Godwin Inyang's Blog

Are you a budding writer and have this mind that grasps things and can keep them so vivid you can copy and paste them on pages for others to see the images too? You have this compelling urge to pass on messages to positively mould others; to tell them life isn’t vain (this is the school of writers I cherish to be in) and yet cynics who disguised as critics have been trying so hard to derail you from the right track? Well, first look at what they’re saying. Some people, even in their crude ways of correcting you, could have a good point or two to say but filled with venom which stems from their own failures, they may seem to come at you with an axe to hack you down. Personally, I’ve had my own dire moments with this bitter set of critics (I call them cynics) and I witnessed the harshest criticisms in my writing life when I started penning my long poem, Dr Fixit (which is over half a million words long and is still progressing). When I was doing what everyone else was doing, every

I walk down this path with others daily As they complain of the dust and pebbles That do strain their eyes and feet unfairly; They all long to live dreams found in fables.   Birds’ calls, they say, grate on their nerves and ears. They want the ripe fruits but not thorns on plants. They scream the loads are more than they can bear; All they perceive are stinging bees and ants.   On the pebbles I can see higher ground; Birds’ calls mellow the stirrings in my soul. In the ants and bees wisdom can be found: Fold hands, get stuck; hard work in wealth plays a role.   Where others see the yucky sludge-filled bogs; I see mushrooms thriving on some dead logs.   {THE VERSE IS TAKEN FROM MY COLLECTION: COLOURS (OF LIFE, LOVE AND FAITH).}

The sun still shines all day long and harsh; Grasses dry up, thriving only in the marsh; Withered leaves fly down, leaving branches bare; In January, harmattan dust rules the air.   Bees are busy on trees flowers festoon; Farmers prepare the soil, expecting rain soon; Smoke from bush burning and dust still reign; February may bring brief showers of rain.   Few moments of downpour send the farmers Picking hoes and seeds to plant en masse; The soil is scratched and seeds are sown – March is the very month most crops are grown.   The earth is clothed in varied hues of green; The storm clouds gather and the sky gets mean: In April – lightning, rumble and thunder blast Bring back constant rain at long last.   In May, various farm produce floods the markets Just as the steady drizzle fills the buckets; Bad roads retain water in myriad potholes As puddles become infested with tadpoles.   The sun is firmly shackled in June – This fate also

Like rain in the sky In winter months, this heart is Forming flakes of snow. Like water left in A freezer, this heart's frozen - What would thaw it out? Certainly not heat Of the sun but love that'd melt The ice in the heart. (The verse is from my collection, 'Colours {of Life, Love and Faith}'.)

You’re one contest, baby, I just can’t lose – I’m set to wring ideas from the muse; Borrow from poetry bag images to use To create a piece the judges can’t refuse. Colourful piece indeed I’ve got to create: Such that would fade the golden sunset And make the rainbow more colours to seek As the peacock can’t help but look meek. You’re one contest, baby, I just can’t lose – I’m letting my imagination real loose To rake for me grand figures to use; Handing me words to draw praise, not abuse. I’d stud this piece with diamond, plate it with gold; Edge it with colours that are dark and bold; Streak it with white, pink, red, blue and green; Then add oil to give my work a sheen. You’re one contest, baby, I just can’t lose – Every other entrant is nothing but mere ruse; Their feeble attempts would only you amuse; Me alone for the grand prize you must choose.

This is the first chapter of a brand new thing: Early morning breeze, leaves all are wriggling; Dewdrop tingling at the touch of a warm sun’s ray; Birds’ symphonies to herald in a brand new day. This is the first chapter of a brand new thing: First rain falling, the dust of the harsh months quenching; Trees bud at the sight of the new lease of life; Soon they hum – this is end to hunger and strife. This is the first chapter of a brand new thing: Stress, sweat and blood accompany childbearing – The child is born, the mother cradles it in her arm; How she longs to protect it from seen and unseen harm! This is the first chapter of a brand new thing: The palm-wine tree matures, the tapper goes tapping; The bee drinks, forgets to leave and falls inside the pot – I swear in this cauldron I’d keep you intensely hot! This is my first chapter of a brand new thing: Like the wine to the bee I’d entice and trap you in; I’d make you reel, danc