umarabubakarsidifestival of madness
umarabubakarsidi
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Name: umarabubakarsidi
Gender: Male


Interests: musing, writing
Occupation: soldiering
Industry: defence


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Member Since: 9/11/2006

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Wednesday, July 25, 2007

FOR THE LOVE OF SAFIYYAH

she refuses to smile, refuses to laugh, refuses to answer the poet's call, but slowly and gently  the clouds of her love are beginning to varnish from the sky of his heart.

 

LOVE SONG

 

I see you like

a bolt of lightning

on a moonless night

 

I hear you like

the strings of poetry

struck in the flow of a stream

 

I taste you like

the juicy liquids

of a violent kiss

 

Oh SAFIYYAH

I feel yuo like love

 

I feeeeeeel yoooooouuu

like the liquor of love

 

I ‘LL BE YOUR MOON

 

At morning I’ll be your dawn

At forenoon I’ll be your sun

Your chirping birds and swaying trees at evening

 

 

And

 

When the sun falls into the depth of dusk

And wingless steam of heat drizzles

 

When chirping birds retire to their resting nests

And swaying trees freeze

 

When staggering stars swim in slumbering circles

And a blinding darkness covers the earth

 

 

I’ll be your moon,

Yes, I’ll be your moon

 

 

 

 

 

I WOULD NOT MIND…

safiyyat

I would not mind

 

 

If you

give me your face

 

I would not mind to cut to pieces:

 

Slice off your long pointed nose

Soak it in vanilla ice cream

And swallow it up

 

I would not mind;

 

To plant a tulip of poetry

On your lips

 

Pick up your eyes and paint on them

The poems of my heart

 

I would not mind

 

To sculpt a verse of love on your cheeks

And hang it where it will swing freely in my heart

 

And the essence of your face

I’ll gather together, bake, smear in honey

And chew as the gum of love

 

Then I’ll rise through the pillars of bliss, fed with love

And chant Ayyuruuruiii

Or does that sound odd?

 

I would not mind

If you will give me your face

 

Even if you have to cut it

Off your head with a blade

As long as that blade,

Is the sharpest blade of love

 

I would not mind, SAFIYYAT

I would not mind

 

 

STRIKING THE STRINGS

 

Your voice

Sizzles through my soul

Piercingly

Like the whispers of a juicy flute

 

Your eyes

A crown of emerald

Glittering in glitters

More golden than gold

 

Your stride

A haven in heaven

Palpitating in pearls

At the gliding point of stars

 

You are

The poem I sing

A sonnet

Inscribed on a scroll of light

 

You are

The image I paint

A Picasso

Beauteous like the rising sun

 

I will trudge the hills of joy

Blow

Into the trumpets of love

Your eulogy

Just to get a smile, your smile

And be crowned a prince


Wednesday, May 16, 2007

 

 

THE VOICE                                                                                           short story

BY

Umar Abubakar Sidi

 

 

The voice sprang out sharply, like a projectile fired from the barrel of a gun and pierced through the padded walls of my heart; bringing back to ‘awakening’ my consciousness. The thunderiousness of its message detonated right in the middle of my heart. My heart scattered into thin tiny fragments. Blood spattered out of my veins aimlessly, not knowing where to go, as though it were a danfo in ojuelegba without a conductor. Just when I felt I was recovering from the shock, the voice sprang out again. This time, a menacing cobra, hissing and hovering over my eyes. It dangled there for three killing seconds, then it struck. It spat out its horrible venom in my eyes. Suddenly, a thick fog of unconsciousness clouded my sight. Blackout! Darkness! Blackout! Darkness!

 

 

She knelt before me the way an obedient Fulani maiden would, before her master, her hands clutched over my right leg. Despite the thickness of the jean trousers I wore, I could still feel the coldness of her hands, penetrating into my bones. Multiple micro rivers of tears flow down her plum chocolate cheeks. She was sobbing.

 

“Please forgive me, I know I have wronged you, but please, please accept me back… please” She pleaded.

 

“It’s okaaay, calm down”.  I said, waved her to a seat and offered her my traditional brown hanky, which, as a matter of habit is always kept perfumed.

 

She was now seated on the sofa, her tears wiped clean. I took a quick scrutinous glance at her that lasted for only a split second. She was still the same lovely Angel: The smiles, the sways, the curves.

 

“I know I’ve wronged you, but I am all yours now”, she uttered diffidently.

 

I was beginning to sympathize with her. Forgive her, don’t forgive her. Forgive her, don’t forgive her. Two strong voices haggled in my mind. It was then, the wind blew, and like the screen of a television, the 25`` mirror in my room began to reveal images, lovely images of the past.

 

She was sitting on the branch of a mango tree, her face radiating with smiles. She held a mighty card; the words YOU ARE MINE boldly crafted on it. He approached her carrying a plate of fruit salad which they ate together. Sitting as they were, happiness enveloping them, they cut the picture of two blossoming roses or much more lovely; a glistening sky at night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wind blew again. The mirror was still revealing images, encapsulating images.

 

He was sanding on a cliff facing the Rima River. His creative traits struggling, forcefully, each trying to dominate his brain. At one point, he was painting her face on the beautiful flows of the Rima, at another he was composing her a poem, at another singing her a song, each of these, lasting for only a flash moment.

 

The wind blew again. The mirror was still revealing images, this time, disturbing images.

 

The visibility was poor, the endearing steps of dusk were already lurking. I could not figure out the faces, but the curves, that figure eight shape, often tagged coca –cola, told me all I needed to know. She leaned on a wall and beside her stood a young man of about 19. The way she posed vibrating, holding her waist, her index finger pointing at him in a threatening gesture, one could tell that the mood was anything but pleasant.

 

“Please... it is just that, it is, it is... is  ... the love”. She mumbled.

 

The words knocked me hard, like a heavy punch released upon a fragile face; their clarity seized me off my mind. My mind reeled forth and back struggling to balance my consciousness. I could feel my blood rushing up like a rallying crowd pushed forward by the hard knocks of police batons. The images on the mirror   were still there, fresh, like the outline of her smiles in my memory. I could hear the conversation now, there is no mistake about it. It is the voice.

 

Slowly and gently, the thin tiny fragments of my scattered heart assembled. The heart is now pumping blood round my body, I could feel it, the flow...in my arteries…in my veins…oh God! …the circulation…I’m feeling it. The thick fog of unconsciousness which had hitherto clouded my sight vanished. Clarity. Light. Clarity. Light.

 

Love? She speaks of love, Love? I thought. How dare she? She speaks of love, when love is extinct, dead and long forgotten with. Love is dead and since I’ve sung its elegy:

 

Love: when next you shed your shirking shadows

over my harem, I’ll grab you by your jugular and toss

your callous face into the pits of hell

 

She was still sitting on the sofa her two palms playing a comforting chair for her jaw. I walked past her to the window and released the bolts; a powerful gush of fresh wind embraced my face. I peered thorough the window, apart from the small glare of light from Mama Risked’s kiosk, everywhere was dark. I felt my consciousness    jump out of me, out of the window. And like a quill released from an angered porcupine, it raced speedily through the hazy darkness. Trailing right behind it, running, as fast as a cheetah pursuing its prey are: The mighty merciless footsteps of the voice. The voice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Tuesday, September 12, 2006

POEMS

BY

Umar Abubakar Sidi

 

SONG OF THE SPHERES

(for Christopher Okigbo)

 

Ecstatic cries echo

In The tube of the ears of the earth

And awoke this  naked madness in me

Whispers of the winds and waves

 

And sent me swimming

In the silence of the songs of the spheres

When you led me to the spring

Believing me a bard

Prince of the words of the world

 

And fed me sounds

In saucer strings

Spears of the light of the skies

 

You took me to the spring

Believing me a bard

Pierceness of the poetry of the beginning

 

 

The maddened sounds thunder

As they strike me

Pulsates of the poetry of the end

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  SORCERY                                                              

 

 

When the smoke of a greater darkness

Surges to engulf your mystic chains

And you invoke the oracle for a cure

It will chant a verse or two for you

From the poem of the shrine

 

 

 

 

…at the end of every poem

there is a horn and a star

but the end of this poem

will mark the

beginning to the end of poems

with stars and horns at their  beginning and end

thus, an end to the beginning of unusual poems

with neither end nor beginning

to stars and horns at their beginning or end…

 

 

And when you reach here

Grow pebbles on your face

For that is the beginning of a spell

Cast on you at the end

 


Poems

 

BY                                   

UMAR  ABUBAKAR SIDI             

 

DAWN OF INSPIRATION

 

Hapharzarding

Streak of rays

 

Ripple down

From the horn of the sky

 

And

Strike the soul

Like lyrical spears

Of a striking simmering song

 

 

 

 

 

DEFINITION

 

LOVE:

 

I define you as that

Which can only be defined

By words without a definition

 

And

These words are defined

By a definition

Which itself is devoid

Of the definition of love

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DROP YOUR FOLKY GONGS AND COME…        

 

Let me take you to the bearded hills

 Where we will dine

 

Our recipe

A lumpcious bowl of poems

 

The rhymes

Will sweep us off our feet  

 

The cadence

Will swing us as it goes

 

Forming a lyrical spear

That will strip our minds of fear

 

And

Infuse them with truth

Truth found in poems

 

Oh!, drop your folky gongs and come

 

(For UU AKEEL)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

I COULD NOT GIVE YOU A LOVELY KISS

(For Ismail B. Garba’s ‘FOUR POEMS FOR CHARLES SIMIC)

 

 

As you

Twist

Turn

Twirl

Wiggle

Wriggle

Waggle

 

And moan lyrically

 

In response

To the softness of my caress

 

I see that:

 

Your rhymes

Are static

 

Your rhythm;

Loosed

 

 

Your cadence;

Broken

 

And

 

You have no title and such

I could not give you a lovely kiss

 

 

 

 

 

IF YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND THE POEM

 

If you don’t understand the poem

Oh mighty poetess

Gaffe its teeth on gabble

Pierce a world of pin on its skin

Then shake it vigorously

Like the purse

Of a market woman

Being searched

For an only coin of gold

Then

You‘ll understand

Not only the poem but also the poet

And the sorcery

Behind the horn of his poem

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MUSING

 

As the brightness of your thoughts

Blinds my sight

 

As the echoes of your poem

Awakes the sage in me

 

As fluorescence of your portrait

Haunts me in my dreams

 

As the benevolence of your smile

Tickles the mucus of my brain

 

As the countenance of your sways

Stirs passionate fluids in my heart

 

As the magnificence of your voice

Pushes me further from the folds of sanity

 

Your BEING descends

And engulfs my BEING

 

I shiver, I wail, I laugh and I think

 

“I will seize her by the neck

Tie unto a stake

Strike her with whips of karangiya*

Mutilate her, maltreat her, manhandle her…

 

…till she chooses to dance to the rhythm of my beats

 

 

*Thorns

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

POETRY AT KWL

 

The swings

Give way to the riddles

 

And

 

Give

The riddles away

 

 

 

 

 

RIPPLES

 

The deafening silence of night

Sharpen the blades that sooth

The melodious sounds:

Da sunan rabbu zan fara wakata

Haba waka zan yi gun tauraruwata

 

By the  throw of the lyrical spear:

Tunaninki fa shine abincina

Begenki fa shine ruwanshana

Shiny rays assemble

And permeate through the guarded walls

 

Furucina nakeyi yau da gaske

Duk a sammai ba abunda ya kaiki haske

Penetrated into the inner recesses of the orb

Softened the subtle fangs

And forced a smile on gloomy face

 

Behold the lovely chants

Like a hoppy jump

Into a stagnant pond

Stirred rosy ripples

In a lonely heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WEB OF LOVE

(For sa’adat)

 

Didn’t the poet

Wear the sights of saints

To see beyond the face of the sun?

 

Didn’t the poet

Don the garb of mourning

To dance the kiss of death?

 

Didn’t the poet

Gulp the drink of madness

And sing the Song of Songs?

 

All, for the poetess’s sake?

 

 Is that why

                             He Swaggered

                             Staggered

                            Tumbled

                             Rumbled

                            And crashed

 Into the wilderness as   dust of dusk?

 

Could it equally be why?

                              He was slapped                      

                              Smashed

                             Chained

                            And hanged

Across the seven stakes

In the WEB O F LOVE?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN THE NIGHT IS SET…

 

In a palpitated phase

And clouds swing and sway

The frosty cold drizzles

Shivering

Beneath the cover of my sheets

I dream

 

(…Like a porcupine

You emit  dozen salvos

Of Quills

To hit my Heart

Thus

My feelings you shattered

By a twinge of bundled sorrow

From a dish of intense anguish

And yet you seemed satisfied? )

 

But now I reckon

You are

But the Griot of my Heart

My master muse

For a poet you made

Out of me