As long ago as I could drink,
I read my poetry with light;
Walked on the river’s bank; the brink—
Out where the verses mock the night.
One I have yet to consummate:
Evening intensifies the wait.
As long ago as I could drink,
I read my poetry with light;
Walked on the river’s bank; the brink—
Out where the verses mock the night.
One I have yet to consummate:
Evening intensifies the wait.
Hello, world citizens! GloBoHoMo 2023 is finally here, and we hope you are feeling lyrical and ready to speak words into poetic action.
Our featured poet today is Femi Abubakar whose stunning sub-Saharan verse has been curated by First Nations poet Harrison Tsinakut-O’odla for online journal Crowflake Dancer.
Founded in 2011, Crowflake Dancer publishes quarterly e-chapbooks, reaching over 17 readers, twelve of whom chair MFA Creative Writing programs. I would also like to point out Winifred Bong-Herschowitz’ poem “Menses Room” which I found tragically relevant, and Julio MacDougal’s poem “Woke As Mansplained By Those Who Never Picked Cotton,” which is a whimsical jab at privilege, power and poverty of alliteration.
And now, our prompt, from a bin of late-70s prompts I found behind a Goodwill parking lot. It is based on the idea that poetry is the random and meaningless juxtaposition of drivel.
The form itself is loosely based on the charming medieval Portuguese Trintanéscia. (Trinta means “thirty” in Portuguese). Here’s how you do it:
Got scissors? Let’s go!
Or, as they say in Portuguese, imprestável !
Quarrels have always made money—not friends…
The media needs them: their bread is their butter.
Fake news will approve, and it furthers their ends
As they drain every issue straight down to the gutter:
Quarrels have long been in vogue among sages.
Humanity’s sinful. You may disagree—
But the levites and wranglers concur with this fact.
Your genes still transmit what you choose not to see
And the emperor’s naked; it’s all a big act.
Still, though in many things wranglers and rancorous . . .
History shows us that poetry’s useless;
Philosophers-kings will assume they can govern.
Bombs will explode their ideas as worthless;
You huddle in shadow. It’s Plato’s great cavern . . .
All the philosopher-scribes of all ages.
Christ is the anchor: it’s madness or heaven;
Your soul is the boat and you head for disaster.
You move toward the reef… your craft will be riven—
Call NOW on the Lord, for the current drives faster:
Join, una voce, on one point to anchor us.