Village dance

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  • Childhood

    Village dance

    The drums are alive

    the dance has moved

    to the market place

    bare-assed children

    dance to naked drums

     
    I hear jungle drums

    in my head

    echoing from Inyi, that small

    village across Niger

    mother’s voice-a magic flute

    floats to me…

    like a sculptor’s knife

    shaving away the rough edges

    of my turbulent youth

     

    I see again

    the village damsels

    take to the centre

    their breasts arrows poised

    aimed at my infant heart

    and I die again at the vision.

     
                                                   dave chukwuji

     

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    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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