Pagan by Chinedu Gospel

This poem is an equator &             every line travels back to where it comes from.   Darkness to night. My feet drenched,           & oily, I’m  always slipping into nightmares.   Kid, you do not know why the nights           end too soon. I’m always acting at night.   In one dream, a demon pulled me into             a den of dead men from my ancestry,   & in

Deep the Droplets of Rain & Other Poem—Muna Chinedu

deep the droplets of rain   for aloe blacc’s “Ticking Bomb”   my head’s full of loitering ghosts     fighting to be called anything but a hoax        i reminisce on things yet to happen   people shootin’ darkness into my sun         we are aliens                               lost in the storm in earth’s breath   our violins whisper doom      say their strings are made from the nerve of a boy who wears the world insideout say the world’s vampire      feedin’ on us to stay alive   there’s a little dirge in every sound from a piano it says an energy is killed at the punch of each key   something must disappear     must die in the birthing of another      call it sacrifice

What it means To Carry the Grief of a Country in one’s Body—Omodero David Oghenekaro

Let us begin with a nation unto whom freedom was gifted             & the woe of the pontificators who thought we would become nothing     like them…   I met two men today              One staunch-faced with the beard of an Israelite, The other, a man of little sorrow, who argued he was already dead as

CRUST OF LOSTNESS—IHEOMA UZOMBA

For Vivian Ify Ezeala (Vee) I would not reduce you to metaphors Or lyrics of a sad poem Or one-day tears and indigestion/ I want to tell so much of want and what it means to blend with grief/ cradle lostness gently, gently/ like unrehearsed music I want to embrace the rudiments of mourning like a widowed wife/ tongue heavy   throat sour and the words failing to hinge like your

HOW PRETENTIOUS CAN GOOD POETRY GET?

The one time I was asked of why I think I qualify as a good reader and editor, I said my eye for language. It must have been what everyone expected to hear seeing that I got the editor jobafterwards. Later, when someone would ask what I thought about the screenshot of a poem I shared on my status, I would say, “pretentious”; a compliment I would give out without