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Two Poems


By David Ogana


Sunday, October 26, 2013.



War is a silly pea, to farm on my prow

Death seems like a mote sang by these owl

Cawing upon that virgin twig,

Before mothers tent

Nay, Where the most loved are milled.


When mothers breast keel,

The ancestral flute quail

Souls as coins tossed at random

Elope the very birth of vintage.


When daffodil calls home, tell her,

They had journey to these kingdoms

Which paths I had not trodden?


But you must stay awaken,

When aegis calls home tonight


Tell her am in the wilderness,

Among the thickets of trees

There we shall dine together as kin

In the wedge of violin.


The crow of deities in purgatory,

Night and day lusting these ogle

As libation to a god, as cowries to a man


Today, I see these two taking a sacred super,

As stub of the last super.


Alas! These cloves flinch with a weep,

Meeting at cross-roads spell our dying dreams

Here, we make turn to view our righteousness and differences


The turning point, Our turning point.

Quails of a long walk in January ,

O, I'm lost in the mud, in her voices

The foot-sprint my kindred left  for me to follow is lost in the rain

How do I face these clouds,

How do I wrestle with thunders.




Songs  charioted by a sickening cello,

My psalm is the choir of market peddlers

A song for a slave, singing slavery

Yet the chorus i must sing should surpass a minstrel

Ah! at winter my wharf is made a birch ,

When shall my poems be sung at open-door


My songs had wandered like a flee

Through the frozen cities

My hymns are apparition that comes from the burning grass

Brood of knell that come from broken spirit

These deadly images, that comes from the lecherous songs of dust.


The're my songs as note of a

Wandering weaver bird

Gathering rain for nest

My songs are the paintings of eve

A deaf tongue feeding pasture.


My courtyard combed with musk

Of fossil and the firefly

A broom to mourn her soles,

Before my tomb sleeps on lettuce

As lizards squall the walls.


Ah! i do not weary for myself,

My wearies is of the gods

When i'm gone, none shall worship

At their stinking shrines than a

Paupered rose.


These flowers go deaf,

My umbel in the wedge

Crude lettuce broils in my vein

These Lento flowers go to praise

To truffle into my hollow grove

David Ogana is a Nigerian poet and writer.

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