August Break
After three months of long break
The land is a sodden bed
Of dried pond. The tarred roads shine
Fine threads of steam to the air.
The playground jump and chatter
With the presence of children
In games abandoned yesterday
When the sky was falling tears.
The streets bustle with vendors,
Calling their wares by sweet names;
And the radio shops yell out
The rival sounds of Highlife.
Okogbule Wonodi (1935-2001)
Her Mother
She stood still at break of day,
the palm tree, erect and slim;
I see her still but who would say
that such rays could dim
and hopes sway.
What a Tuesday was it
when the sun went to sea?
Alas! Alas!
The poor's deposit
that's drawn and sealed.
You hear me;
let sense sane and stay,
we ate here
you and me
and now she's dead and away
down mortals' stream.
The morning food,
warmed in a platter of broken pot,
the gentle slap on the back,
to warn a rascal and correct
are forever gone.
She stood firm on her work,
she, godlike feeder,
now lives
beyond the reaches of thought
and sight.
Where the gods
that she called night and day
in sacrificial belief?
The earth god
thunder and sun
where stood they ?
she's dead and none,
not one stands to say:
She lived well
And here we stand
Lonely and dry.
Okogbule Wonodi (1935-2001)
For Anita Roddick Had I a voice I would sing your song Had I a tongue I would speak your praise Had I the time I would live for you But here...
