The Sob of the Masses
In day and Night
Even if
It rains Cats and Dogs
Even if
The weather has Changed
The Masses weep though
wars and starvations
bedeviling the townlets
Oh ! Oh ! Oh! Oh!
This is a dime a dozen
Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Oh !
Day by day
Their daughters are being raped
Jewels or not
They pedestrianize to China
and wail million times before they could get a drop of water
It is the last Straw
Of the masses
Forwhy
Their Godfathers pay no attention to their Woods
Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Oh !
Let us pray to get rid of these
Lest We face the Music
God Forbid !
The Threatenable Nation
Though Poem is not Easy
But I Should not be a lazy
Oh ! My Country my Country !
Insecurity threatens Our Unity !
Places have been vandalized
And We have been massacred
Why Threatenable Nation?
It's a Nation Without Motion...
Why do they always loot the properties of
Government
Without any development ?
No peace in Cities Nor Hamlets
But Alas unutilised Talents
Oh! My Country My Country !
Insecurity threatens Our Unity
In this Country
Inadequate Water Supply
Inadequate Power Supply
All became norms
Prosperities are Very rare
While
Unemployments are rampants
Oh ! My Arewa My Arewa !
Yeah ! it's My Province
And
We lack peace
It's indeed time For Us to raise Our Voices
Let's Wake up let's wake up!
Manna don't fall From heaven
And, With no pain no gain
Yeah ! There's
Kidnapping, raping
And genociding it's really not kidding
Open defecation and deforestation
I'm afraid!
They are not Once in a blue moon
All this in my father Land
In Countries We are third World
This Country it's befitting
To be called the Threatenable Nation
Oh ! My Country My Country
Insecurity threatens Our Unity
Let the Message be Clear
This Country is Nigeria
We Shouldn't be in voiceless
But in vocalness
Oh ! God tackle all Our Obstacles
A Tearful Country
A Large Country,
But less than blue Ivory,
With no blooming tertiaries
rather a blunt Resources.
We Vote Our Leaders
Later We turned to ladders
While we Weep
They sip the elite drink
And left us to our thirst
Oh! Where Is everyone's talent?
Have they lost their craft
Oh! Where Is Our Government?
Let us Save her Beforehand from drought
Else
We would Cry a river.
Short Bio
Yusuf Salisu Muhammad was born on Saturday morning 15/3/2003 in Katsina state, Nigeria, He received His earliest Education at police Children School, Katsina state, Nigeria, then proceeded to Saldefi International School Where he earned a Secondary School living certificate also in Katsina state, Nigeria. He is currently Studying B.A History, at Umaru Musa Yar'adua University, Katsina State, Nigeria. Some of his poems were published at Susa Africa, Hausawa, and Voice Of Northern Nigeria. He started writing poems at 17.
#1 Poem Title: "Kweeju" (Abandon Child)
I am kweeju,
Born with a black skin,
Abandoned by a woman and raised by a hunter
Bright, Brilliant, articulate strong and bold;
I’m filled with hatred,
Skillful enough to attack my enemies.
I am kweeju,
Often the target is sorrow
My future is not confined to charity
Give me the gift of a lifetime,
Give me a dream,
A door of opportunity;
I will thrive.
I am Kweeju
Do not hide my fault
Show me my wrong
I am like any other,
Teach me to dream,
And I will become one.
I am Kweeju
I am the son; son of the soil,
Rich in texture and content,
Full of potential for a better tomorrow,
Lack of motherly discipline and character,
But filled with hard work,
Teach me to think like the star within me
I am Kweeju.
#2 Poem Title: Weeping/Moaning
We were four in numbers,
When we heard the sound of death’s call,
Calling our mother under cover,
We were shocked and rolled like an ocean,
A mighty man of nature, one who gives and takes,
But time was not appropriate.
Weeping has turned to our morning meal,
An early dream has come to an end.
She was our sleeves, woman full of thoughts and emotions,
One who lighten our world,
One who gives us hope for the future has passed on.
She left tears in our eyes,
Memories in our hearts,
Searching for remedy,
And finding none.
Weeping/moaning
Mother is gone,
I could hear the voice of a new mother calling from the other side,
The little one with such an instigating look.
My blood boiled to hear the voice of my younger sister crying,
The tears rained down her cheek as a sign of misery.
The tree has waved its branches, and the dry leaves have fallen.
We work more and play less,
The one who holds the dream of an entire family has crashed,
Clear waters ran through that fertile land,
By the light of dawn,
We called it home,
We shared a dream,
But now it’s gone.
We could not change,
Or bring back the days,
But feel her presence around,
And we weep all day.
Who Is A Woman?
The backbone to a man in time of difficulties;
One who lighten the affairs of the family,
And the attention she gives,
Seeking the treasure of satisfaction,
A light in the night of man's trouble.
The bridge of every man's dream,
The apple in the eyes,
The representation of man's life.
Who is a woman
One that is quiet,
millions of things are running through her mind
as she stares at you,
she is wondering why she loves you so much,
despite being taken for granted.
She stands by you like a solid rock.
Never hurt and taken for granted.
Who is a woman
Mother to our future leaders
One who has the unique character like salt,
But her presence is never remembered,
Her absence makes all the things tasteless.
But,
Her smile and commitment,
Make a man realize a woman's worth.
Author Bio
Jelvin Stephen Gibson remains the name. He was born in Montserrado County, precisely ELWA Hospital, on Friday, 8th August 1995, as the first son of four children. Father's name is Stephen T. Gibson, and mother's name is Etta B. Sulonkpala (late), while his stepmother's name is Benetta Jones Gibson. He is from Bong County by origin.
He holds certifications in Acting for Stage, Acting for Radio, Artist Management, and Acting for Camera.
He is a classroom Teacher; he holds an Associate Degree in Education (AA) (Language Arts) from the Licosess Mobile Teacher Training College. He looks forward to having a B.Sc as soon as possible.
His hobbies are writing, reading, teaching, and caring for others. Because of his writing, he gained popularity in the Liberian Movie Industry. He wrote and starred in the movie "Greed" and also wrote the script of the story "Kweeju" (Abandon Child), which was a zone project.
His father is his inspiration. He always gives him some direction to face something, gives him the story ahead, and is always optimistic about realizing his dreams. He always says that he is the best and that his family is his spirit.
Sometimes I imagine what if I hadn't met you
sometimes I imagine what if I hadn't met you,
I wouldn't know those soft touches
That i felt through the spring of your clutches
I wouldn't run a mile
Just to see your beautiful smile
I wouldn't know that warmth
That I felt in your arms
I wouldn't know the heaven of bliss
That I found in your tender kiss
I wouldn't know the taste of the care
That I found in the blossom of your air
sometimes I imagine what if I hadn't met you
_ -Mamta Verma
"Fajr Ali" was a well-known name in the field of children's literature. Fajr Ali's stories were published in almost every children's magazine.
Readers of all ages, young and old, eagerly awaited Fajr Ali's stories.
And Fajr Ali believed that all this was the perfection of his "magic pen" which was given to Fajr as a gift by his class teacher Miss Nusrat. Fajr still remembers the words of his teacher when he gave the "magic pen":
"Dear Fajr, with the power of this pen you will rule the hearts. With its magic, your words will enchant people."
Then it really happened that when Fajr Ali wrote the first story with this pen, it was well received, and then as soon as he saw it, Fajr Ali's stories became popular among the young and old.
Fajr Ali attributed every success story to the magic pen.
Every word that came out of Fajr Ali's pen enchanted the readers.
But then suddenly the stories of Fajr Ali stopped being published. One month, two months and three months had passed. No story of Fajr Ali was published. How can it be published? When Fajr Ali had not written any story in those three months.
Apart from the stories, an episode-wise novel was also being published in the children's magazine Roshan, the last episode of which was to be published three months ago, but Fajr Ali had not yet written the last episode of the novel.
Readers as well as editors were very upset by this situation.
.. .. .. .. ...
Fajr Ali was holding his head in front of a pile of papers when suddenly the door of his room opened, Fajr Ali looked up, Fajr's father was at the door, "Abu Ji, you?" Fajr said looking at his father.
"Son, now you tell me your problem, why haven't you written anything in the last three months?" Ali Sahib said while sitting on the chair.
"Abu Ji, I will never be able to write again." Fajr Ali said wiping his moist eyes.
"Why, son, what happened?" Ali Sahib asked anxiously.
"Actually, my 'magic pen' is lost, because of which I used to write, now I can't write with any other pen, as soon as I start writing something on the paper, my pen doesn't move, it seems like all my words are lost like a magic pen. "
Fajr Ali told his father the real reason.
"Oh my dear daughter, your pen was not a magical pen, but the real magic is in you, in your thoughts. That pen was just a simple pen, but it was important that it was a gift from the teacher." Well done, now shake off the illusion that your pen was enchanted, recognize the magic inside you, believe in your ability, grab this new pen and start writing with the confidence that you will write your words with each pen. I can do magic," Ali Sahib explained to Fajr Ali.
.. .. .. .. ...
The last episode of Fajr Ali's series of novels had been published in the children's magazine "Roshan." It turned out that everything she wrote was due to a magic pen.
Today Fajr Ali had identified himself.
Three Poems
Written by Yuan Hongri
Translated by Yuanbing Zhang
I Was Originally The God of the Gods
I shall change seawater into honey，
smelt the stone into the gold，
the bitter is namely sweet，
the sun is born from the womb of the night.
Oh, my God！No matter what if you are really the God
Oh, the devil! No matter how many tricks you have
today, I am neither living nor dying
I want to put you all into the golden tripod of time.
I am originally outside of the earth
I will leave one day
although I have forgotten many years
but I woke up finally today
From a little drop of water
the world came into being
It was originally a tear of mine
I was originally the God of the Gods .
4.30.2011
我本是上帝的上帝
我要把海水酿成蜜
把石头熔炼成金
这苦涩就是香甜
这太阳从黑夜的子宫诞生
上帝啊 无论你是不是真的上帝
魔鬼啊 无论你还有多少伎俩
今天 我不生也不死
我要把你们统统装进时光的金鼎
我本在这个尘世之外
有一天还将归去
尽管我遗忘了许多年
可今天终于醒来
这小小的一滴水
诞生了这个天地
它本是我的一颗泪珠
我本是上帝的上帝
2011.4.30
The World Is in a Box
The world is in a box
the little timeworn world
the countries of Lilliput
the President of the king's prime minister
those kings, premiers and presidents
those dwarfs in the scroll of time’s picture
They do not believe the additional sun
both like a diamond and like gold
make you warm in winter
make you cool in summer
Neither have they seen the sweet ocean
nor have they known heaven outside time
forgotten those gods who like mountains
are the ones the former ancients owned
9.1.2012
世界在一只盒子里
世界在一只盒子里
这个小小陈旧的世界
一座座小人国
那些国王 首相 总统
那些时光画卷里的侏儒
他们不相信另外的太阳
既像钻石 又像黄金
在冬天时让你温暖
在夏天时让你凉爽
他们没见过甜蜜的海洋
也不知时光之外的天国
忘了那些山岳般的众神
是古老的曾经的自己
2012.9.1
The King of The Diamonds
The sun was rising in my breast
I woke up finally
said goodbye to the night's nightmare
the world was lit up by me
this is actually the real me
There is no longer day and night
there are no longer newborns and death
I got myself back
before there was no earth and heaven
I have existed from the beginning
The world is just my works：
a picture, a poem
a symphony.
Give me a stone
I will turn it into the king of the diamonds.
9.3.2012
钻石之王
太阳在我胸膛里升起
我终于醒来
告别黑夜的梦魇
世界被我照亮
这才是真实的我
不再有白昼与黑夜
不再有新生与死亡
我找回了自已
在没有天地之前
我就早已经存在
世界只是我的作品
一幅画 一首诗
一部交响曲
给我一枚石头
我让它变成钻石之王
2012.9.3
Bio: Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization. Its content is to show the solemnity, sacredness and greatness of human soul through the exploration of soul.
Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email-3112362909@qq.com.
SHEHZAADA, ABDUL & LINCOLN
In economics classes & management level presentations I have often encountered the term birds-eye view & insect-eye view. Just for academic purposes, these two terms are used to indicate an overall broad overview (bird’s eye view) & a detailed micro level view (insect's eye view). But whenever I heard these terms images came to my mind.
A bird, may be an eagle soaring high in the sky with all his panache & ridiculing all our master creations at ground level by the sheer size of its visibility. All our skyscrapers appear as mere Lego blocks or Jenga pieces to him. Similarly the insect eye view reminded me of the blur compound vision as found in insects and an insignificant Lilliput like stature. Though both the views are relative to the literal sense and is an illusion of the truth. But Shehzaada & Abdul had actually explained these economics terms to me in Luxor, Egypt.
Since the day I had seen Brendan Fraser kiss Rachel Weiss in a hot air balloon in the movie “The Mummy Returns”, it was in my bucket list. I mean the hot air balloon and Egypt part.
So when I finally visited Egypt & booked the Hot Air Balloon ride in Luxor, I was thrilled to the core. There was fine sense of accomplishment within me. It’s common to most middle class Indians when one of their childhood dreams come true.
The excitement kept swelling as the burning fire kept swelling the inflated balloon. Most of my fantasies are linked with Hollywood movies, I switched from Mummy to the Disney’s Animation Up as we went up. As we went up the world below started getting smaller and smaller. It was dawn and the sky was pink. The sun was about say good morning.
Simultaneously as many 15-20 hot air balloons joined us in the air. All of them were vividly colourful and morning sky looked like a beautiful painting. After we finished admiring the lucid sky & vibrant neighbouring balloons it was time to look down.
A hot air balloon can go up to 3000 feet high as per Google. I don’t know how high our balloon was but view below was fascinating. The desert looked sparkling yellow with the sun just rising. The sand dunes and rocky cliffs as if resembled a hidden castle in the desert awaiting for a prince from top. Or maybe it was a dungeon where an evil magician was trying his spells. The green patches of irrigated agricultural lands added to the colour contrast and made it even more vivid. The trees, rocks, huts, houses were mere colourful dots. We could feel the wind on our faces and the fire on the top gave us warmth.
As the sky kept changing colours, my mobile camera kept clicking pictures good enough to embarrass the Instagram filters. The aura was peace and serenity personified. You could breathe in all the freshness from the morning sky, appreciating the brilliant craftsmanship of nature while the daily hassle and cacophony of the world below appeared miniscule and insignificant. The rocky desert below took me to another childhood illusion one where Aladdin flew on his magic carpet over these sparkling rocky deserts. Truly majestic or may be a bird’s eye view.
Though joy descends gently upon us like morning dew as our balloon descended the golden patch of land slowly started taking the shape of a barren rocky lifeless desert. It was then I saw Shehzaada & his friend. From the birds eye view Shehzaada & his friend resembled two princes galloping on their horses tearing through deserts may be chasing some evil magician out their kingdom holding their swords high in the air. But we descended further the horses turned into small donkeys, and my Don Quixote & Sancho Panza turned into 2 lean kids. Shehzaada was one of them & he had a dry branch in his hand which resembled his sabre from the bird’s eye view. As our balloon finally touched the ground Shehzaada & his friend stopped to greet us.
The desert was barren, lifeless & hot. For miles there was no sign of life. It was seven in the morning and already we could sense the heat. As I saw Shehzaada from the ground level it was not a hard guess that he was far from a prince. As I came closure his lean physique, dry lips, dark sun burnt skin tone and clothes with a number of holes told a thing or two about this tribal lad. Even the donkey was thin and weak. As Shehzaada’s friend approached another balloon adjacent to us Shehzaada approached us.
His meek and small eyes were pleading and his hands were touching his cracked dry lips in a gesture to indicate he wanted food or money. I never asked his name. I just assumed his name would be Shehzaada or a prince from the bird’s eye view. But while I was having the privilege of the insect’s eye view I asked what his donkey was named.
“Abdul” replied Shehzaada. Abdul stared obstinately at us and indistinct braying clearly signified that he was not much intrigued by our existence. I wanted to ask Shehzaada a lot of things. Where he lived, if he went to school, if he watched cartoons or movies, if he liked burgers, how his parents were, whether he knew of Aladdin? But unfortunately we couldn’t communicate through any common language. I don’t know even the A of Arabic and obviously Shehzaada was ignorant of English.
Most of our co-tourists were busy taking selfies so I decided to chat a little with Shehzaada. Though my efforts were futile verbally but his bright eyes told a thing or two. Unlike me, a hot air balloon was no fantasy for him. He sees it daily. It’s rather boring for him. Probably he hates most tourists too as they are reluctant to pay him a tip. Even Abdul, his companion, seemed to hate us as for the balloon he had to travel 30kms in the morning from their village. His angry stares and frequent braying justified his stance. But does Shehzaada fantasize of aeroplanes or pizzas? Probably. When I was his age I had seen “The Mummy Returns” and the hot air balloon fantasy stayed with me. But in Shehzaada’s eyes I could see his dreams were the basic amenities of life. Good food, a warm bed, basic education maybe. The dry white puss around his pale lips signified he was clearly malnourished. Poverty is just a dot from the bird’s eye view.
As Shehzaada extended his right palm towards me, I introduced Lincoln to him. Yes, Abraham Lincoln, on a five dollar bill. He took it and smiled gleefully. Probably he smiled at Lincoln. Shehzaada doesn’t know Lincoln. He does not need to. He knows Abdul and loves him. But Lincoln at that moment was significant for Shehzaada in the insect’s eye view. Probably Lincoln will fetch him some of his fantasies, may be a pizza or an ice cream! This too was my bird’s eye view and not the insect’s eye view where a poor tribal kid would value pizza more than a full meal of rice and lentil soup.
I wondered if it was a compound insect vision or a bird’s aerial view. I wondered if I were a proud eagle or an insignificant centipede. But Shehzaada hardly cared. With Lincoln in his pocket he climbed on Abdul’s back and galloped towards another descending balloon few metres away. As Shehzaada, Abdul & Lincoln vanished in the distant horizon an eagle screamed in the barren desert, merging my bird’s eye view and insect’s eye view into one stark reality. The reality that involves Shehzaada, Abdul & Lincoln in the barren deserts of Luxor.
Salvation from the Flames
Soldiers marching with rifles at the ready.
All seemed lost in a city burning down.
A city ablaze as the smoke rose to the skies.
Death was as near as the heat of the city.
It was a night that fire brought pure fear.
Pleading with God to not let me die in the flames.
Always been afraid of the flames of the night.
Pleading with God to not let me die in the flames.
A night when D.C. was ablaze God saved me.
Light of Grace
Inspired by “It Could Have Been Me” The Five Blind Boys of Mississippi
Daylight coming through the stained glass windows.
Kneeling at the altar alone day after day for years.
Friends lost to drugs, jail, and gunshots wounds.
My heart ached month after month for years.
God was to save me on the night death called me.
It was not me dying on that floor after using cocaine
It was not me dying alone in the red light-district.
Touched by Innocence
For Mahjabeen
The evening skies in Vermont on a cool night.
Watching stars upon stars flashed before my eyes.
Amazed that such beauty existed in the world.
Baptized on a night with a shooting star.
Heaven once a distance memory opened.
Angels rejoiced at the return of a brother.
Sins were forgotten and washed away.
A lonely heart was filled with harmony.
Salvation had been given to a sinner.
