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Poet's Talk

Poets Talk: 5 Questions with Kayeon Onyeka

My sense of identity is that of an observer making sense of every scene that presents itself. More like a camera capturing what is presented as it interprets the images into photos. But I must admit that even as lenses get blurry. ...

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Poets Talk: 5 Questions with Jakky Bankong-Obi

Poets Talk: 5 Questions with Odu Ode

Poets Talk: 5 Questions with Fatima Adamu

From Our Columnists

On Peace and the Essence of Chaos || Star Zahra

So, I understand what it means to come into the peace of wild things – like lakes – who do not tax themselves with the afterthought of thoughts.

In The Poetry of Life: Things I Remember About My Grandmother | Nasiba Babale

I remember my grandmother by a lot of things, and when I picture myself in old age, I see myself in her image. Tall, lean, with a slightly curved back, a head full of gray hair that tangles and covers my eyes when being loose. Rheumy eyes set on a dark lean face, hands that are ever generous, and a serious demeanor that resets naughty grandchildren back to their default setting.

The Question of Hybrid in Deaf Birds & Frozen Frames || Salamatu Sule

Alabi likens this to the little value we place on what we used to have that is free but never allowed ourselves to explore at a new place where we can no longer enjoy that freedom but are happy to explore.

In The Poetry of Life: The What-Ifs | Nasiba Babale

In a lot of ways, ending a year is like ending a poem. Like a poet approaches a finished poem in scrutiny, going over and reading it again, sometimes reading it out loud to hear the rhythm and make sure it flows smoothly, so too do we go over the events of an ending year. But unlike a poem, we cannot remove the words or the lines we feel are obstructing the flow of a year spent. There is no going back to remove a word or insert a new one. There is no changing the events of any moment. There is no altering the flow. There are only the what-ifs.

Black Poets

Black Poets: Ikeogu Oke.

Ikeogu Oke was a Nigerian poet and journalist who died in Abuja on November 27th, 2018, at 51. He hailed from Ohafia in south-eastern Nigeria and was considered a deeply spiritual person. He sought to embody traditional African beliefs, notably wearing the Ohafia war dress to high-profile events to highlight his Igbo heritage. 

Black Poets: Warsan Shire.

Black Poets: Véronique Tadjo.

Black Poets: Bassey Ikpi.

Where is the Ocean? – #Andrea

What we see in the world depends much on the perspective – the world view – of the observer. Therefore: Where is the ocean? It is in the wink of your eye.

Vigilance of Things in BM Dzukogi’s These Last Tears | #Sabouke

SYMBOLS OF HOPE IN SAHEED SUNDAY’S REWRITE THE STARS || Mujahid Ameen Lilo

The Needlessness of Definitions – #Sabouke

From The Editor

BIRTHING WORDS: Will you buy my words… or An Author’s Short Introspection on His Writing Odyssey – Tope Ogundare

Tope Ogundare is a psychiatrist and poet who was recently shortlisted for Association of Nigerian Authors/KMVL Poetry Prize (2023). In this piece, he gives a brief glimpse into his writing and inspiration. Do read, do share! ...

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BroDa SaMson [A Poem] by Oyindamola Shoola

IMISIMOLE’S BALAD by S. Su’eddie Vershima Agema

Orange Poetry NG

In The Poetry of Life by Naseeba Babale

In The Poetry of Life: The Last Stanza | Nasiba Babale

But life isn't always like poetry, it hardly ever starts from the last stanza. Sometimes, you have no idea if there will be a last stanza at all, or if it will continue in long lines that do not have an end. Like the cliffhangers at the end of thrillers. And these cliffhangers of life... these events that continue to infinity like a recurring decimal, are the parts of life I struggle to deal with. My mind shifts and fidgets endlessly when it goes on a journey that does not seem to have an end. 

In The Poetry of Life: Dear Friday | Nasiba Babale

In The End We All Become Our Mothers | Nasiba Babale

The Goat on The Old Gate | Nasiba Babale

Everything Here

Wendy Okeke Portrays Her Humanity in Grief’s First Kiss is an Avalanche

Stories From Young African Poets: To love a “no name” And Zainab Tijani Mohammed.

Initially, poetry was just another subject in school, words strung together, one after the other. As a child, my mind was more focused on the empty cans waiting to be filled with sand or crushing biscuits into paste to bake into cake. I don’t know where the concept of time immemorial fits into the corners of my memory, but words have always lived somewhere in my heart. I just didn’t know exactly where, so I never bothered to visit.

SEVHAGE and Konya Shamsrumi presents The Poetry Club UDUS Anthology 2025

Announcing the Shortlist for the 2024 Vivian Ihaza [SEVHAGE] Teen Poetry Prize

Stories Of Young African Poets: Sounds And Rhymes Of Timi Sanni.

I grew up enchanted by sound and rhymes, from my grandmother's folksongs to the English nursery rhymes I devoured.

In The Poetry of Life: The S. I. Unit of Love | Nasiba Babale

Love is no longer shy smiles exchanged with bowed heads, or letters shared with each other in secret, with younger siblings acting as couriers. A woman’s love is no longer affirmed by her silence when asked by her elders if she loves a man, or how she avoids roads leading to her beloved’s house out of shyness, or how she runs away giggling when his name is mentioned. Love is not date nights on mats once a week, sitting on either edge with a lamp in between. Love is simply no longer silence and a smile. 

Stories from Young African Poets: Letters, Love And Time Of Ameer Naseer Ameen.

At first, the idea of sharing it with girls in our class never came to mind; but, soon the spirit of youth began to spring in our souls, we began to hear the whispers of our hearts and our minds believed it was love.

That the Elegy Would Be More than One: A Review of Ayodele’s ELEGY FOR THE THINGS WE’VE BEEN THROUGH