Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

Abel Iseyen Ancientman: I am an undergraduate of Business Administration in Lagos State Polytechnic. I am a native of Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. I started writing poetry in 2013, influenced by Prof. Niyi Osundare, Prof. Wole Soyinka, Maya Angelou, Robert Frost, and Leopold Sedar Senghor. My major vision is to leave a good footprint on the sand of time.
 

DV: Let's start with two questions. I have featured quite a few Nigerian writers here. What do you think of the state of poetry in your country? And, along the same lines, how did you get started as a poet?

AIA: Well, poetry in Nigeria so far is growing very fast. We have many established poets leading the way while the upcoming ones obviously don't like being kept in the dark. These days we have new generational poets thrilling their readers with some well thought poetry. Reading these poems, one can see creativity in motion. You don't just wanna miss the next line while reading them. The coming of the social media like Facebook and Twitter really aids this massive growth. I must admit that I read good amount of quality poems every single day. It feels good to know that poetry has finally come to stay in Nigeria. As far as myself becoming a poet, that's a cherished memory. I grew up in a village so rich in traditions and other cultural values. Back then, we didn't joke with moonlight-play, which involved lots of story-telling. Back then I discovered my passion for  creative words. So it was fun listening to stories dripping from the lips of the sages. Telling us lots of folktales and reading traditional poetry to us. I also read poems by Prof. Wole Soyinka, Prof. Niyi Osundare, Maya Angelou, William Shakespeare, Robert Frost, Pablo Neruda, etc. Their works really spurred me into writing poetry. Here is the first one I wrote, "Lost Heritage":

The advance generation, like a catfish nurtured with excessive pabulum
Seems too bright for their ancestral cultures
They seem to be keeping pace with the flying time
Oh, time has changed.
Even the air no longer smells of rich moisture
Time has grown wings!

But daughter, did you just serve me palmwine without genuflection?
This is the drink of the gods,
You should have done better than that.

Friend,
This is not the same you I saw yesterday
That old you was a dark ebony,
Housed with all the attributes of Iseyen's tribe
You were the loamy soil that nourished the tribe's crops
You were the replica of Obio-aduang forest.
Friend, this can't be you.
This is a stranger -  bleached with hot palmoil
But your fierce eyes still bleed black blood.
So tell me friend, is this really you?
For lo, lions beget lions
Goats still forge ahead with their ancestral weaknesses
But the great Agbaka we know didn't travel this path.

Sister,
You know I have nothing much to tell you;
The last time you visited home
Father didn't recognize you.
Even mother tip-toed to the adjacent hut -
Thinking the goddesses were after her.
But I was not too amazed because I recognized your eyeballs;
Though the staggering of your high-heels nearly put me also on my heels.
Your hair was as long as the mermaids'
Your nails were as long as the talons of a witch
Your lips were as red as a spoilt palmoil
Your face was decorated like a Calaber masquerade.
But sister, what philosophy have you read
That deprived you of your dignity and pride?
 
DV: I can certainly hear your cultural heritage there and traces of a Maya Angelou cadence. But if you had to pick just one constant influence on your poetry, who would it be? In what way?

AIA: That's a hard one. I have so many poets that I admire a lot. But I will pick Prof. Niyi Osundare anytime, any day. He is one of the contemporary poets that has done so much for poetry. His poetic style is so unique. So concise. So appealing. You know, while reading his poems, you're not being driven to a tight corner. No. He speaks to you like a friend. Like a teacher. Like a mentor. You listen to him speak through poetry and you get up ready to face the world with lots of strength and optimism. I really love his work.

DV: Is there a process you go through when you write? Could you describe it, from inspiration to finished product? What's your attitude towards revision?

AIA: I get my inspirations from things happening around me. It ranges from that tranquil smile on the face of a child, the looks in lovers' eyes, the clutches of widowhood, to the benefits of determined dreams.I also gained lots of inspirations reading the works of others. On the area of revision, I spend lots of hours writing a poem. I discovered earlier that I don't possess the talent of writing ten to twenty poems a day. So all I always do is try as much as I can to invest lots of time and energy on my few outputs. One always feels better achieving something great at the end of the day.

DV: Have you ever had the painful experience of having a powerful inspiration that just will not complete itself, no matter how hard you work on it? And what do you do about writer's block?

AIA: Yeah. I currently have three poems patiently awaiting my attention. The attention is there, quite alright, but the creativity isn't sharp enough. Possibly, someday I will find the necessary depth required to complete them. Even if it takes me a journey to Athens, I won't mind. (laughing). Writer's block is an impediment to literary progress. It's a moment of blurred vision for writers. It's as bad as that. But I'm not scared of it because I have its antidote. I always undergo an intensive reading session whenever I encounter writer's block. Through these reading sessions I have been able to  regain my rhythm and creativity flair. Personally, there is no better panacea to writer's block than reading.

DV: Others suggest just forcing oneself to write -- anything, nonsense, the alphabet, anything -- until the creative juices start to flow. Still others suggest abandoning the writing project entirely for awhile and doing something else -- taking a walk or a nap, going shopping, watching TV -- and returning when the mind is fresh and new. Somehow, we have to trick our brains into working again. As to your first point, one of my friends wrote a poem that seemed finished, but he was not satisfied with it; several years later he wrote another, and only then realized that it was the completion of the first. Before we finish this session, I have one further question: Other than the satisfaction you get as an artist, and the enjoyment you give your audience, what is the importance of poetry in today's world?

AIA: Poetry, to me is the way of life. Poetry is one of the most essential frameworks of every society. It's the pill for all emotions. Be it love, happiness, excitement, etc. Poetry just covers it all. Just imagine the strength one derives from reading the poem titled 'STILL I RISE' by the late Maya Angelou. You just feel your spirit strengthening. You feel triggered; ready to look the world in the face. That's what poetry does. You're never the same after reading a good poem. Poetry spurs. It educates. It's a tool for change. It teaches us to appreciate nature and adore our neighbours. It fills the heart with so much love. Poetry is the backbone of every society.

DV: That's a very inspiring answer. Thank you for your participation in this interview. We look forward to more of your poetry.

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

AEIPATHY

She waited, unwearyingly, like a still water

Hungering for a dream, - a far-fetched hunch,

Eating up her creed like whirl-fire,

Oh! An overseas spouse is my desire.

 
O she waited, rebuffing countless hands like heaven

rejects sinners;

A sanguine sapphire, you may say, loathing stains in 

her immaculate arms
Which craved for nebulous affection in some places, 

far-off.

Oh! An overseas spouse is my desire.

 
And she kept to her dreams, a dedicated piffle,

borne out of lust for lucre.

Prince Charming came, an ebullient ebony, with the 

heart of gold;

But she declined, even against pleas and promises.

Oh! An overseas spouse is my desire.

 
Now time journeyed beyond her reach,

With wrinkles embracing her skin like waters embrace 

fishes.

She still sits, comfortably, overshadowed by menopause.

Oh! An overseas spouse is my desire.

Apollo and Daphne -- Yesi Casanova

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

REMEMBERING BABEL

O when I think of the world before Babel
My eyes drips with rivers of tears...

That world was free from insanity,
Poverty and discriminations.
It was pure, even more purer than the springs -
Which revive the dying plants.
It was undefiled like the seventh heaven.
That world was a snow;
Serene, with no room for Lucifer's chicanery.
It was peaceful like mares.
It was as beautiful as the colours of the rainbow
Which kisses the smiling sky in seasons.
That world was devoid of pain and sorrow,
With bonds among friends growing stronger every passing day.
It was the period of bellies going to beds in good moods,
Without swords
Nor spears
Nor guns
Nor bombs reducing its population.
That world was marriage made in heaven,
With love guiding every single deed.
That world had no Hitler
Nor religion
Nor philosophies.
It was flawless,
Infallible,
And spotless.
It was a world devoid of sounds of cries beneath dark huts.
It was a world where mothers never buried their offspring.
Comrades, such a time, the earth still yearns for it.
Then came Babel,
Such a significant structure it was;
Borne out of humans' talents and philosophies.
It was indeed a beautiful curse.
Then suddenly things fell out of shape.
Unified tongues suddenly generated diverse languages.
Bonds among brothers loosened.
Love turned cold.
Eyes no longer saw the back.
Discriminations became the order of the day.
Diverse skins no longer mingled.
Love died!
Then science bred Hitlers,
Hitlers in return invented reasons to kill.
Peace disappeared.
So we became ingordigious  monsters,
with no distinctions between us and animals.

So the world became too small for us,
With territorial wars claiming souls like rabid infernos.

But if you happen to see those who built Babel,
Tell them that they have done us more evil than good.
Tell them that the burden they placed
On us is beyond our weight.
Please tell them, yes,
When you come across them,
That they should turn back the hands of time.
 
The Tower of Babel --  M. C. Escher

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

IMMORTALS

Great men never die but sleep,

For sleep is just a rest from labour.

But even in sleep, their deeds journey on,

Gracing lives with interminable joy...

These men, to them, graves remain powerless,

For they're the sempervirent sky -

Hovering above the esoteric earth.

They're the loamy soil - where plants find comforts.

Yes, they're the salt of the world!

These men, they're the builders of Rome;

The architects of Eiffel Tower;

The painter of Mona Lisa - whose esoteric beauty 

speaks a million words.

They're the springs - quenching all thirst.

They're mentors of the new age.

Yes, there are men and there are men;

For some live to die

While others die to live.

These women, you can't find them in tombs

For the gluttonous graves just can't have it 

all! Selah 

Awake from your slumber O my spirit!

Renew my strength that I may find joy in my toils.

Let me grow beyond the graves.

That someday, in a distant time,

When sleep finally embrace me, that I shall sleep to 

rise again.

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

AUTURGY

I
Go, sound the ikoro;
Summon the elders
For at dusk, when the ancestors
Resume leadership of the land
We shall cast lot
To define our end from the beginning
And our future from the past

II
Yes, we shall know how and why
Water entered the coconut;
And how and why our land is
Losing her beauty bit by bit.

III
Kinsmen, behold, that smoke over there is getting bigger
Before dawn we might become history.
So we must act fast.

IV
No, the gods can't say they're angry,
For their happiness are always shown
In our rich harvests and weather.
No the gods are not angry.
But I think we are, for our thoughts are stained with evil beyond evil
Yes, we're the alpha and the omega of our struggles?

V
But still the gods must decide -
Through these kola nuts and strong wine.
Yes, the gods must decide.

VI
But brothers, before the lot is cast
And the gods speak in clearer tone,
What do you think is the cause of our ills?

VII
Is it because of the agonies of the oppressed,
The clutches of the abandoned widows,
Or of the innocent blood spilt on the streets?

VIII
Brothers, before the lot is cast, and the gods speak in clearer tone,
Please lets us first reason,
Yes, within us.

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

INCANTATION II
 
Gods of the land,

Today by the potency of the
Four winds
I implore you with this kola nut to be the gods
Of good fortunes
Not sanguinary vampires - draining
Blood from our dry veins -
To saturate your wayward bellies
Which respect nor sons nor sundry.
Yes, that you should be the gods of fecundity
Not instigators of commendaces -
Drawing hot tears from our eyes.
Our defenders shouldn't be our offenders!
 
So today, by the power of a left-over palm wine
We charge you to retreat your steps
And make our land among the equals
Of all good lands...
 
We truly deserve it
Because a child shouldn't cry
On the back of its mother;
River of life shouldn't turn blood;
Rainfall shouldn't wither crops;
And love shouldn't turn cold
 
So today, with this animal blood,
I pray that as morning
And night never meet,
And that a river never flow backwards;
May sunlight never turn nightfall
In our lives.

Day and Night Ying Yang -- Angie Butler 

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

WHO RUINED US?
 
Who dried our river's source

That many households are now

Dying of thirst?

Who caused this drought that

Many farmlands are now clothed

With life-less garments?

Who caused this famine that

Tombs now take over our land? 

They're the rapacious opportunists,

Devoid of wisdom and reason;

The temeranous myopias who

Mistake nightfall for daylight;

Hamate rhetorics, possessors of

Milky lips -

Whose words melt the hearts in thousands,

Even in tens of thousands;  

They're the enemies of the state,

Whose pens kill faster than nuclear weapons;

Delilahs of our time, betraying

Trust for pieces of silver...

They're the power-drunks,

The descendants of Judas, the Iscariot.

Men of no virtue,

Slaves to greed and coins

Whose footprints are a malediction

To those who follow them. 

They're the wind of sorrow

Ravaging all households beyond repair;

They're the bad omens in disguise -

Drying our purse to nadir point...  

But where do we start from

When we are already out of crops?

Samson and Delilah -- Anthony van Dyck 

Judas' Kiss (The Capture of Christ) -- Anthony van Dyck

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

WE WERE BORN SAINTS

From our mothers' wombs, we came forth,
Immaculate and impeccable like august shrubs on a 

spacious field.
We were pure, infallible, with genuine smiles
That knew neither friends nor foes

Brothers, we were born saints

We were stainless doves,
The condign replica of the concierge's image -
Amicable, amiable, like summer roses.
We were angels, free from animosity and acerbity
We were the morning ray
The true habiliments of exquisite love.

Sisters, we were born saints.

We were meek, not hamate;
The exemplary simulacrum of perfect beings.
We were the southern wind.
The sacred book of holiness.
We were not vitiated, never, nor sanguinary vampires.
We, like panacea, were the pills of comfort.

Comrades, we were born saints.

Then the earth wooed our consciences and
Raped our innocence with disingenuous philosophies;
He stained our encephalons with rapacious thoughts.
Then we became sanguinary vampires, thieves,
Liars, outlaws, terrorists with temeranous personalities.

This is no longer us!

But comrades, know this for sure, that
From the onset, when we came forth from our mothers' wombs,
We were born saints.

Triumph of the Innocents -- William Holman Hunt

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

Enomma,

my epitome of beauty.

today, before god and man,

i have refined my rhythm

in order to honour your name

My ocean of joy,

my sunshine,

please dance for me -

that African dance - once danced

on the soil of rich harvests...

slowly, yes very slowly my woman.

Forget the jealous eyes.

No one can ever be like you!

behold, I've cuddled

the gifted drum in my arms -

squeezing out its sweet nectar

to your taste -

my love, just the way your waist loves it

Please be possessed by its demons...

Let loose of that dance

that once tricked the moon

to tarry into morning!

Enomma,

my fetching plumeria,

the mandarin fish that

feeds the eyes with honey

Please dance for me...

Ignore the winks of others.

Your lover is here for you.

I, at this moment, this day,

have eaten your apple of love:

please let me

remain a sinner in love for eternity.

Enomma,

my southern tulip.

My favourite song

Please before this august gathering -

filled with love and palm wine,

I, of the Iseyen clan,

do humbly ask for

your pretty hands

in marriage... 

*notes
This is an African chant song.
Enomma is a maiden's name in Ibibio.

African tulip tree (Spathodea campanulata) -- Don Walker 

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

THE CALL

On the seventh day
Of the seventh month
In the seventh year of my elopement,
I heard your voice, Africa, calling.
Calling me by my name,
Yes, by the name my mother gave me.

I heard your call,
Not in susurrations,
But very loud and clear;
And I was thunderstruck, your
Voice delivering sweet songs
To my soul,
And your beauty, my heart's garment.

You called, not as a father,
But as a mother would,
With a voice so sweet and tender:
And so passionate that it gave me goosebumps.
And I realized that mother's milk
Is essential for a child,
And that man's first love is his home.

So at your call
I, like the prodigal son
Let go of my vanities
And yearned for my root.

And so I journeyed home -
Through the rainforest which
Had Nightingales singing for me
And the Giant Sequoia shading
My frame.
The crickets and the African-beings
Were not left out - as they made my
Return a memorable one.

Oh, how I have missed you, my Africa!
How I have missed your rustic scent.
Your palm wine still tastes great,
Your garment as porraceous as ever,
And your sons have grown into men!

Pardon the mistake of my youth O dear mother
For your dudgeon is ephemeral,
And your mercies, sempiternal.

Nightingale -- Simona Puikytė

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

BLANK PAGES

I shall sing a song,
an incarnated song
my Nka-ka taught me -
sitting at the bank
of a soughing river;
her grey hairs pouring
forth wisdom

I shall sing it with
an enduring passion...
with every lyric charming
all hearts...

the drummers -
whose fingers have been
oiled by the gods,
shall stand still, dumbfounded,
with the drums rolling
away - instinctively...

...and you shall wish for
a dance
but your legs shall be
too heavy to move...

Yesteryears,
when they gatecrashed into
our doorsteps
they said we were not at home
that we were aboreals...
that all they met were blank pages -
devoid of any organized lives,
a deleterious remark...
...tarnishing our image.

But they were wrong
for we did things in
our own ways,
and in accordance with
the wills of our gods...
we had the right!

Yes, we were a set of sophisticated people -
setting our standards
in our own ways
and in our own wills...
our gods are our witnesses!

You strangers saw those standards
but comprehended them not;
but they were in our dance steps,
in the beads we wore,
in the beauties of our women,
in the broad chests of our men...

...they were everywhere!

in our songs...
in our shrines...
in our dresses...
in the catwalks of our girls...
on every monument...

They were everywhere!

in the talking drums...
in our reverenced carvings...
in our sweet flutes...
in our moonlight tales...
in our customs and traditions...

Strangers, they were everywhere...
our gods are our witnesses...

You saw all these things
but comprehended them not...

we pardon your misconception of us,
for the mouth must give birth
to the contents of the mind...

Soliloquy: Life's Fragile Fictions -- Moyo Ogundipe

Abel Iseyen Ancientman redux

HEROES

Is this really a dog-eat-dog-world?

Do we really hate one another that much?

Are the loves in our hearts really so cold?

Is discrimination really our lot?
I don't think so...
...and I shall offer you my reasons:
Supposing a day comes,
Yes, a day so mean,
So cruel, so minacious;
And we're faced with the sudden
Invasions of lethal aliens;
...and they come at us with just one message:
"kill them all"
And they're as the sands of the seas,
Armed with sophisticated weapons.
Would we just act like a tree,
Who, after learning of his impending
Doom, still remains still?
Wouldn't we arise as one people,
Irrespective of our races, religions or genders
And devise means of defending ourselves?
Wouldn't we sit on a roundtable
and say to the Brits
"Please offer us strategic intelligence"
and to the Russians
"Please ready your RS-28 Sarmats"
Wouldn't the Chinese's spirits offer us great hopes?
...and the Americans, as usual, be at the centre of everything?
Wouldn't we pat one another on the back and say
"Be strong, for unity is our strength?"
...and the war breaks out
We, as comrades, confront our fears squarely:
In one spirit and in one soul:
Our backs against each other's backs?
In blood and in sweat, we stand.
...and they would come against us in all angles, in full force.
But we won't be shaken
For love and determination are the greatest weapons...
And we would fight them on lands,
on the seas, and in the air...
And it would be a fierce fight.
The kind no history book has ever recorded.
...and we would, every one of us, gives a very good account of ourselves.
And blood shall make a million rivers...
And they shall push us a step back
But we would push them to their doom...
And would make corpses out of them...
And we would make them wish they never came at us
and would crush them to pieces.
Their few remnants would pick up
pieces of their lives
and flee before us.
And shouts of victory shall greet our streets...
Our women will immortalize us in gallant-songs
To be sung even in new ages to come...
And we would give one another warm hugs;
and we would celebrate our victory with sweet-feasts...
And a black man would dine with a white man;
Muslims with Christians,
Boys with girls...
Young with old...
And we would say to one another
"Thank God we're one people."

 

Armageddon --Wojciech Tut Chechliński