Unoma Nguemo Azuah is studying for an MFA at Virginia Commonwealth University. She has a BA in English from the University of Nigeria Nsukka, where she edited the departmental journal - THE MUSE, and recieved the best creative writing student award for the years 1993 and 1994. She was also the recipient of the Leonard Trawick Creative Writing Award (of the English Department at Cleveland State University, Ohio where she recently got her MA in English) for the year 2000. In 1998 and 1999 she served as the secretary, Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA Lagos) and the publicity Secretary, Women Writers of Nigeria (WRITA). Some of her stories and poems have been published in some Nigerian and international journals. If you inscribe my name
On the arms of the wind
I will reach the flanks
Of the earth
And make you the new gospel...
Boulders of Ice
I lean on clasping boulders of Ice
To set my face to the paws of the wind
they howl like polar bears
I left the battle of bones
On grounds where they incline like stumps of broken wood
To claw at the invading chill.
My eyes shall bear the balls of light
Tearing through the thickets of freezing forests
To claim salvation in a land forsaken by the sun
From bones to cubes, cubes of ice, ice cubes…
In a land deserted by the sun, I dwell on graveyards
Feeding on the pulse of the dead
Now, it’s the sun and the ice
Melting into a pool where I cease to exist.
If You Will
If you etch my face
On the eye of the sun
I will shine beyond the sun
And wed deserts to the seas
If you inscribe my name
On the arms of the wind
I will reach the flanks
Of the earth
And make you the new gospel
If you weave all trees
Like the braids of an African woman
Where all leaves will be in
Patterns of waves
Giving rhythm to rocks
I will steal the chorus of birds
And place your song on the lips of dawn
If you pledge your love
To the groves of my palm
I will make my hand a shield
Clasping the seed of your trust
If you let me possess you bloom
Like the flowers of my garden
I will transform the earth
With the fragrance of your petals.
Almost Done
The day is almost done
And I am still a burden to a stranger
Begging for speed and span
In a race against time and destiny
The day is almost done
I learn new steps on needle points-
Blood becomes paint
In the canvas of skulls and broken bones
The day is almost done
My fatherland is still a beast on rampage
Gobbling gold and diamonds
And his sons lean on long guns
for meals and money
But then blood becomes the colour of justice
in the portrait of pain and poverty.
A Fall Into A Well
New events chew history
like locusts on leaves
The echo of a well calls me
I crash
in
Reaching for the mirror
in the surface of reflections.
The splash shatters the pictures
of dreams and hallucinations
I drown in my shadow
standing in ovation
for corpses called up from graves
I may be in the next cast
waiting to be applauded.
Let me be the egg bearing the
stench of stillbirth
Let me be the blood bleeding before
the oracle
I may be the white yam ringed with cowries
I may be the lone voice piercing the
path of fear
Let me be the calabash
bearing totems at the cross-road
of death.
*The river goddess of Asaba people in Delta State.
Cathedrals
It’s Sunday morning
solitary fields stretch
from here to tips of skies
birds chorus on whistling pines
It’s Sunday morning
masses amass for mass
sounds of distant chaos
rip the altar cloth
But Father Monu battles
with communion and crosses
It’s Sunday morning
Myraid echoes;
Bread, blood
Water, wine
Purgatory, purgation
Contrition, confession
Chalice, chaplet
Sacrament, sacriledge
Sin, saint
Salvation, devotion
come crashing through stained glasses
It’s Sunday morning, summoning souls
To the graveyard of resurrection.