Sentinel Poetry (Online) #37

3rd Anniversary Issue – December 2005

ISSN 1479-425X








The Last Communist


A quixotic rural peasant theatre director,

I pluck lumpen stars onstage

From the blighted firmament

Of a benighted terrain.


Robert Tressel touts my alias:

Ragged trousered philanthropist,

A stager upstaged by Francis Fukuyama

And Gorbachev’s cast of history enders.


Nobody knows footlights here

But the moon does shine

This night that stages suicide pact

In the theatre of small players.


The masses garner the messiah in me,

And one is now at one with dross griping:

“Peasants upon opulence, rant amid riches!

There’s nary capital to lose but labour of voice.”


Abiola Speaks on June 12


I was killed

for nothing

and everything

on the noonday

of my covenant

of grace;

a protracted lynching,

the third world death,

passing became the orgy

of the septal lynch-mob

orchestrated by the cartel abroad

working the mullahs on the rock

and the born-again marionette

of the mufti mafia,

messianic benighters

of the risen sun

and mutant incubi

of the hulking colony.


Love in London-Ontario

(To Professor Peter Desbarats)


On the wings of empire

The knowing craft betokens

Man of all flight

Over flora in undress.


Nothing makes over here

Save macho solitude

Of the sable soul

Enshrouded in vernal verdancy.


A seedling makes the garden,

The array and unfathomable labia

Of replete verdure of the field,

Petals in fair fettle.


In the jungles of another London

On the banks of the other Thames

Naomi Campbell of the natives bares all,

Tingeing the ozone with magic.


Achebe in a Wheelchair

(for Chinua Achebe)


The age is doomed to stand

The sovereign wheel of chairmanship,

For the chair is exclusive to the oracle.


On iroko the eagle surveys the horizon

As earthlings chew proverbs with the ancestors,

The wit of the worship of the word.


Now accident cannot essence unseat

The Pope deigns to teach catechism

But with which buttocks shall we ants sit?


In war, words outwar warriors,

Then the story takes the chair,

For the chair is exclusive to the oracle.



For Ken Saro-wiwa


Boom vultures drop

Dead but lethal

Sundering boon companions

In the dainty Delta

Laden with unbearable riches

And the oiled blood feud

Flaring ganging and hanging.


Boomtown obtains boomerang

Come the cauldron of crude

Ogoni yields burnt offering

As teeming remains

Shell out hard currency

To carry the chronic coming

Of the hangmen from Sokoto.



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