A Canary for Palestine & other Poems
by Sani Kasim Ghabi
These days, when I jack into Facebook — Al-jazeera & the Beeb, even the citizen
journalism websites, all bristle with the naked bodies of flagrant abuses, like
cloudless nights humming with stars when the moons go on wane. Palestine
is the quintessence of a rainforest; grisly clouds gathering in her eyes. Like the shower
of stones from the distant past, sweeping away the twin cities of Sodom & Gomorrah,
torrential rains of nuclear missiles reduce Gaza & Rafah to shards of glass
& grains of dune. In Palestine, life is a comb without honey. All that rains is not water.
In Palestine, hell looms on the horizon—an eclipse at the end of the tunnel.
Sometimes, I soliloquize: why does God's Eden bear the scars
of hell? Alas, the cracked mirror is turning a blind eye to the bevy of beauties —
reflecting a loss of souls with a trillion tears. When death is a daily bread,
innocent blood coalesce into the aura of red petals. Like a broken bottle
of Arabian Oud, wafting along by the soft sigh of gentle breeze,
musky smell of Gazan martyrs hangs in the air. In Palestine, the die is cast —
healing is not good for the soul. Death is the elixir of life. ‘All eyes on Rafah'
like the crescent moon of Ramadan. Through the lethal prism of hell, Palestine,
a dystopian paradise. In this world, the sky is now a dragon; breathing Vulcan
& Hephaestus. The Gaza Strip resonates with the laughter of mocking drones.
Ahem, Old Glory — play God & free Gaza from the dead hand of siege. O brethren,
Bethlehem is falling like a broken-winged eagle. Palestine is not the orphan of Arabia.
I see hope springs eternal amidst migrating flocks, yearning for the sweetness
of nectar in the bloody theatre of Palestine — all the birds take wings over fleets
of callous rockets to winter in the jaws of genocide. Let us save this country, souls
& frolicking birds. Let us frown at the parrots trumpeting Gaza as the black sheep
of the Mediterranean. Or Rafflesia Arnoldii, rumoured to be stinking than the devil's
body odour. Let us beat the drum for a serene dove & embrace a falling country
with open arms. Let us gather all the nightingales & sing a song with one voice.
In case the migrating birds do not survive, let this poem be a canary for Palestine.
Welcoming the Bodies of Water With Open Arms
1.
A deep-dyed Sudanese with a large turban like the trumpet of a tulip
flower, full of life like a loaf of jumbo bread, standing akimbo at a news-stand
in Abuja. Thoughts having turned to home, seated himself, side by side with me
to leaf through a newspaper with the caption, ‘Genocide in Dafur.' All ears
to get the gist from the horse's mouth, the jalabiya has begun to wax lyrical
about the Necropolis of Nuri. Mountains & valleys. He turns the radio on. The voice
of the legendary Wardi fills the morning air — singing with a mouth so full of nightingales.
All hail to the banjos & the Wazza trumpets. Like the ground cuddling up to puddle,
the kind hospitality of Khartoum holds much appeal for me, welcoming the bodies
of water with open arms.
2.
Some countries are caparisoned cadavers, going through purgatory
until kingdom comes. My heart goes out to the pyramids of Meroe.
Sudan is a land of bloody skies & a haze of smoke — heavens above
the Gaddafi Eggno & Souk Moowaileh is as dark as dye pit. Dafur echoes
with the warring tunes of trumpeting elephants. Gales of war cry &
marching cannons, deepening the breadbasket. Omdurman is on the brink
of famine. Expectant mothers carrying bellies of severe droughts. I genuflect
to the Niles flowing amid the clouds of thick black smoke like a rainbow
in the eye of storm. My thoughts are with the camels moving for donkey's years
with deep holes of empty stomachs. Like autumnal leaves keeling over in biting
winds, tears of Deriba Caldera trailing down the war-torn desert. In the nooks
of Jebel Marra, army of khaki uniforms & namesakes of merciful angels have
blood on their hands. Sudan's heart is in their mouth. At this stage, a poem can
be a way of bringing back a dead country to life. My heart goes out to the minarets
in Khartoum.
A Cloud of Waterloo
this poem is a sunburst behind the dark cloud, hovering
over the core of Congo rainforest.
a flame of hell written all over her face. if wishes were
phoenixes, fallen heroes would rise.
like an echidna munching its way through a colony of bees,
Zaire is a bird of prey, hunting
& feeding on a caravan of fallen heroes like a garden of
windfalls. a cloud of Waterloo
is hanging over the tears of Lake Kivu. Congo riddles
with the wounds of Armageddon.
o Kinshasa, bury the hatchet like a jackknife through
the mouth of a river. the Lungs
of Africa shedding the gore of twenty-first century.
o Congo, do not go into extinction
like a dead language. i have an axe to grind in Mount
Nyiragongo. i want to go on Safari
to the heart of Virunga. to roam with an armada
of mountain gorillas. to embrace the Hutus &
Tutsis like the moon to a tribe of stars. o Congo,
make hay while the sun shines like a camel
quaffing an ocean before a waterless journey,
across a barren desert, under a thousand suns,
year after year.
Sani Kasim Ghabi is not only a poet but also a creative writer with several quills in the ink. He holds a BA in English from Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida University, Lapai. His works have appeared in Brittle Paper, D’Lit Review, WORDICTO (an Indian anthology), and elsewhere. He has coached and mentored at least 3 writers who got selected as finalists for 2023 Nigeria Prize for Teen Authors. He writes from Abuja, Nigeria. Email him at kasimsanighabi1990@gmail.com.