Broken Lamp

by David Udo

Overview

The story of mans evolution revolves round a twist of primitiveness and civilization in successive cycles permeated by intolerance, dominance, horror, wars, and death. Hardly is there any time in the history of man that there is no war or conflict of some sort. Peace has largely eluded man. The book Broken Lamp is a collection of poems which captures the state of our world; a world besieged by greed, aggression, materialism, idolatry, dominance and bloodshed. It brings to the fore the intrigues of the course of humanity severely perverted and on a path to collision and catastrophe, and there seems to be no relief in sight. In Broken Lamp, the author attempts to X-ray the contused face of our world. The result shows broken pieces of bones mixed with shreds of flesh and clotted blood. The diagnosis is clinically tagged brokenness. The prescription is a mind- mending therapy coated with songs and packaged in a 146 page recipe labelled Broken Lamp. Would you want to help our world out of the chaos? Then read this piece of literary tonic and impressive poetic masterpiece.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781482861815
Publisher:	Partridge Publishing Africa
Publication date:	04/14/2016
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	146
File size:	210 KB

About the Author

David Udo: Poet, novelist, prolific story teller, is a Fellow of the Medical Laboratory Science Council of Nigerian; member and officer Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA), Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. He is the author of Horns and Tusks, the Ripples, Night Call and Nutcut (poems). He is an ardent advocate for global peace with keen interest in events around the world. David, his wife Grace and two sons, Brian and Joseph, live in Uyo, Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria.

Read an Excerpt

Broken Lamp

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By David Udo

Partridge Africa

Copyright © 2016 David Udo
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4828-6183-9

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CHAPTER 1

Songs of the Poet

(Songs of Lamentations)

    This Hobby

    When I started to write
    I thought it was fun
    To make them laugh
    But the sounds of
    The gnawing teeth
    And the snaps
    Of the fingers
    Tell of the plot
    Of the heart of fear

    This writing is not
    To make them fearful
    I am not afraid
    Cos the truth
    Can never be told
    Without a fist raise
    To stir the air
    Or quench the flame
    This writing
    Like the utter
    Of the oracle
    Rouse anger and
    Feed the fire

    I am bored to know
    They don't cry
    But wink
    When the words bite
    They don't shout
    But merely groan
    When the words sting
    They're thinking
    It's just a hobby


    One Day Someone
    Akawanga, 27/02/11

    I see the cloud
    Simmering the mirage
    Of the ego of the sons of men

    I feel the wind
    As in a torrential storm
    On the edge of the cliff

    I see the rain
    Beating hard on the face
    Of the homeless child

    Beyond the cloud,
    The wind, the rain
    I see the towering palaces
    Against the squalor of the hamlets
    Spreading dark shadows
    Across the slums
    Of the half humans
    Meant for demolition

    In the eyes of the wise man
    The rich is not god
    But the fearful clout
    With the oversized image
    Of mundane worries

    Ridding the land of milk
    To make hot, foolish soup
    For keeps
    This soup will sour
    One day, someone will pay


    On the Edge
    Akawanga, 27/02/11

    I pull the strings
    Hard on the stuff of life

    I scramble the cards
    To unsettle the gamblers
    With sour expectations
    Tears will drop
    When they cry
    Do they cry?
    Do we cry?
    Who is crying?
    Waiting for the
    Good things of life
    On the edge of life


    Heart of Tears
    Jos, 28/06/11

    Is it the wailing
    Heard in the street?
    Is it the cry of the widows
    In the heat of deprivation?
    Is it the groan of the oppressed?
    The hungry look on the
    Face of the orphan?

    Is it the children
    Littered on the street
    Without a tag but
    Tagged 'street kids'
    By the vendors
    To make ends meet
    The victims for the predators

    Is it the sounds of the blasts?
    At noon, at dawn
    Awakening us to our fear
    Killing us, body and soul

    Is it the lies
    Told to make us afraid
    Of ourselves?
    Our hearts is smeared
    Soaked in tears
    Our hearts of tears


    Not the gods

    As a horse-drawn
    Carriage scales through the streets,
    The clattering sounds of
    Hooves piercing through the heart
    Fear, panic grip
    The timid hearts:
    Is the scheme of the oppressor,
    The suppressor,
    The opportunist,
    Creating rains of terror
    To decree dominance,
    Power and control
    Over his fellow humans
    This is the manifestation
    Of the inhumanity of man,
    Not the gods.


    Ornamentals

    Let my soul spring
    Free from this
    Earthen passion
    These gewgaws
    The flowery images
    Of porous scenes
    Faintly streaming
    Into an oblivious dreamscape

    Let my spirit rise
    Above the fairy tale of splendour
    The silver lining
    Of the vented charms
    The golden trimming
    Of the royal apparels

    Let my heart faint not
    Nor blush at
    The lustre of
    Ill-gotten wealth
    The vaults of
    The greedy hounds
    The alluring shoulders
    Of the proud

    Let my mind flee
    From all pretence
    Pride and outward
    Show of dignity
    Without integrity

    I will not starve
    Or die in shame
    I will live in grace
    And tower above
    The glare of these
    Decorative vices


    Slave to Freedom

    Give me a name,
    Whatever you will,
    Of the highly or
    Lowly placed,
    But let its alphabets
    Stick stoutly to freedom

    Give me a place of rest
    To calm my frail nerves
    Away from the gall
    Of the gullible brutes

    Make me a street,
    A diamond-laden road,
    A boulevard of gold
    In a place where
    Smiles are free
    On the faces of all

    Let me sleep
    When the streets
    Are devoid of, free
    From the cries
    Of the oppressed,
    When the gnawing
    Noise of empty tummies
    No longer rouses the air

    Let me die
    Only when the chains
    Of ignorance, poverty,
    Hate, and jealousy,
    When the yoke of
    Racism and tribalism
    Are broken, torn asunder

    When the bloated ego
    Of the prideful is flattened
    And men no longer
    Forced to surrender
    Their voice, their will,
    Their rights to be trampled
    Let me be
    If freedom could walk tall
    When all men are free,
    A slave to freedom


    Subtle Edge

    Am I the poet
    They want to see
    With clattering sounds
    Of applause
    As they behold
    The portraits of
    The traitor
    Painted with golden platelets?

    Am I the poet
    With the mane of a lion
    Clothed in an angel's face,
    Devouring the simple,
    The ignorant, and
    The sullen?

    I am not the tamed tiger
    With a thirst for the blood
    Of the gamekeeper

    I am only the poet
    I walk stealthily through the thorny
    Path of life only
    On the subtle edge,
    Unheard, unseen


    The Broken Lamp
    Jos, 29/06/11

    The big crack on the globe
    Of the lamp widens
    Like our maddening desires,
    And the flame staggers
    Against the storm of the wind

    The wailing storm is damaging
    Like the straying of our
    Weird efforts
    We stretch our waiting arms
    With the sledgehammer
    Smashing heads
    Clattering sounds of
    Mistaken actions filled the air

    We go round 'n' round
    In a circle of confusion
    Making paste, pasting,
    Plastering, gumming
    Mistaken for the wounds
    In our hearts
    We apply Handiplast
    Our guess for solution

    But our heads in turmoil
    We sweat in toil
    Our palms wet
    With serum from the
    Burns from the flames;

    Is this the know-how
    Into nation building?


    Promises Are Not Diamonds

    We dine at noon
    To celebrate the colour
    Of their words
    In plentifulness
    They offer big promises
    To turn dark night into day
    Our gloomy faces glare
    In the radiance of talks
    We are the dreams;
    Dreamers could die
    But dreams, even dreams
    Will live to outlive the words

    The words like broken promises,
    And long political talks
    These talks, endless speeches,
    The words, the talks
    Like endless waste
    Of our resources,
    The promises
    Are not diamonds


    In a Time Like This

    In a time like this,
    We are living with our heads asleep
    Cos we know the things
    That makes us afraid

    In a time like this,
    All we hear is their power,
    The height of their treasures,
    Their might and boasts
    On the counts of their
    Military might

    In a time like this,
    The peace lovers,
    The peacemakers, and
    The meek ones have all gone to sleep,
    Or are getting slumbering
    Letting the rabid dogs
    Bark, barking fears
    Into our spines

    This is the time
    Of the decay of diplomacy
    The rot of friendliness,
    Of brotherhood, and of
    Good neighbourliness

    This is the time
    In the place of allies for good
    We now have allies for evil
    A show of military arrogance
    In the place of comradeship

    This is the time
    Of pretence, when
    Doing the right things
    Beguiles our senses
    Of doing things right

    This is the time
    Of showmanship
    In place of statesmanship
    A time when self-proof
    Takes the place of self-worth

    This is the time
    Of genuine imitation
    Profitable counterfeiting
    And make-it-fake syndrome

    This is the time
    Of wanton display
    Of the secret things
    And privacies once revered

    This is the time
    When anger rages
    And the spill of blood
    No longer spells foul

    In time like this
    We are living with our heads asleep
    Cos we know the things
    That make us afraid


    Seasons of Drought

    On this soil, this ground
    We once sowed to reap
    Plentifully,
    The ground yields abundance
    For the hungry mouths

    On this soil, this ground,
    We now sow misdeeds
    To sprout forth evil
    Our expectations fall
    On dry ground, like
    The first ground
    Our seeds scorched
    On this plain rock

    We now sow hatred,
    Seeded with the sounds
    Of our tongue and
    The colours of our skin

    We sow for others to reap
    The hungry against the fed,
    The thirsty against the filled,
    Famine in the midst of plenty
    This is the season of drought


    The Molten Image
    Uyo, 12/02/13

    Cast in the shadow
    Of the misty cloud of greed
    Bizarre in its entirety
    Is the zeal of the overzealous
    In the awesome realm
    Of humanism, coerced
    Conscience, still life,
    To see beyond what life is
    But through the prism of
    Greed, power, and wealth
    The distorted image in
    The eyes of the perverse
    Is that of materialism,
    Politic-ism, egoism, person-ism
    Building castles of waste
    On material idolism
    Vainglory, gainsaying
    In the madman estate
    Of careless excesses,
    Ideological idolatry
    Is idealized to
    Scandalous cycle,
    From greed to power to
    Wealth; greed, power
    And wealth endlessly, ceaselessly
    Corrupting minds
    Captured in the worship
    Of this mammon
    Fellow humans make
    Burnt offerings on the
    Altar of the molten image

Nothing in life is more remarkable than the unnecessary anxiety which we endure, and generally create ourselves. Benjamin Disraeli

    Fear

    Unknown fear,
    Fear of the unknown
    Driving us amok
    We stumble at the impulse,
    The ripeness of instinct
    Pushing us headlong
    Into the ambit of our fear,
    Making us afraid;
    We are afraid of our lives,
    Afraid of ourselves,
    We are afraid to die,
    Afraid of death.

    We are afraid of others,
    Afraid of our actions and inactions;
    We are afraid of fear itself,
    In an attempt to kill our fear,
    We invented more fear.
    Fear of being afraid grips us,
    Hastens our trembling heart
    Into breaking;
    We die in our fear.

    And fear of the
    Reincarnation of our fear
    Stares right at us
    As our loved ones
    Mourn our departs,
    Their gloomy faces contused
    By fear of the unknown,
    And the unknown of their fear.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Broken Lamp by David Udo. Copyright © 2016 David Udo. Excerpted by permission of Partridge Africa.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Acknowledgements, ix,
Preface, 1,
Prologue, 3,
Songs of the Poet (Songs of Lamentations),
This Hobby, 7,
One Day Someone, 9,
On the Edge, 11,
Heart of Tears, 12,
Not the gods, 13,
Ornamentals, 14,
Slave to Freedom, 16,
Subtle Edge, 18,
The Broken Lamp, 19,
Promises Are Not Diamonds, 21,
In a Time Like This, 22,
Seasons of Drought, 25,
The Molten Image, 26,
Fear, 28,
Songs for Naija,
Apple on the Sand, 33,
Power Change, 35,
Who Owns the Land?, 36,
Superman Elsewhile, 38,
Kolomania, 40,
Incurable, 41,
Turning 'n' Turning, 44,
Songs for Africa,
Oh, Africa!, 49,
We Won't Die, 52,
Re: Africa, 53,
Africa Cannot Cry, 57,
When I Die, 58,
All They Come, 61,
Manic Values, 63,
Songs for the Other Lands,
Part I,
Mass Action, 67,
Never a Dawn, 68,
Doomsday, 71,
Summer on the Moon, 73,
Millennium Bug, 75,
Peace Takers, 78,
Capernaumism, 80,
Sodomization, 81,
Part II,
Take These Faces, 85,
Justice on Trial, 87,
War Diplomacy, 90,
Hullabaloo, 92,
Pseudo-Branding, 94,
Fine Surface, 96,
Heels On Boots, 99,
Blood on Hands, 101,
Gun Boom, 102,
Falling In, Falling Out, 104,
Part III,
Snow Den, 109,
Senseless Dose, 111,
The Rot-Menders, 113,
Guantanamo Bay, 115,
Lone Voice, 117,
The Double Face, 119,
Turning In, 121,
The Memory of Bush, 123,
Subtle Strokes, 125,
The Quicksand, 126,
Searching!, 128,