A Canary for Palestine & other Poems || Sani Kasim Ghabi

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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.


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