita, from the outset at 15, dons a veil hiding ****** acid-burns
she has some relative-luck to escape sati later on
Amy with downtrod-heart, grabs the tram to downtown family
wearing dark glasses and gloves on rainy-day blues
Emiko graced (yet cursed) with beauty struggles with ancient-practice
despite the ban, silent-suffering lotus-gait in the tiny village
Aisha may be alive but not well from ethnic-marking tragedy
as irugu are outcast from all-too prevalent gishiri-cruelty
*might as well take a trip to Vladivostok
or be dumped in a sarcophagus
beneath the Pyramids
safer there*
S T - 27 sept 2013 - freitag
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
Calabash Squash
A Poem by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
entry for a contest...rhythm
Hip- hop jury swapped
Hippity- hoppity sequestered they stop
Bibity- bobity alone on the cobblestone.
falling in- falling over
The balcone wailing, and buckets pailing, and hailing, and
Scaling
The walls and ramparts the cannons were whaling
Moby dicking and schlicking the schlock of the clock… hickory dickery ..where is the Doc?
Blind mice made the move..up one "grandfather side.
... and
Over the top .
Now wasn’t that a quainty dish to set before the Queens …
in drag
© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 4:04 PM UTC
Under the trees we danced
Around blue made fires
With love and unity
Entertained with flutes and moonlight stories
Dropping from the toothless mouth of our elders
Accompanied with Wise words and warnings
That we may not be blown by the wind
Or drenched by the rain
.
Soon,we became orphans
Left with no breast to ****
Fathers and mothers lost in battle
Against unceasing slumber
We are alone like an island surrounded
By waters of civilization
.
Now we are lost ,lost in ignorance
Our hands,not strong enough
To hold firm the calabash
Given to us by our dead
Filled up with warnings and wise words
So we lost it!
.
Our hen is pregnant
But claims the goat is responsible
We lack fountain
But beg for water
Our barns are full with yams
But we gnash our teeth in hunger
We have golds
But cry for stones
Our eyes are open
Yet,blind to behold
As the beauty of our rainbow unfolds.
Balogun Tolulopez Ayodeji David
(Drunk poet)
ANA AAUA chapter
2017
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Look, blow the horn!
Cry, gather together!
Take refuge!
Do not delay!
Lament and wail!
For the fierce anger
Of the gods have not
Turned back from you,
Obama comes back home,
Be astonished, oh heavens,
And be horribly afraid,
Set up signposts!
For the broken calabash
Can hold no water
But a ****** blood,
Obama comes back home,
Can anyone behold
Your great plagues?
Oh Africa, my Africa,
The fruitful womb under
Fierce eternal siege,
Do not look up to the West!
And thou shall be saved,
Obama comes back home.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
The growing day has
Handed over the doyen
To the dawning evening,
Yes, it is the
Responsibility of the
Father to make the
Sacrifices for the son,
Ask the son to wake up
Early on his soul day,
In preparation for the ceremony,
For Ntikuma has exposed
Kwaku Ananse once again,
Perhaps, it was our fault,
For Boakye Danquah has
Gone to the village without a cause,
Now, sprinkle the divine water
From the calabash,
Three times on him,
Oh yes, on the son,
And ask for the Gods blessings
Right after the libation,
Indeed, anyone who does
Not know the drums or horn
Message of his chief,
Gets lost in any dispersion,
Joseph Boakye Danquah,
The true father of Ghana,
We are debtors to your soul.
II
Who is this father?
Ask him to use the three
Fingers between his thumb
And the smallest finger
To smear the mixture of white clay
On his forehead, chick and wrist bone,
For Boakye Danquah has
Gone to village without a cause,
Ah, Boakye was born
In the period where
The stormy rainfall causes
Small ***** to abound,
Hmm, the nations have drunk
The water of affliction
And have eaten the
Strange bread of adversity,
Was anyone there,
To quench his throat?
Was anyone there?
To drink his blood and sweat?
Was anyone there?
To witness this transfiguration?
Indeed, the horns cannot be
Too heavy for the head of the cow that
Must bear them,
Joseph Boakye Danquah,
The true father of Ghana,
We are debtors to your soul.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:57 AM UTC
The tortoise has began
To sniff aloud impatiently,
Causing the *** full of
Palm-wine to burst into flames,
But the bat can only
Think of himself as a bird,
Let the yam tendril
Grow rapidly in this season,
For this matey idea
Engenders glowing nightmares,
Now know this,
The sacrifices of palm-wine
Cannot be substituted with water,
For your departure has caused
Me to sleep with the magic owl,
Oh yes, hear the sparrow
Singing your conventional song,
Listen dear, listen!
Listen and quicken the precious
Beads on your convex hips,
So that my heavy heart
Can behold her boisterousness,
Even though good beads
Do not speak in public,
Indeed, the machete has
Fallen on the wrong victim,
For I left the chicken undisguised,
And the ravenous hawk
Took an instinctive care of it,
***** dear, *****
***** all your pain
Into the thirsty calabash,
For I have evinced
A strong desire to be
Reconciled with your love,
So, let our imperturbable love
Unfold as the implacable day unfolds,
Obaahemaa Nyarkowaa,
The mother of my heart,
Please forgive my dumb insolence,
For I acted out of love.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
Goodnight Mrs Calabash
I hope to see you again real soon
the time we spend together makes me smile
I try to keep it very simple with her
but I am in love with her all the while
it's just that I respected her man
he was a good friend of mine
and he only passed away barely a year
but I dream of her all the time
we go for long walks in the park
feed crumbs to the squirrels and ducks
stop for an ice cream soda or coffee
I barely spend a couple of bucks
her name is Melanie a beautiful name
but I have a hard time calling her that
I had known her and her husband Max
and given them a dog and a cat
we went to movies and dances together
for all of those many years
I would find me a date to bring
maybe stop on the way home for beers
I never had married don't know why
just didn't seem to be my thing
sometimes we go to a Karaoke bar
get silly laugh and sing
I think I always knew Melanie was for me
just wouldn't admit such a thing
but now as the days pass me by
I'm thinking of buying her a ring
will she accept my love for her
or will she think I'm just talking trash
until I feel the answer is yes
I'll keep saying goodnight Mrs Calabash
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
Story Teller
I've been a dancer I've been a singer
many years ago I was a church bell ringer
I'll tell you stories and I'll tell you lies
my favorite story is the one I see in your eyes
I was a cowboy I've been a prince
had my hair colored in many different tints
played on the stage sang in the halls
but sometimes I feel trapped inside these walls
I was a soldier I've been in war
never knew what the hell I was fighting for
they said it was freedom they say it's right
then why in the hell can't I sleep at night
the times are going they're going fast
not sure how much longer I can last
drinking the ***** taking the drugs
feel my body crawling with tiny little bugs
I hear the sounds of the trumpets call
is that you Louie on my stomach I crawl
trying to get to you to save your life
what's that you say I'm not your wife
my head is spinning my senses weak
guess I have gone a little past my peak
just one more story just one more tune
let me tell you about Camp Lejeune
let me sit for a while on this stool
get you ****** hands off of me you fool
where is my rifle where is my knife
there go those bells again the end of life
play this song for me will you Les and Chet
make your guitars sing on every fret
I think I can see the glowing light
so Mrs. Calabash guess it's goodnight
Gomer LePoet....
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
pluff mud in my nails
shrimp shells, crab claws, in the pail
Grandma Lolly's cookin'
sunday grub, us four cousins
pulling nets in tidal marshes
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 4:30 PM UTC
The sun is risen above the summit of a mountain- a Dwala-
Beaming, chasing darkness away;
Rejuvenating the veld as the dew shimmers,
Pasture assumes its deep brown lustre
As if trying to blend with the golden sun’s rays;
The Dwala – where it had momentarily perched-
Has slowly set it free for its westerly journey
My Tropical Savannah is a beauty:
Deep brown pasture in summer, clustered bushes, umbrella trees
Irregular footpaths run across its plains,
I assume one of them leads to you,
But as I trace them, they shy away at a distant horizon,
As if the sky is eating them up
***
The sun brings a light breeze mid-flight,
It blows softly on my quill,
Making a melody with the fur;
Whistling a song on the brim of my inkwell
On one footpath, I spot two love birds coming from the well,
The damsel is balancing an earthen calabash on her head;
My lips crease into a marvel-smile at their chatter and carefree laughter
I am surprised at myself for sharing their moment of bliss,
But then, it is always easy to share happiness.
Bliss is…abstract,
*As the beauty and radiance of our sun
But the burden of sadness is…concrete,
*Something I can share with you,
Only after I trace these footpaths beyond the horizon
***
The dying sun perches on a faraway ridge like an alter offering
Its deep brown rays permeate the foliage.
By and by, colours fade away with darkness.
The veld now looks old and beaten, almost gothic,
The sun is gone, leaving a trace of a blue-brown spectrum;
I hope it has come to you my dear,
With the same happiness it brings me
***
Darkness sets in.
Though my sentiments are hurt at the thought of having to close my inkwell,
I love the sweet calmness reigning in harmony with the sound of nocturnals,
Besides, seeing another beautiful sunrise is enough consolation.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
A hero gone
That was born
A leader lost
That was found
Sweet honey in a calabash
Fresh wine in a gourd
And a raindrop in the ocean
That was not lost
A ray in the sun
Shining across the globe
You stained your white garments
To save your motherland
You tore your green apparel
To defend the course of freedom
You remain a woven nest upon the maple branch
Eagles, doves, and many more
Found refuge in your reign
Fond memories of you still linger on
Happy days of laughter somewhat covered the mourn
The sun will rise and set unend
So shall you remain in hearts forever
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 3:20 AM UTC
I wake to a void
An emptiness and an ache
I am like the calabash without content,
The river without water,
The house without a tenant,
The president without citizens,
The bulb without light,
The beautiful valley without lilies
To what end can a smile travel to my face?
If only donkeys knew the land of wishes
I would have sat on one to take me thither
To fit the bone void from where I was lifted
To feel complete and at ease
Half flowers don't bloom to the fullest
It yearns to touch and be complete
An empty house is no different.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
Look, blow the horn!
Cry, gather together!
Take refuge!
Do not delay!
Lament and wail!
For the fierce anger
Of the Abosom have not
Turned back from you,
Be astonished, oh heavens,
And be horribly afraid,
Set up signposts!
For the broken calabash
Can hold no water
But a ****** blood,
Can anyone behold
Your great plagues?
Oh Africa, my Africa,
The fruitful womb under
Fierce eternal siege,
Do not look up to the West!
And thou shall be saved.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
He’s a palm wine tapper
His bicycle for the journey
His calabash for the palm wine
His waist tie for his balance
But
Calabash will not be filled
Palm tree will not shed tears
Bicycle will not ride itself
Palm wine tapper is dead
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
*She wasn't only beautiful but also good
Because all who cherished her understood
That much as she wasn't long, she was vivid
And discouraged them from being timid
She wasn't a flower but she was petaled bright
And her each and every word came out just right
She burnt ******** melancholy to ash
And her gorgeous make could only be matched by a calabash
She was a mysterious octopus with tentacles everywhere
Little wonder, she comforted all who needed her to be there
Short as a mortar, her speech touched the sky
Touched the joyed without forgetting a single cry
She was everyone's dream, ask those who had a glimpse
Outrageously treasured for such an Imp
She was a kind soul,a gift that kept giving
Those that kept reading,even the grieving
A strong charming lass, but as vulnerable as clay
A mat of lines intricately woven for hearts to lay
She was a thing from a mystical place within
A poem none would cease reading once they begin*
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
He ponders on how to make the decision
One to give him satisfaction and the other displeasure
His small hands cradle the calabash gently
Cautious of the fragility of its content
He's wondering how to explain his spoil
Excited beyond yet afraid within
Still wandering in the bushes treading lightly on dead leaves,
He hears the drums go off from the village square.
A thought jumps in, too tempting to ignore!
But he must reach his destination .
Forging ahead to gratification,
He's barely acknowledged and his secret unkown.
Walking through he's pushed aside and ignored!
He pays no mind, full of smiles.
If only they knew the content of the Calabash!!!
Valerie Gbinije
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
Let me have a bite
Beside the shaped ancient teeth
From the mythic kola
Where only wisdom dwells.
.
Let me have a smoke
From the ancient pipe
Pulled out from aged toothless mouth
That smells our untainted heritage.
.
Let me have a sip
From the curved horns and cultured Calabash
Filled up with ale and undiluted palm wine
To intoxicate me with our heritage.
.
Let me have a seat
Amongst the white beard heads
To play the "local game" with stones
So that I may be taught the bounds in my thoughts from
From aged bloods that flows like euphrates into the garden of our motherland.
.
Let us have some music
Sang with dry lips that echoes from soundless cave
Infuriated with flutes, gongs and talking drums
That we may dance-off our ignorance
To see the chain left by our ancestors to be drawn.
Balogun David Tolulope
Drunk Poet
© 2017
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
No going back
We will defend our pride
Our heritage
Our fatherland
Not with guns, powder nor machetes
Not with armoured carriers
But with powers ancestral
We will visit Egungun Oya
The god of divination
We will invoke Mawu
The god of the Sun and Moon
Have you heard about Babalu aiye?
The god of infectious diseases
Let the games begin
Omoluabi oooo! Omoluabi oh!!
"Bo ba d'ogun; ko d'ogun"
Where is Sango, the god of thunder?
"Gunugu ni oruko, ti an pe Ifa?"
"Okalamagbo ni oruko ti an pe awon Iya oshoronga"
"Abiamo ki gbo ekun omo re",
"Ki o ma ta si were"
"Oya, Amotekun oooo"
When the walls of Jericho fell
How many bullets were shot?
They stood on their father's faith
How was Judah and Jerusalem taken?
The red sea parted by the word
We too, shall speak the word
But now, the words our Ancestors
When the centre can no longer hold
Surely, things will fall apart
"Omo Yoruba, ronu"
Enough! No longer shall our lands be desecreted
Cast the cowries in the calabash
Let us inquire of our gods
Shall we pursue and reclaim?
Ready, set, "Amotekun dee"
Babatunde Raimi
Author/Life Coach/Poet
08178827380 & 08035063895
Jan 15, 2020
Jan 15, 2020 at 4:05 PM UTC
In the square of the hanging palms
where the white sands sifts softly underfoot
and geckos and lizards know to stay away
the elders sit in quiet contemplation chewing kola nuts
Come, you son of tomorrows for its time
Soon you will go into the forest to find your mettle
for the Night of a thousand whispers beckons
where you will meet the headless warriors with three legs
and the talking calabash will ask of you where bravery lives
You will traverse in honour grace on your own
for now the hills says you are no longer a stranger
and your hand now reaches over your head to your ear
you will get a sheath for your sword and the armlet of a deity
that holds the charms of all the braves who wore your blood
know that the tears of your mother was shed only at your birth
You are a son of the land made of water and lightning
Sango gave you heart of fire while you drank the milk of tigress
before the oracle it was divined that your road leads in frontage
go resolutely with the cured spirit of the blazing sun at noon
remember some days ahead you will walk alone, its ordained
walk wisely like the tiger with the sleight of the regent beast
Know that in your river blood flows the tales of the unvanquished
the tenacity of the lynx and the ****** of your sword cleaves solid
go and do not look back, your path is true and the Creator sees!
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 3:07 PM UTC
Childhood, a delicious vision of swishing hips
Resisting time with a telescope’s persistence
Distance is Age* (*the Rage of
Existence)
The Calabash Nebula, its bipolar
Remembrance
the fisticuffs of proteins
Insane with the interstellar
Insistence
of Conversations, and our minds each wove a;
My brother, the medicated super nova
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
I love human beings,
The descendants of Adam,
The guy who conversed God one on one,
With them happiness meets a soul,
As hope and trust are kept real.
With that boss of mine,
Whom u I tirelessly worked for from dusk to dawn ,
When you failed to pay me fully,
I have never called it a betrayal,
Not at all sir.
To them relatives ,
The guys within my reach,
When I cried out for help,
And never saw you turn up,
You have made me love them more.
That learner over there ,
Expected to learn under my custody,
Do you remember calling me **** names?
Criticizing the calabash instead of consuming its contents?
I love you for that.
Come to this attractive icons ,
Feminine gender thats thrills me.
I admire how them look down upon guys,
Of their true age and type ,
Just for love graduates with fat pockets.
Thats not all ,
When you value this ****** creatures ,
Mistreatment is all you harvest,
They rather invest their trust in who they like.
Never mind they are that magnificent.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 2:47 AM UTC
Kindirimu maid
By Felix Nnamdi Obiekwe
Morning after morning I wait for her
For she must come from the Plains
Beyond the thousand Sandy dunes
I wait too for her melodious tunes
Composed amidst squeezing and squirting of Udder.
I wait too for her ware, the creamy Kindirimu.
I wait because, without it what else have I got?
She never fails even if the Sahara conducts congress
You must see her adorning her bright skimpy dress
Whether the plains are burning or chilling
There is often a calabash bowl upon her head
And a million accompanying fly's which I suspect
Are more enthralled than I am
This milk maid is a bundle of smiles
The eyes glittering like stars on a hazy sky
Infecting my mood even in miles.
Each time, I behold her I knew that somethings never lie.
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 5:56 AM UTC