VOICES ON THE 4 WINDS

VOICES ON THE FOUR WINDSSARABA'S THIRD

RICHARD UGBEDEOLALEKAN ILESANMIKYLE HEMMINGS

Featuring the illustration

with an introduction by WEB EXCLUSIVE

“...voices from Ezra DAMI AJAYI

VOICES ON THE FOUR WINDSSARABA'S THIRD (INTERCONTINENTAL) POETRY CHAPBOOK

_

New poems by

RICHARD UGBEDE ALI, AZADEH K. TAJ,OLALEKAN ILESANMI, JAYANTHI MANOJKYLE HEMMINGS and BENSON ELUMA

Featuring the illustrations of DANIJEL ZEZELJ_

with an introduction by JUMOKE VERISSIMOWEB EXCLUSIVE on www.sarabamag.com

_

APRIL 2010

..voices from Ezra Pound’s vortex.”DAMI AJAYI, The Séance

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POETRY CHAPBOOK

www.sarabamag.com

EDITOR’S NOTE

It might seem a cross-purpose that an institution with an aim to create unending voices produces in its third anthology of poetry, titled Voices on the Four Winds, verse from all over the globe. This is akin to a troubadour creating through the technique of appliqué a tapestry which becomes a grail for posterity.

But there are two deterministic forces generating this ostensiTradition, which originally relegated the written word to a scribal role. Second is the undertow, Modernism, which since Gutenberg, has allowed the printed word to gradually assert its independence of the spoken word. Nothing is more indicative of the ascendance of the printed word as the extension of its constituency from pages to screens. And increasingly, a stirring global social conscience nudges you not to print this pdf but to experience it on your PC or PD

Whence the meeting of these currents, Tradition and Modernism, a vortex is formed. There is a swirl in the mind, and there are unsettling thoughts in these pages. But there is beauty too, and to quote Balthus, “Painting is a language which cannot be resay about what I paint, really.”And as with great painting, sopresaged this moment in history when he proclaimed, “

A. O.April 2010

purpose that an institution with an aim to create unending voices produces in its Voices on the Four Winds, a collage of surrealistic illustrations and

verse from all over the globe. This is akin to a troubadour creating through the technique of appliqué a tapestry which becomes a grail for posterity.

But there are two deterministic forces generating this ostensible chaos. First is that ancient trade wind, Tradition, which originally relegated the written word to a scribal role. Second is the undertow, Modernism, which since Gutenberg, has allowed the printed word to gradually assert its independence

word. Nothing is more indicative of the ascendance of the printed word as the extension of its constituency from pages to screens. And increasingly, a stirring global social conscience nudges

print this pdf but to experience it on your PC or PDA.

Whence the meeting of these currents, Tradition and Modernism, a vortex is formed. There is a swirl in the mind, and there are unsettling thoughts in these pages. But there is beauty too, and to quote Balthus, “Painting is a language which cannot be replaced by another language. I don’t know what to say about what I paint, really.”And as with great painting, so it is with this collage. Perhaps, Horace presaged this moment in history when he proclaimed, “Ut pictura poesis.”

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purpose that an institution with an aim to create unending voices produces in its collage of surrealistic illustrations and

verse from all over the globe. This is akin to a troubadour creating through the technique of appliqué a

ble chaos. First is that ancient trade wind, Tradition, which originally relegated the written word to a scribal role. Second is the undertow, Modernism, which since Gutenberg, has allowed the printed word to gradually assert its independence

word. Nothing is more indicative of the ascendance of the printed word as the extension of its constituency from pages to screens. And increasingly, a stirring global social conscience nudges

Whence the meeting of these currents, Tradition and Modernism, a vortex is formed. There is a swirl in the mind, and there are unsettling thoughts in these pages. But there is beauty too, and to quote

placed by another language. I don’t know what to erhaps, Horace

JUMOKE VERISSIMOIntroduction,

RICHARD UGBEDEBlood beneath Dust

A Dark GhazalNo Dancing in the Sudan

AZADEH K. TAJMusic, Kiss, Dream,

Dramatic AspirationsA Little Rhyme from the Broken Man

OLALEKAN

JAYANTHI MANOJPostmortem

Take

KYLE HEMMINGSTolstoy had A

Another Day without Lin

BENSON ELUMASnares were never meant

Seeking WondersI hope I won’t be forgiven by the living and the dead

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JUMOKE VERISSIMO, Web Exclusive

RICHARD UGBEDE ALIBlood beneath Dust, 5

A Dark Ghazal, 6No Dancing in the Sudan, 7

AZADEH K. TAJream, Tomorrow, 9

Dramatic Aspirations, 10the Broken Man, 11

OLALEKAN ILESANMIMachiné, 13

Spéll, 14Spá, 15

JAYANTHI MANOJPostmortem, 17

Take Her Home, 18Dogs, 19

KYLE HEMMINGSTolstoy had A. D.D., 21

Anna, 22Another Day without Lin, 23

BENSON ELUMASnares were never meant, 25

Seeking Wonders, 26forgiven by the living and the dead, 27

RICHARD UGBEDE ALI

BLOOD BENEATH DUST

(For JB)

Seeking beneath layers of dust gathered hereI run my finger across paper to where there could beBlood. Having scooped it, I raise to my tongueAnd taste the sanguinality of something once shared

I learn the metamorphic that goes on every secondHow all the while we were writing we were driftingAway from a prime experience, from the first Word of GodUntil this forgotten shelf, this en-saged book, and blood

I dare not now, but I know what I’ll find if I turnedThese pages, I know how the un-still nuclei of runes will clingI shall know melancholy in the disparate shades of our black.My finger runs over dust and lays naked a name

BLOOD BENEATH DUST

layers of dust gathered hereI run my finger across paper to where there could be

to my tongueAnd taste the sanguinality of something once shared

I learn the metamorphic that goes on every secondHow all the while we were writing we were driftingAway from a prime experience, from the first Word of God

saged book, and blood

but I know what I’ll find if I turnedstill nuclei of runes will cling

I shall know melancholy in the disparate shades of our black.My finger runs over dust and lays naked a name – James. Baldwin.

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RICHARD UGBEDE ALI

A DARK GHAZAL

Infernal pointsman destroying spaceShattering science in a million frissons of glassThis is the end of the fury – the mad scribblingThe chill of waiting to pen perfect roses

Whirlwinds rage on, but I am innocent of dustMy imperfect lines throb as if they still liveThe market yet pulses with life

I tell youFortitude and solitude are oneThe same with wine and women and artCold mistresses teasing flames in templesParched with thinking, longingAnd forgetting

SoLife shatters into a million frissonsAnd I step out into the lightKilling the man in the mirror.

Infernal pointsman destroying space-timeShattering science in a million frissons of glass

the mad scribblingThe chill of waiting to pen perfect roses

Whirlwinds rage on, but I am innocent of dustMy imperfect lines throb as if they still live

The same with wine and women and artCold mistresses teasing flames in temples

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RICHARD UGBEDE ALI

NO DANCING IN THE SUDAN

(For Ahmed Farah, for Amira Ali)

We knew we would not be ripped beneath milken moon sprayShed like beach sand unstepped upon, Moon like a parentKeeping evil at bay when girls still girls were wont to teaseA glimpse of skin; an undressing glance; security unbetrayed

We do not dance any longer in Darfur, no swaying veils,Proud sultans lie in sandy tombs, not distracted by lyreFor girls wail to know of swords sharper than tongue. . .There can be no dancing when the moon is dead

Shaitan caused a raging sun to descend on the The feet of Negro girls by the weight of guns between thighsForcing silence on lips, for how can we dance now when ourCore is wilted from harshness – amidst the rape of our land?

NO DANCING IN THE SUDAN

knew we would not be ripped beneath milken moon sprayShed like beach sand unstepped upon, Moon like a parent

still girls were wont to teaseA glimpse of skin; an undressing glance; security unbetrayed

nger in Darfur, no swaying veils,not distracted by lyre

For girls wail to know of swords sharper than tongue. . .There can be no dancing when the moon is dead

descend on the Sudan, scatteringNegro girls by the weight of guns between thighs

for how can we dance now when ouramidst the rape of our land?

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/AND I STEP OUT INTO THE LIGHT/KILLING THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

/ RUSSIA /

OUT INTO THE LIGHT/KILLING THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

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OUT INTO THE LIGHT/KILLING THE MAN IN THE MIRROR/

AZADEH K. TAJ

MUSIC, KISS, DREAM, TOMORROW

I will make my musicBut not todayI will face the sunMaybe tomorrow

A massacre in my dream Turns me white overnightIn sleep I age todayHumming away a dead song.

Shock-resistantWater-resistantPain-resistantLove-resistantLay me down on your dancing bed Don’t mourn me, adorn me or leave me scornedLet me drown you in my kisses I will revive you on the sand.

MUSIC, KISS, DREAM, TOMORROW

Don’t mourn me, adorn me or leave me scorned

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AZADEH K. TAJ

DRAMATIC ASPIRATIONS

Your hands are no longer chained,But you still tend to your wounded wrists“Routine of Freedom” you call it.

Smiling,Your teeth are the barsTo the words you never utter.

Stumbling in the sunshine,Dancing in the dark,Mark the calendarTaste the soupAnd prepare for the curtains to rise.

DRAMATIC ASPIRATIONS

But you still tend to your wounded wrists

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AZADEH K. TAJ

A LITTLE RHYME FROM THE BROKEN MAN

When the world is half awake,The table turns,You make mistakes,They suck you in,You can’t escape,And when you speak,They watch you break.If you’re strong,You’ll stay afloat,If you’re weak,You’ll miss the boat.So, think beforeYou shake your head,Or you’ll be shakingDust instead.

A LITTLE RHYME FROM THE BROKEN MAN

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/WHEN THE WORLD IS

/ FRENCH /

WHEN THE WORLD IS HALF AWAKE/ THE TABLE TURNS/

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OLALEKAN ILESANMI

MACHINÉ

In my little house there is a small windmillbuilt in the shape of a peardesigned as the size of a fist

There,in the vessel, seated,a velvet coon watchingover rollers, belts, pumps,tubes, valves and mostlythe effacing pulses

Therethe tanned lordsilently, and just,expectantly waitswithout warrant tillthe engine breaks to vainness

In my great grave there’s a dark chamberwhere rushing feet and erodingtears are turned to ashes and eventhe lovely lad is made idle till the hatch of another age 02/05/2006

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02/05/2006

OLALEKAN ILESANMI

SPÉLL

I wish I could countfrom the night of my originto the birth of my endthe sleeping numbersthat label the genes of history

I wish I could readfrom the blank pages of lifeto the diverging abyss of deaththe nomenclature of unseen alphabetsthat mingle with the air of our breath

I wish I could writeupon the space sorbs of forbidden rhymeslaced on lines of heavenly existencethe great elegy of our gorgeous blacknessthat built the base of our love

In all, I wish I could drawfrom the face of the moonchants of the godsupon shadows that have been before our daythat her blessing may be for you and me

the nomenclature of unseen alphabetsthat mingle with the air of our breath

sorbs of forbidden rhymes

the great elegy of our gorgeous blackness

before our daybe for you and me 27/06/2007

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27/06/2007

OLALEKAN ILESANMI

SPÁ

Open upthat I may enterthe shrine of soulsshrouded by the shells of agesamidst golden tabernaclesof prayers for your love that bewitches

Spill outyour passion of riversfrom the cleavage of timeto wash my mortal stone blackby the tireless touch of yourdreamy fingers of frailty

Spill overthe bounds of your mightthat we both falland crawl upon the matof the congealed act of our hearts

Open upyour pyramid doorsthat my thirst for thoughtscan be healed by tastefrom your scarlet scar, lacedunder the skirt of mona lisa

of prayers for your love that bewitches

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21/01/2010

/THE GREAT ELEGY OF OUR GORGEOUS BLACKNESS/THAT BUILT THE BASE OF OUR LOVE/

/ JAMAICA /

/THE GREAT ELEGY OF OUR GORGEOUS BLACKNESS/THAT BUILT THE BASE OF OUR LOVE/

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/THE GREAT ELEGY OF OUR GORGEOUS BLACKNESS/THAT BUILT THE BASE OF OUR LOVE/

JAYANTHI MANOJ

POSTMORTEM

Burning, ExtinguishingBurning, Extinguishing It’s paining…

I can’t crynone to empathizenor sympathize

I can’t screamit’s obscenea woman must not commit that offence

I can’t retaliate“you are to oblige!”that is the commandment

I can’t defendit’s an onusbear the cross “woman”

But I can diecease to liveexist as a corpse

Kill me aliveBurn me alivePostmortem alive

I will not cryI will not screamI will not retaliate nor defend

I am dead long ago.

a woman must not commit that offence

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JAYANTHI MANOJ

TAKE HER HOME

Don’t eat the woman in your dentear her clothesrob her jewelstaste her blooddrink her sweatbeat her dead

DON’T EAT THE WOMAN IN YOUR DEN

BUTtake her home.

Don’t eat the woman in your den

poison her in the milk she boilsdouse her in the fire she cooksfreeze her in the ice cream she freezessweep her away with the dust she cleanswash her away with the clothes she washes

DON’T EAT THE WOMAN IN YOUR DEN

BUT

take her home

Take her not to your housebut Homeshe’s tiredcool hernot withan air conditionerbut with your sweetgentle breath

Don’tadorn her with jewels

Butembellish with love words

Oh! take her homeShe is deadly tired.

DON’T EAT THE WOMAN IN YOUR DEN

poison her in the milk she boilsher in the fire she cooks

freeze her in the ice cream she freezessweep her away with the dust she cleanswash her away with the clothes she washes

DON’T EAT THE WOMAN IN YOUR DEN

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JAYANTHI MANOJ

DOGS

a pack of dogs mark societybite and bark and howl heartilyall stiff tails no grateful waggingwith blood thirsty tongues protruding

they hoard their meat and boneslaunch a search to scoop out from otherssome with sorrow dripping settled honourshang their face on the board of beggars

dogs eat dogsdogs bite dogsdogs bark at dogsdogs howl at dogs

men extinct no traces of thempower flood money faminerobbed their sixth senseleased society to untamed animals

only when he wags at youretains itself in its kennelsubmits to his masterbrings him morning newspaperhe’s just a dot in societypunctuating his purposedogs are just dogs

all or some let loose ones rushing and dashingcreating traffic jams and stagnating howling and barkingjamming and polluting

as sleeping municipalitieswake one fine morningrelieving us of garbagethe society needs to be cleansedshut all savage dogsin that van for eternityinjected captured and shot down dead

with blood thirsty tongues protruding

launch a search to scoop out from otherssome with sorrow dripping settled honourshang their face on the board of beggars

all or some let loose ones rushing and dashing

injected captured and shot down dead

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/OH! TAKE HER HOME

/ PHOTOGRAPHER /

OH! TAKE HER HOME/SHE IS DEADLY TIRED/

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KYLE HEMMINGS

TOLSTOY HAD A.D.D.

Tolstoy had A. D. D.Dostoevsky miscounted prison days.Rimbaud never paid moving violations.Frost never returned home one Christmas.Stevens was never given creditfor inventing the world’s first can openerfor lefties.

I catch the rain through the pores of onebadly-damaged eye.

D.D.

Dostoevsky miscounted prison days.Rimbaud never paid moving violations.Frost never returned home one Christmas.

opener

I catch the rain through the pores of one

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KYLE HEMMINGS

ANNA

No more than the bird with piercing voice,she was on the verge of cracking her vowsof acorn-hard chastity, a cross-eyed nun,a disciple of sex-ionized monads,repressed but bouncing from cathartic charges,closed her eyes to the pulse of moonlightbreaking in through the tangle of sycamores,bending oak.

Lifting his hand, soft and fine boned, from her breast,she said No. He was Father Hermann’studious and punctual at vespers. A Hispanic boyfrom the outskirts of Saint Elsewhere.I’m sorry, Sister, he whispered, his voice,a melancholy stream turning in on itself.A candle within her flickered and slowly burned out.

She put a finger to his lips and said, For a moment, the two stood facing each otherin calm equipurpose. After he left, she fellto her knees and prayed to a different god,one of delinquent stars, bible-black devilswith rain-weathered faces,postpartum mothers trying again and againto give names to their stillborn.There was the longing of galaxies,within, without.

She wanted to study this.There could be ten thousand explanationsshe could come up with.She was a creature of stubborn habit.

No more than the bird with piercing voice,she was on the verge of cracking her vows

eyed nun,

repressed but bouncing from cathartic charges,closed her eyes to the pulse of moonlightbreaking in through the tangle of sycamores,

Lifting his hand, soft and fine boned, from her breast,e was Father Hermann’s favorite altar boy,

studious and punctual at vespers. A Hispanic boyutskirts of Saint Elsewhere.

m sorry, Sister, he whispered, his voice,a melancholy stream turning in on itself.

slowly burned out.

She put a finger to his lips and said, “Shush.”For a moment, the two stood facing each otherin calm equipurpose. After he left, she fellto her knees and prayed to a different god,

black devils

partum mothers trying again and again

There could be ten thousand explanations

was a creature of stubborn habit.

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KYLE HEMMINGS

ANOTHER DAY WITHOUT LIN

I combed cranberries from the vines, clutched a handblood, thin, the plasma and the water, the tendency to all things pink and leaking. There was the reentry, the sentience of one’s own bone marrow, the sapples on the windowsill, cores intact. Pears fell silent as shade. Inside organic persimmons, I felt a pulse, imagined the threat of neo-plastic shadows casting towards center. Then I scraped the skin off a fuzzy peach and dreamt of sunshine turning to California and California turning to an island surrounded by an ocean of white semiwooden crate and sealed myself in. Splinters pierced muntil I was eaten first.

ANOTHER DAY WITHOUT LIN

I combed cranberries from the vines, clutched a handful and squeezed and squeezed. That was her blood, thin, the plasma and the water, the tendency to all things pink and leaking. There was the re

s own bone marrow, the stirring of fish beneath the navel. I placed two green apples on the windowsill, cores intact. Pears fell silent as shade. Inside organic persimmons, I felt a

plastic shadows casting towards center. Then I scraped the skin off a sunshine turning to California and California turning to an island

ocean of white semi-sweet waves, low tide and in remission. I squirmed inself in. Splinters pierced my thoughts. I made this promise:

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and squeezed and squeezed. That was her blood, thin, the plasma and the water, the tendency to all things pink and leaking. There was the re-

l. I placed two green apples on the windowsill, cores intact. Pears fell silent as shade. Inside organic persimmons, I felt a

plastic shadows casting towards center. Then I scraped the skin off a sunshine turning to California and California turning to an island

ow tide and in remission. I squirmed into a y thoughts. I made this promise: I’d never eat

/I CATCH THE RAIN THROUGH THE PORES OF ONE/BADLY

/ FACELESS /

I CATCH THE RAIN THROUGH THE PORES OF ONE/BADLY-DAMAGED EYE/

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DAMAGED EYE/

BENSON ELUMA

SNARES WERE NEVER MEANT

To June Omo Oise (d. 2000)

Snares were never meant to be laidIn my way, so don’t lay them

For I cry with my nose waters

When the well is fetched dryI make my way to a new waterhole

Far heavier than the squirrel’s free fall from heightsIs the stumble of a treeCostlier is the spill of red oilThan the bursting of a full water gourd

And much weaker than fleshIs my resource, the spirit.

But cenotaphs of mind are cold slabsHow will I reach you where you areCouched in the gloom’s subterraneous womb?

You called me too stubborn, brash and brazen What now that you have brought me to the brine pit?And I harvest salt. And I season Good meat with tears.

The eye has seas of its ownWith a great ladleYou stirred the waters dark

But my plea was not to be tempted with sorrow

For when I drink this bitter cupSettlings do not go down the throat.

Don’t tempt me with sorrow.

SNARES WERE NEVER MEANT

Far heavier than the squirrel’s free fall from heights

an the bursting of a full water gourd

But cenotaphs of mind are cold slabs

Couched in the gloom’s subterraneous womb?

You called me too stubborn, brash and brazen even;What now that you have brought me to the brine pit?

But my plea was not to be tempted with sorrow

Settlings do not go down the throat.

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BENSON ELUMA

SEEKING WONDERS

The analyst swore it’d be easy to bring out the gravamenOf the matter like seeds from overripe pods, likeShaken loose by the wind whether in season or not. He asked for five minutes for a second look at the hymenBut his little finger never came out of there again.

Some said it died inside, others that it saw it would rotIf it left the cocoon to continue its meagre lifeIn this land where neighbour offers neighbourInvisible tubers during New Yam, and a visible wifePounds the notional food in a broken, nerve

Thus the lost tribes of patch-and-wear seek wonders, but getInstead the instruction of the little drop which saw the abyss And plunged straight into it like a depraved comet,Escaping like words flying headlong from the tyrant’s lipsTerrified of remaining inside and mingling with the debrisOf that mind that destroyed the Great River

That mind that left the dibia bereaved of spells for the disease Of this land, forcing the tunes of the horn

But in the interlude, the rant of the woman of the crossroads:

You hid your illness and now it hides you

You brought a crooked tuber to the feastAnd now you must cut it with a crooked knife

You said you sighted the spoors of the beastBut you were not there when the team brought it back alive

You cried the other day, a cry of fear andAnd now you claim you were only calling out your son’s name…

You cheated the dead after the fact of their deathYou yanked morsels from the unborn before the fact of their birth

& you ploughed live bones and imposed the VAT on my moans…

The analyst swore it’d be easy to bring out the gravamenseeds from overripe pods, like a grain

Shaken loose by the wind whether in season or not. He asked for five minutes for a second look at the hymenBut his little finger never came out of there again.

Some said it died inside, others that it saw it would rotts meagre life

In this land where neighbour offers neighbourInvisible tubers during New Yam, and a visible wifePounds the notional food in a broken, nerve-wracked mortar…

wear seek wonders, but geton of the little drop which saw the abyss

And plunged straight into it like a depraved comet,Escaping like words flying headlong from the tyrant’s lipsTerrified of remaining inside and mingling with the debrisOf that mind that destroyed the Great River with its laundry

bereaved of spells for the disease , forcing the tunes of the hornblowers to cease.

But in the interlude, the rant of the woman of the crossroads:

You hid your illness and now it hides you under earthen loads…

You brought a crooked tuber to the feastAnd now you must cut it with a crooked knife

You said you sighted the spoors of the beastBut you were not there when the team brought it back alive

You cried the other day, a cry of fear and shameAnd now you claim you were only calling out your son’s name…

You cheated the dead after the fact of their deathYou yanked morsels from the unborn before the fact of their birth

ed live bones and imposed the VAT on my moans…

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BENSON ELUMA

I HOPE I WON’T BE FORGIVEN BY THE LIVING AND THE DEAD

(An agonized copy editor)

I hope I won’t be forgiven by the living and the deadFor the words and sentiments I have editedFor the lines I insert into the barren commentFor wounding my brain and shattering my talentBelieving that onions and onus are worlds apartAnd no one should place them on the same martOr exchange the value of the one for the other

Yet they invite me to officiate in their murder Of both method and disorder

I who believe that camels and tulipsTrail the caravan’s course to apocalypseThat in a fog the heart may find inner lightAnd on a terrace lose its sight

And I will break this pencilAnd I will tear this mapAnd I will spill ash and wine on stencilAnd put other things on my lap

And I hope I will evade the dead and the livingBuried amidst burnt papyri in a bombedWhen this age and its monsters come to eventual ruinHaving lost the way and squandered all the leaven

T BE FORGIVEN BY THE LIVING AND THE DEAD

t be forgiven by the living and the deadFor the words and sentiments I have editedFor the lines I insert into the barren comment

wounding my brain and shattering my talentBelieving that onions and onus are worlds apartAnd no one should place them on the same martOr exchange the value of the one for the other

Yet they invite me to officiate in their murder

s course to apocalypseThat in a fog the heart may find inner light

stencil

And I hope I will evade the dead and the livingBuried amidst burnt papyri in a bombed-out scriptoriumWhen this age and its monsters come to eventual ruinHaving lost the way and squandered all the leaven

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/AND MUCH WEAKER THAN FLESH

/BACK/

MUCH WEAKER THAN FLESH/IS MY RESOURCE, THE SPIRIT/

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IS MY RESOURCE, THE SPIRIT/

RICHARD UGBEDE ALI, poet, shortlisted for the 2008 John la Rose Prize, is Plateau State Secretary of the Association of Nigerian Authors; he is also Editor in Chief of the literary www.sentinelnigeria.org .

AZADEH K. TAJ is an international journalist, author and editor based in London. She is a features writer for The Times (UK) and co-company director of

OLALEKAN ILESANMI is a Négritude poet who lives in Ileengineer-in-training.

JAYANTHI MANOJ Assistant Professor in English, Holy Cross College, Trichy, India, Poetess, Short Story writer, Communicative and Soft Skills trainer. Pof my Diary, 2008. Writings published in National and International Literary Journals. Staff poet of the literary Magic Magazine, New York.

KYLE HEMMINGS lives and works inMonkeys, Ophelia Street, Apple Valley

BENSON ELUMA, born in Isale-Ake, Abeokuta, grew up in Lagos. He holds a BA in Language Arts and Classics and an MA in African Studies (Anthropology option), both from the University of Ibadan. An independent researcher and freelance copy

_

DANIJEL ZEZELJ is a graphic artist and illustrator and author of more than twenty graphic novels. illustrations and comics have been published in Francisco Guardian and in magazines and anthologies in Croatia, Slovenia, England,Spain, Sweden, South Africa. In 2001 in Zagreb, CroatiaPetikat. He lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.

ILLA AMUDI designs Saraba for Utopia’s Project

CONTRIBUTORS

poet, shortlisted for the 2008 John la Rose Prize, is Plateau State Secretary of the Association of Nigerian Authors; he is also Editor in Chief of the literary Sentinel Nigeria

is an international journalist, author and editor based in London. She is a features writer company director of www.poetryspace.co.uk

Négritude poet who lives in Ile-Ife, the cradle of Yoruba civilization. He is an

Assistant Professor in English, Holy Cross College, Trichy, India, Poetess, Short Story writer, Communicative and Soft Skills trainer. Published an anthology of poems SKETCHES: From the pages

, 2008. Writings published in National and International Literary Journals. Staff poet of the literary

lives and works in New Jersey. His work has been published in Noo JournalApple Valley Review and others.

Ake, Abeokuta, grew up in Lagos. He holds a BA in Language Arts and Classics and an MA in African Studies (Anthropology option), both from the University of Ibadan. An independent researcher and freelance copy-editor, he consults for a couple of NGOs in Ibadan and Abuja.

is a graphic artist and illustrator and author of more than twenty graphic novels. illustrations and comics have been published in New York Times Book Review, Harpers Magazine

in magazines and anthologies in Croatia, Slovenia, England, Switzerland, France, Italy, In 2001 in Zagreb, Croatia, he founded a publishing house and graphic workshop

He lives and works in Brooklyn, New York. www.dzezelj.com

Utopia’s Project. His work is forthcoming in Saraba’s next issue.

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CONTRIBUTORS

poet, shortlisted for the 2008 John la Rose Prize, is Plateau State Secretary of Sentinel Nigeria Magazine

is an international journalist, author and editor based in London. She is a features writer

Ife, the cradle of Yoruba civilization. He is an

Assistant Professor in English, Holy Cross College, Trichy, India, Poetess, Short Story SKETCHES: From the pages

, 2008. Writings published in National and International Literary Journals. Staff poet of the literary

Noo Journal, Fear of

Ake, Abeokuta, grew up in Lagos. He holds a BA in Language Arts and Classics and an MA in African Studies (Anthropology option), both from the University of Ibadan. An

le of NGOs in Ibadan and Abuja.

is a graphic artist and illustrator and author of more than twenty graphic novels. His Harpers Magazine, San

Switzerland, France, Italy, and graphic workshop,

. His work is forthcoming in Saraba’s next issue.

http://www.sentinelnigeria.org/http://www.sentinelnigeria.org/http://www.sentinelnigeria.org/http://www.sentinelnigeria.org/http://www.sentinelnigeria.org/http://www.sentinelnigeria.org/http://www.sentinelnigeria.org/www.sentinelnigeria.org.www.poetryspace.co.ukwww.dzezelj.com

The poetry chapbook is published three to five times a yearCopyright is held by Saraba Electronic PublishersReproduction in whole or in part without written permission directed to publishers@sarabamag.com. Interested contributors can visit the website for submission guidelines for the online magazine and chapbooks. The views expressed by contributors are those of Saraba Electronic Publishers. This chapbook

Aside the illustrations on the cover and backreproduced with permission. All rights reserved.

The Publishers do not accept unsolicited submissions for Chapbooks. Please see

MASTHEAD

PUBLISHERSEMMANUEL IDUMADAMILOLA AJAYI

POETRY EDITORADEBIYI OLUSOLAPE

FICTION EDITORARTHUR ANYADUBA

NON-FICTION EDITORTEMITAYO OLOFINLUA

ONLINE EDITORAYOBAMI FAMUREWA

TOSIN AFOLABIDOLAPO AMUSAN

ut.ezeali@gmail.com

three to five times a year by the Saraba Electronic Publishers on www.sarabamag.com.Saraba Electronic Publishers and individual authors and artists of work published herein.

Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is strictly prohibited. Enquiries for reproduction can be Interested contributors can visit the website for submission guidelines for the

online magazine and chapbooks. The views expressed by contributors are those of the authors and not necessarily those of chapbook is published on A4.

and back page, illustrations in this chapbook are works of Danijel Zezelj and are rights reserved.

The Publishers do not accept unsolicited submissions for Chapbooks. Please see website for complete guidelines

30: 4W

MASTHEAD

PUBLISHERSEMMANUEL IDUMADAMILOLA AJAYI

POETRY EDITORADEBIYI OLUSOLAPE

FICTION EDITORARTHUR ANYADUBA

FICTION EDITORTEMITAYO OLOFINLUA

ONLINE EDITORAYOBAMI FAMUREWA

WEBSITETOSIN AFOLABIDOLAPO AMUSAN

DESIGNILLA AMUDI

ut.ezeali@gmail.com

www.sarabamag.com.and individual authors and artists of work published herein.

is strictly prohibited. Enquiries for reproduction can be Interested contributors can visit the website for submission guidelines for the

the authors and not necessarily those of

works of Danijel Zezelj and are

for complete guidelines

mailto:ut.ezeali@gmail.comwww.sarabamag.comwww.sarabamag.com.www.sarabamag.com.

31: 4W

CoverEditor's NoteContentsRICHARD UGBEDE ALIBlood Beneath DustA Dark GhazalNo Dancing in the Sudan

AZADEH K. TAJMusic, Kiss, Dream, TomorrowDramatic AspirationsA Little Rhyme From the Broken Man

OLALEKAN ILESANMIMachinéSpéllSpá

JAYANTHI MANOJPostmortemTake Her HomeDogs

KYLE HEMMINGSTolstoy had A. D.D.AnnaAnother Day without Lin

BENSON ELUMASnares were never meantSeeking WondersI hope I won’t be forgiven by the living and the dead

CONTRIBUTORSMASTHEAD