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By dawn, a few of Tez’ Mu’s assumptions had been proven correct, earning him his escorts’ begrudging respect. Merchants using the Mirin route were now being allowed into the city, though the Keolyor had doubled security. That was an opportunity, one he intended to use.
Poetry, in many instances, resists the desire to be confined to a single definition. Ask a magazine editor, a poet, and a critic what poetry is, and their responses will differ—despite their frequent intimacy with the form. One might argue that a poem is meant to be experienced, not defined. Yet often, the reader encountering a work of poetry seeks both experience and comprehension. They don’t just want to feel the poem; they want to understand it—to walk away satisfied with that experience because they “have a rational understanding of that experience,” as Yvor Winters put it.
I am fine. The sadness in me finds no expression, So I paint a smile on my face While the sadness festers, Rotting the core of my being. Still, I wear the plastered smile of a happy chap, Always replying, "I am good," "Everything is fine " "It's nothing_, never mind."...
Upon This Road I have been walking upon this road longer than I can remember, all I know is that I am a peripatetic mosaic of tales held in place by colourful tears and granulated dreams mixed with an adhesive of pains that sear me to the bone I cannot but notice the...
YESSSSS
The Death of a Man My sister can look at a man and see ifthe shadow of his death colours his face.The folds of his wrinkles he earned from the sun,black like his hair, blacker than his teeth—broken,blacker than the hole where he digs for goldfor a man not black like...
the sun will try to walk your body into fired clay as you scribble your emptiness in the pain of a dying dog. the night turns a name into a soft prayer. bodies float in streams in search of fear. silence is also broken by thoughts of men. you drink your griefs...
I eased myself gently into the old, brown sofa in the sitting room, my hands on my sore back. My dirty white eyes settled on the aged brown clock hanging obediently on the wall. The seconds hand moved round and round but did not return my stare. It just was not...
Note to the boy sitting on a grave There are times when darkness becomes too heavy, & what do we do when the night outweighs us? We trade our bodies for some beams of light, & watch our soul shed off some shades of grief. I was ten when I knew how people die:...
Ikeogu Oke, is Dead! His book “the Heresiad” won the 2017, NLNG Prize for literature. His win came after the prose writer Abubakar Adam Ibrahim
A panel will review the 2018 Dec. Freedom Magazine Award. Michael Tolulope Emmanuel, novelist, poet and short fiction writer
Writing prompts are a good head start. Maybe you are too bored or stuck in your writing. We got some oil for the wheels. This collection of prompts
