WELCOME TO POETRY INVOICE

VERB(S) . Verbs are girls Learning how to inscribe their names On the walls of dark rooms How to run from memories That burn the stars into ashes in their eyes Leaving them between voices That breaks the silence of lifeless places . Verbs are mothers Screaming into coldness And stretching into the throat of words Like the unspoken word in the mouth of a girl Somewhere in Benue, Taraba and Borno Like the stillness in the heart of cities Whose walls are breaking into bones . Verbs are 2004 boys Taking a stroll down the street of Buni Yadi Where the sun melt into the broken rays Of days and dates- walking barefooted On the soil of sad and broken history Days when the earth ate the moon Leaving the sky with sterile faces . Verbs are boys learning how not to die With the rules against survival Rules breaking boundaries between countries Where freedom is freedom to be imprisoned Within veins, flowing with water Within tales that breaks a wayfarer into sad song

A LECTURE ON DIFFERENCE BETWEEN NATURE OF POETRY AND NATURE POETRY BY GEMINI I'm Yusuf Balogun Gemini and it's an opportunity to wield the Rabbi tonight. But then, this topic is quite intertwined. To understand nature poetry however, we must understand the nature of poetry. Gemini: The nature of poetry has to be relatable to the primary basics of the art itself - Poetry. A musician said : "you think the world dey revolve around your bum bum". I actually propose the world rotates around our poetry. The nature of poetry is however the basics of poetry - the component, the concept beyond that of what's taught in class. I tell people, that poetry is not what's being taught in class. Poetry is divinity. A prose is relatable and comprehensive. A careful, conscious study of a prose work would reveal its intents either via first person or the latter. Poetry is otherwise. Poetry is not built on the number of epochs. Poetry is built on the stanzaic form compris

FREE PUBLISHING Warm greetings. This blog is pleased to announce a FREE PUBLISHING if possibly fits in the protocols and best written to our satisfaction. WHAT IS EXPECTED: We want your most radical work. We want work that interrogates, challenges, and opposes hegemony and oppression in every form. We want work that names, explores, and critiques the systems and structures which govern our lives. We want your most accessible, your most loving. SUBMIT ANYTIME The RULES are simple: 1. Email your POEM to Adeniranjoe441@gmail.com 2. SUBMIT as many poems as you like. (NOTE: One FREE poem per person.) 3. Let us know what GENRE each of your submitted poems falls under. (as many genres as you want). Angry, Cocky, Dark, Death, Family, Fear, Friendship, Funeral, Funny, Hope, Hurt, Inspirational, Kids, Life, Long, Love, Motivational, Painful, u, Philosophical, Political, Pressure, Redemption, Relationships, Religion, Revenge, Rhyme, Romantic, Sad, Sexy, Society, Work. 4. The poem mus

POETRY INVOICE ON A TALK WITH PRECIOUS PEN For today's literary discussion,we bring you a prolific writer:Miss.Precious Oshikha. Miss.precious:Thank you very much. I am happy to be here too. Host: Without wasting time Please briefly tell us who is PRECIOUS PEN ? Miss.Precious: Well, a lot people mistake Precious Pen for me. But in all i am associated with it. Now i am Precious Osikha. Precious Pen is my brand. Founded 11th March 2015. The brand covers the literary world. Coaching of writers, Freelancing, Editing, Script writing , blogging and whole lot of others too. However, Precious Osikha is the one who runs Precious Pen. I am the author of White Whispers and other literary works. Host: Precious Oshika the founder of the Precious Pen Mehn, I like precious things. Great and absolutely amazing seeing you as a lady leading in the realm of writing. Ma'am Precious Pen; some have been saying that the literary world in Nigeria is not where it should be. What's your t

A CRY FROM HELL . If torch were light, Why do we Why? Why do we still In the night light our touch? Is the gong not enough sound? Is it? Is it not sounding enough Enough for us to Sound gongs of hostility? If living were true of itself Why does it Why? Why does it Sound leaving again? If there could be If there could If there could be a synonym Just a synonym For existing Why won't it be exiting? Ogbonnaya Joel. N Noble Pen.... ©2018

SOLITUDE These cascaded tears are black in complexion, I started arranging them when I was fourteen. These broken stars are the horizons of fear, I started numbering them when I was ten. These words were the scars seen in the smile of my mother after my father left, I started counting them when I was only six. Mother left at a tender age leaving me in the hands of the wind. Father was killed at the battlefield, I held my fate myself and they fell like pack of sands yesterday. Tomorrow is the spaces between my fingers, Today is the map of  gory miseries that has come, I learnt the act of singing lullaby at the sight of walls of emptiness - Solitude. How did we become pains in the eyes loving like the hungry wolves in the jungle? Those that know me knew where to find me at the river bank, by the dark corner of a dark room, remembering the torture of yesterday, remembering a hole created inside me, remembering a piece of meat left in the mouth of the lion for me to pic

THE BIRTH OF ILLUSION mother said the best place to laugh is in the graveyard and mortuary. father told us the better place to cry is in the church, but, I've learnt that the white place for all these is within you! because, it gives you a grey freedom, freedom to be a loner, freedom to walk into yourself yourself; freedom to drink from your lost black memories, Search through the tattered grit history that made you. freedom to weigh your wandering thoughts on your palms and see the reason why the earth is against every human. Freedom to see your pastor's visions and never dance stupidly without asking how. Freedom to break hold from your Imam's illusion in the mosque and,  never lose your senses to him! I've studied nature and discovered the graveyard is the poorest place, It is rich in loamy and dust and; dust worth nothing! When our ancestors danced along the forest of Umuahia, they lied to us, they planted falsehood in us like lyrics of music. They

WHEN WE WRITE . when autumn leaves fall: the ground shivers, the trees observe a minute silence over & over like a pendulum ticking the chimes of gloom as the climes tumble & weep for river & lakes - winter is coming. the sun will shiver & lose its heat as the day shrinks - like wet cloth - & belch embers of ice burning bodies into shivers. . when we write dirges, we scribble the voices singing in our bones as the lyrics rush into our our lungs to breathe, for the song of the dead as my father said, are gold dusts flooding the streets of heaven. we hear the voices echoing in the marrows in our bones, with torches searching for the mouths that sang them. & those voices fill our eyes with salty rivers stinging the throat of the air that took their breath. . when we write love songs, we only wish to die & wake & die & wake till we become immortals of hearts broken like splinter, for my mother said that love is a beautiful poison.

FAKE PICTURES . after Adeniran . I’m the only one left in this room; wait I thought I saw a shadow walk through the walls – I just remembered, it is the silhouette of my former skin that I dropped on the picture frame of my wall. I hear its footstep, the cracks it left on the wall & the names of each heartbeat pounding its flesh in the mortal of my face. now we are two left in this room; maybe three – myself, silhouette & the other remnants of its bones trying to find home in my body. . my father told me I was the black sheep of the house; but I said, I have no home, ‘cause the house is no home when there are no loved ones. my body is the only home left & it is a desert filled with darkrooms of dusts & sand dunes – with a tincture of elixir & cactus, which I squeeze its juicy thorns into my mouth as a meal. there is also a ladder on the walls of my body which I climb at night into a pinnacle to hear tales of Arabian nights, which bears the stor