Posts Tagged ‘Life’


We go great lengths for satisfaction and realisation, and after the basic needs of food, emotion and, perhaps, sex is met we seek luxury, beauty. But when real life is not making this happen, it becomes our aspiration and life goal. We create new realities, in our hearts, in our arts. Between our reality and our dreams are a yawning space and a great, optimistic ocular faculty that curiously observes the reconciliation of our artful dreams and our exacting realities. In spite of our outrageous realities we are all patrons of beauty.

Aesthetics is a universal objective; though what we see as beautiful and artistic is determined by culture and perception, and hence we say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, still, art cuts through the barriers of culture and times. Whatever our culture and civilisation we want to hear a song; write, listen or read a piece of poetry out loud to a friend; see beautiful paintings; watch breathtaking movies and take photographs of happy little moments. We are at awe of nature’s order and the things around us- the hills, valleys, plantations and space, – that may seem chaotic still have about them the awesomeness of impressive creation.

There is a piece of art in everything, in everyone. And the ultimate end of art is not merely in the beauty it expresses; the scenic portrayal of striking reality and phenomenal concepts, but also in the feelings it arouses. For that is what we remember of it all, of people in our lives, of moments, of memories that shape our lives: did they make us weep, frightened, irritated, angry, and secured, or did they enchant us. Every experience, like the ornate and subtle features and element of art, does their part in us to ensure those enduring gestures.

And that is how we approach everything else in life. We naturally give the first hearing to our feelings. It is most real to us. What we feel, we feel and there is no talking us out of it. Except of, course, if there is an alternate feeling purveyed. We seek things that make us comfortable, happy and loved. Our desires and dreams are made real to us by the prospect of what they make us feel about the world and ourselves, and in the pursuit of these things we are advised to ‘follow our heart’. Because no matter how we try to evaluate things by reasoning, by data and facts, (which nevertheless are of immense importance in maintaining a balance perspective) our sincerest judgements lie in the ultimate question of art; what we felt about it rather than how nice it appeared.

We are all in a way artists; always in the business of making ourselves look good and come out better, there is a picture of our perfect self upheld in our hearts- we are our own most venerated masterpiece imaginable. Like in clean canvass we wish we can make ourselves whatever we desire, make amends for our imperfections by the flick of a brush, erasing and dabbing again till we reach what exactly pleases us. We have the idea how we want our stories told; whether for the record, expressive, didactic or aesthetic end. But our canvasses are not so clean after all, and things, some things, had gone out of our control. The world had messed with it for quite a while before we took charge- this canvass, our minds- and had set the backgrounds it will advance in. And when we should take charge of it, we have in our hands tasks, either to correct and re-pattern, or make final touches and finishing strokes. But every inclination towards change in our lives, towards creation, begins with a ‘wash of black’, an inertia void, because all things in nature, according to Leonardo da Vinci, are dark except where they are revealed by light.

Chris Tilewa

Chris Tilewa

Chris TILEWA is a young Nigerian who writes. He has written a number of short stories, essays and poems. While he writes prose; fictions and non fictions, he also nurses a mild love for poetry. He holds an anaemic faith that he will soon contract the demon required to write a book.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity



Posted: September 30, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

by Anene Francis

Here we are, fellow seamen lowly paid,
In this ship, another sea to invade.
The wind’s beating cause the sails growl in pain.
Underneath, I hear more– your muffled wails.
Not for equal division of labour
But same proportion be used for honour.
The winds we battle to tame night and day
And in turns keep watch for bergs and pirates.
We know who takes the credit– the captain
That savours the comfort of the cabin,
Spout orders and inspect with folded arms.
Who remembers the name of a seaman?
They say we are the most crucial at sea.
Not me, not individual you but WE!
Don’t be fooled by the badge on Captain’s chest.
We touch land, we breathe same air of success.
Hear and cheer up. He too was once here, down.
Pawns. Indeed, that is what we are– for now.

Onward we march, fellow infantrymen
From hostile force our frontiers to defend.
Armed with rifles or less and boots for treks.
Head and torso guard of helmets and vests.
All around me your jaundiced eyes I see
Sick with envy, cast at the cavalry.
I too desire the comfort of horsebacks
And assurance within the fort of tanks.
I wish to wield awing power of bombers
Or artilleries that taunt from afar.
Thank goodness that wishes were not horses
For they too would wish no rider exists.
If all feathers were to be beaks and claws,
How would Eagle sour the skies she now lords?
I look at you, I get huge morale boost.
That which I lack, I find in multitude.
No surety in base support or supplies
But ourselves– I watch your back, you watch mine.
True. The Grim Reaper may claim some of us.
We’re but pawns fighting for a noble course.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity


Posted: September 26, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

by Enyinnaya Marachi Ofoegbu

Things just don’t feel so right
In the dark long alleys of my heart
Peace and quiet just does not reign
In the deep corners of my soul
I try to calm myself but the more I try,
The worse it gets
Who can save me from this pain
Who can save me from myself
The alleys of life do not tell you where you are going
The alleys of life do not tell you what you are doing
Each day you awake to uncertainty
Each night you sleep with uncertainty
Every minute of the day the chords of my heart
Are struck by uncertainty
Every second I wish I could turn
Back the hands of time
Each day I beg for forgiveness for the things I’ve done
For all the mistakes I have made
For all the wrongs I have done
Though time heals all but I sit and ask Can this be washed away on the sand of time.
My soul despairs not, but everything else does
My intuition tells me its over,
My inhibitions tell me its not
What am I to believe, what is there to believe.
Life unfolds or so I am told
But impatient I have become to see
What happens in the end
I hope and pray and beg that all is not lost
For my hearts sake
As I sit in this theatre called life
And listen to this Ocarina called time.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity

by Okoye Chukwudi Charles Ezeamalukwuo

The awakening of the sun at dawn
On places base and holy, on grasses
Trodden black and Jasmine sweet, virgin pure
And maiden vile; calls to my mind the doubts
Of something more, something beyond this world,
Beyond this life I see. I hear clearly
The indifferent cock crowing again,
Hear pilgrims calling to a form-less being,
Hear children naked, shouting on the street;
Chasing still a low-flying aeroplane,
Chasing still an ever-elusive dream
Of justice and equality, of life
Without prejudice, without suffering.
The yellow leaves of human lives fall still;
Broken and stale, fall still on those areas
Where childhood mem’ries are loose, eroded
By time. I sigh, and from my window pane
I gaze at the cross-roads of human choice,
Human dreams and human aspirations,
Put on a face and faith; straws of smiles
To mask my fears, and step into the world…

I’m just a simple man in simple shoes,
With my simple shirt tucked in simple shorts.
My heart in my hand, my hand on my head,
I walk through meandering pathways of life.
A simple soul striding in simple steps,
Journeying equal miles in equal breathe,
Equal grass in equal grace, drifting still,
A log in the ocean, adrift at sea.
In the world but not a part of the world.
Detached from the vast companies of men,
From the highs and the lows, the kings and knights,
The cobblers, the cook, the peasants in the field,
The farmer wielding a singular hoe,
A singular hope in crudely drawn hands,
Ploughing the bellies of earth for answers,
Answers which lead unto more questions still.
I cannot will myself to run freely,
Nor break from travel, I’m bound to this path.
I have known both fire and water, both smiles
And tears, love and hate with equal measure,
And yet chose none in place of the other.
I am a part of everything that exist,
Yet distinct from all in the minutest
Of thoughts, in my words and in my actions.
I shared my dreams among the wild flowers.
My eyes I have lent to the bats to see.
My ears I’ve given to Shepard and sheep,
Each with equal passion and attention.
I’ve left my tongue to the hawker to use,
The labourers; both my hands and my will
To plough on still and yet not to plunder,
The troubadour have my feet to transverse
This road that stretches on eternally
From one history’s page unto another,
From the infant rocking on cradle bed
To the poet, the potter, the prostitute,
The man, the woman lost in the moment,
Lost in the edge of life’s meandering route,
Route taken by all and yet uncharted.
Unknown, Unmapped is the path we do tread.
The perennial road of life is untarred.
It is filled with debris, pot-holes and mud.
I’ve searched for a smooth area and found none.
Night and day, Life’s holds no happy ending
For the poor souls striving still upon it,
For it’s the greatest tragedy there is.
I have sought consolation in faith, peace
In ambiguous beliefs of mankind;
Those ancient creeds that conflict with reason,
That beguile me still, that betray me still.
I am but lost in the grand scheme of things.
A puppet for the master puppeteer
Pulled by invisible levers and strings.
Fate disguised as free-will, I make my choice.
Silver or suicide, my choices are vague,
And I will never know till it is done.
Perhaps there is much more beyond this life.
A retribution, a reparation
For the child, the man, the women that weep,
The slave, the king, the knight, the rich and poor.
Perhaps there is a peaceful place for me
To go and rest my heavy heart and feet,
A home beyond the mountains and the streams.
But I will never know till all is done.
And I will never know till I am gone.

It’s evening, the moon is up in the sky,
The stars have all descended from above.
And I, who is but a trespasser here
Must find a shelter for my thoughts tonight.
In the yon, the nightingale sings its song,
The ocean reflects their mysteries still.
And I, who is but a foreigner here
Must find the strength to dream once and again,
Till the night brings rest to my wand’ring feet,
Or the cock’s crow wakes me free and no-more.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity

by Okoye Chukwudi Charles Ezeamalukwuo

The Dusk’s hue comes in black and blue,
And each night my tears fall like dew;
While I wander the shadow’s deep,
While I savour my restless sleep.

The gloomy sky bears dark dreams,
Souls of damned and shadows it brings.
The Nightingale sings its sad hymns.
And I can’t help but sigh. It sings,

“The Earth breathed, giving human life,
Then she slowly kills him with strife.
The moon shines brilliantly at night,
But comes after the death of light.

“I see her silvery circle,
Her smirk and her crescent dimple.
I see her shining bright tonight,
The light that now obscures my light

“She beseechs me to stop and sleep,
To lend eyes to shadows of deep.
She prays me to desert my path,
The dreams that shed light to my heart.

“Aye, she shines brilliantly tonight;
The light that now obscures my light.
Aye, she shines brilliantly tonight,
But comes only at death of light.”

From the yon I hear this chilled song
In the wind and the eastern tongue;
While I wander the shadow’s deep,
While I savour my restless sleep.

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity


Posted: January 12, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

by Anene Chibuzo Francis

Pieces of my mind dropping
Like pellets of goat’s faeces…
They aren’t going
With me to the coffin.
No, they shouldn’t,
Or they would then be
Like goat faeces;
Waste, nothing.
Lost to the multitude of tiny jaws
Of tiny ever hungry worms.
I am but a being of dust.
They can have all of me,
When the time is right of course,
When I’m done here.
All of me they can have and share.
All of me but my mind, my thoughts.
Part of it is meant for my generation.
For its betterment, my contribution.
The other to accompany time
In its endless journey.
Then I would live on.
But before then comes,
Let me live for now.
Not just drinking Pepsi,
But dropping pieces of my mind.
Like this, one by one.
One at a time

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity