I Am Bound To This Land By Blood - Poems by Olu Oguibe
- By Olu Oguibe
- Published May 5, 2007
- Poems
- Unrated
Olu Oguibe
Olu Oguibe, PhD., is legend in intellectual circles in Nigeria, most notably at the University of Nigeria where he set all sorts of academic records that continue to confound. The author of A Gathering Fear, A Song from Exile and Songs for Catalina, all collections of poetry, Olu has won all shades of grants, scholarships, academic and literary awards, including the All-Africa Okigbo Prize for Literature. Perhaps his most haunting poem, I Am Bound to This Land by Blood, is an anthem to the muses of pain and protest at literary gatherings. Oguibe is also a poet of the canvass, a visual artist who has had solo exhibitions the world over since 1988. He was at the University of South Florida (Stuart Golding Endowed Chair in African Art) before his current position (Senior Fellow, Vera List Center for Art and Politics, New School, NY). In his words, just call him ?an independent scholar and curator.? He says he has ceased writing poetry. We hope not!
View all Entries by Olu OguibeSong of Sorrow
for rosa diez
si només, però, aquesta
llum parada poguès durar
I shall sing you a song of
Sorrow when the moment comes.
It is the way of poets.
He will come bearing along his voice
Like the lament of an old guitar.
Only night shall fall; another day dawn.
I shall sing you a tearful song.
In the desert the rain fell on me.
Bushfires danced their way through
The undergrowth of my verse.
Your footfall soft as felt, you
Stepped into the light and
Asked the poet for a song.
I shall sing you a lyric of pain.
The blue moon peers through the foliage
Of your eyelashes. The minstrel hawks
His tears through the streets of night.
A household god is asking for water;
An old god is pleading at your door.
There's a white rose on your breast.
It is the fortune of poets;
I shall sing you a song.
Untie the fresh leaves of dawn,
I want to make my journey short.
I will go upon the hill and cast my little net,
Decorate the river of your morning with petals;
I shall speak the words of songs.
It is the destiny of poets.
I shall sing you
A song of sorrow
When the moment comes.
All Because I Loved You
once i wrote with the irreverence of youth
and the fire of a heart burning to ash
i plucked words like faggots from blazing coal
and on the anvil of exile i hammered sorrow into verse
the burden of your suffering tore poetry from my flesh
and on the night of your hanging there was dust in my lines
i aimed for song and there was not an eye without tears
i marked the fourteen stations of the cross
but your death has killed my verse
each day i wake on the hour to mourn
and i feel like a wanderer in a city without lights
passion flees in the fog and words crumble at my touch
and my throat feels like a concrete floor
the power of tears has deserted me
i walk through the streets of this forbidding town
searching for faces i used to know
and your memory is like a faded picture in the pocket
here and there i hear your name like the distant crack of a whip
and there is a dull pain where the scars remain
i recall your stubbornness and the ring of blood on your wrist
and i embrace this cold that severed you from me
once i howled with the rage of a bard
there was epiphany in the pain
and all because i loved you
now i claw the walls for the naked word
my lines are a hollow sepulchre
ready for the final dust
silence claims us at last