Favourite lines: Icicles fall from trees,...they limber like the gods terrified into silence, like tall brooding deities looming out of the fog: The cypress -whitening- ...;wearing her best habit, a pale green in the forest of ghosts- And so I walk through this windless night through the narrow imponderable road through the silence - the silence of trees- I hear not even the gust of wind I hear only the quiet earth, thawing underneath; I hear the slow silent death of winter- when the sun is yellowest ...to every good, to every flicker of stars along the pine shadows; to every tussle with lucid dusk, to every moonlit pledge, to every turn made to outleap silvery pollen, I have desired to listen,...
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“Obi Nwakanma is one of the Nigerian literary awards winning troika invited by Harvard University to represent New Voices From Nigeria at a recent Africa Events Reading (the other two being Maik Nwosu and Akin Adesokan also featured on this site).
Poet and journalist, he featured at the Poetry International Festival in 1995.
Holder of a BA degree from the University of Jos in Nigeria, Nwakanma was a visiting scholar at one of the pre-eminent universities in Nigeria, UN at Nsukka. Formerly an Assistant Editor at the Sunday Vanguard, he is currently a visiting scholar at The Meeting School, Rindge, NH, where he teaches Literature, Creative Writing and Journalism.”
In FULL: ICICLES fall from trees, molten with age, without memory - they stand aloof in their nakedness - they limber; like the gods terrified into silence, like tall brooding deities looming out of the fog: The forest hugs them carves them into stones, Etches them into the slow eastern landscape: rivers, hills the slow running water, times broken inscapes… The willows are burdened with ice the white shrouds of burial spread upon the earth's ravaged face; the eyes unseeing, the mouth unspeaking, a gust of wind proclaims the anger of immemorial ages; the cycle, the eternal ritual of mystical returns - The cypress - whitening - boneless; wearing her best habit, a pale green in the forest of ghosts - And so I walk through this windless night through the narrow imponderable road through the silence - the silence of trees - I hear not even the gust of wind I hear only the quiet earth, thawing underneath; I hear the slow silent death of winter - where the sun is yellowest. But above, Monadnock looms like some angry Moloch, her white nipple seizing the space drained of all milk. . . A she-devil beckoning to worshippers seductive - her arm stretching outwards - to this lonely pilgrim lost in the mist: Behold the school of wild bucks Behold the meeting of incarnate spirits - Behold the lost souls bearing tapers in rags of rich damask, Down Thomas - the saint of unbelievers - down the road to bliss Down to the red house, uncertain like a beggar's bowl hanging unto the cliff of withdrawn pledges, where the well is deepest. . . I have dared to live beneath the great untamed. To every good, to every flicker of stars along the pine shadows; To every tussle with lucid dusk, To every moonlit pledge, to every turn made to outleap silvery pollen, I have desired to listen - to listen - to the ripening of seasons. . . . Winter 2001 This is ONE of a continuing sequence.