the poetry that matters

D. M. Aderibigbe

D.M. Aderibigbe is a writer from Lagos, Nigeria, an undergraduate student of History and Strategic Studies of the University of Lagos. He writes poetry, fiction, non-fiction, plays and lyrics. His poems are forthcoming, on Vox Poetica and UP Literature. His debut novel Sisyphean, will be published in America, soon. He has been selected to be a mentor for the forthcoming Writing for Peace Worldwide mentoring program for younger writers.




First war

I'm writing in the cold, cooking in the heat,
the morning is hungry, wants to eat my skin.

The demure morning breeze knocks on my temperament,
I open the door, sees an

entourage of Hens, a convergence of Lizards,

and the broom disperses them with its million toes.
The ground, floors me, I report to its cousin, that watches.

I'm writing in the cold, cooking in the heat,
a shower of cacophony from outside,

it’s a war, between a Cock and a hawk. It's a battle for survival.

The sun sits on the wall of our building, watches, I
sit beside.

The sun has affection for the hawk, their affinity with heaven.
I root for the Cock, we both own the Earth.

I'm biased; I throw my voice, the sun ferries the
hawk to the sky,

the first war ended.


Second war-

Inside, the kitchen is trapped in the fiery fist of fire,

I get a tube of water,
the fire dies,
my skin a cremains.

The kitchen becomes a swimming pool, where
ashes and cremains swim,

the second war ended





the day begins as night.
The sun is supplanted by the moon and the star.

When the stars of our lives die, we stop
to shine like shingles.
We become forgotten histories. Our seats are taken over by new
pages of the history book.

I see nothing else to sit upon, except,
an adamantine egg,
whose father fathers other bastards,

like my father left so many of us, without a father.
Some are lucky to have their mothers around.

The chicken calls her younger pictures, when it's time
for food,
broods them when cold scavenges.

The Kangaroo places her future in her sack, and goes everywhere with,

the monkey feeds hers with a generation of Banana.

I'm without a flesh, like a Christmas chicken, whose feathers were
uprooted with simmering water.

I'm exposed,
I'm susceptible,

and I’m motherless.





Cascaded down like a waterfalls,
the rain of yesterday has gone into the Guinness Book of Records.
Record banked in our frustration,
for its exceptional destructive display,

its enviable wreckage.

Our holy temple has been defiled by the fall of heaven;
the pastor keeps asking God "why".
The rusty corrugated wig, worn by our house, has been blown away,

leaving no fingerprint, footprint.
Iya 'Tunde our neighbour
could not find her shrunken abode,
when she returns from the usual journey to
death in the morning.

The glory of my glorious street is swept away, like dirt cleaned up with a broom.

We come out to mourn the destruction of our street.

Cries of melancholic mouths,
blow in from the south,
their street has been pulled off, from the map, like
a tare uprooted amidst plants.

We clean our faces, when we hear their own stories
were worse.
We celebrate the destruction of our own worth.



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                                                                                                                   July 11, 2012