University of Alberta Faculty of Law Blog

Patriots in the Rye (Movement #2)

Common fools in common places
have come and gone

And yet, the minstrels never relented
the chants were never strained
they sang praises to a full moon
till it became the sun
        conqueror of night

they crowned themselves the sell-outs
and standing at the fork in the road
they dared the patriots to follow…

Patriots in the Rye (Movement #1)

When they arrived, they set up tents
and built raging fires on the lake

At dawn, the soot had turned to balls of mud
and when the hard breeze came
it rolled a few metres on the shimmery surface of the lake
and came to rest
        in impatient anger

they crowned themselves patriots
and from the comfort of their tents
they dared the world to doubt it...

Ode to Scalia, or Bread, Butter and the Wicked Gavel

O Lord Scalia
mere mortals at your feet
before your senile presence
we genuflect
drawn as mating termites
to the glow of your static
O Lord Scalia
lord of the bread and butter law
lead us to our redemption
where exotic delights are few
and the steady hand of time
bangs its wicked gavel on our roving senses.

In other news, a Florida judge declared that crazy ordinance outlawing baggy pants unconstitutional. Said the public defender, "The first time I saw this particular fashion, I disliked it. And then I realized I'm getting old." Take note Scalia. Meanwhile, the Florida ordinance might serve as a template for future decency/safety laws in Uganda, where the ethics and integrity minister is advocating a ban on miniskirts in order to minimize traffic accidents. No word on possible exemptions for tan-seeking tourists, although the minister did say that miniskirts are a particular danger only because some Ugandans are "mentally weak".

Dispatches from Upper Canada: #1

Ontario
your thousand lakes
and plush terrain
beckon
like wild fires to tragedy’s cause

As we drive past Desolation Lake
we reflect on the anguish of beauty
adored and derided
your yin, your yang

behind us, far past the Lake of the Woods
the well of nostalgia dries up rapidly
beneath its beaming mouth
drowning children wail
yet the wind carries their voices to us
as hushed lullabies

are your winding roads
like snakes that feed on chick eggs?
are these jagged rocks
the fangs that crush the hatched chick?

Approaching Wawa
The signpost tells us ‘the best just got better’
the sun salutes our chests with fiery pride
as we ponder the retreating horizon.

(All credit goes to Russ for the title of this post. More to come, on matters of law, poetry, legal education, and whatever).

Friday Poetry: Letter to a friend searching for the meaning of life

...they went in search of "God"
tethered to centuries of false hopes
they took up residence in that ancient abyss
shallower than the mounds of will
protruding from their souls
forgetting only
that the stench of decaying friends
is much stronger than defiance

refrain: man's quest for meaning
often reveals the lie that the lier was told by that other lier

and then there was the search party
wondering whose side they were on
they who had consumed entrails of pigs
had puffed on the power of the rod
are we not men too, they ask
do we not want to be the men we are, they moan
can we not know if we are the men we are, they cry
will not knowing the men we are mean we know the men we are, they say
and so forth till it opiates their senses
then comes release, tension, nightmares, and booze
and an unrelenting new day

add refrain here.

Poetry: Tales of Rebirth, First Stanza

Never see yourself through others’ eyes
Elena used to say
but she lived alone with six grey-skinned cats
and everyone called her a witch

then one day
on the day the saviour went to heaven
and there was merriment in the village
she put on her old straw hat
waded through the perfumery of chicken stew and starch
to take her place in a new order

the wincers winced
the holy barfed
the fearful feared…

Friday Poetry: The Left Coast

(For RB, with laughter)

A need is still a need
so said the one-eyed pirate who wanted an eye-patch
those who live in glass houses must throw stones
is not an African proverb
    now let’s talk about the sea breeze
and the fancy view of mountain-hands tightly clutched like a Pentecostal prayer session
    and while he munches on shaved meat and organic lettuce
    he will betray you thrice
    by whacking your skull with antonyms
welcome to the Left Coast
where it never shines but is always buffed.

Requiem for a Code Red Event

The soon-to-be mourners gather
to watch the code red event
through the viewfinder of the pale boy

hurry it up you sluggards
said the boatman
who awaits with a bouquet of dead white roses

the pale boy pans life into view
and in that fortunate moment of dark illumination
yang finally destroys yin

and their arms flail, their throats wail
life imitates death
the death that died to electric beats

Oremus.

Ejeluno, or The Traveller's Song

The very old man we call Diokpa
invited me to his quarters
he immersed his hands in the brown spittle
flowing around his rickety teeth
drew four lines in the mud
smeared it on my forehead and said, “Ejeluno”

Somewhere a lovelorn lover’s heart is shattered
the broken shards tumble dangerously through dreams
piercing entrails and bursting bile
till a sharp cry pierces the poor heart of Ajegunle

The been to will surely return
because he has been to
but only when the spittle has caked off the forehead
and the rotten tuber has produced brittle green stems
he will come bearing love and wisdom
and flowers to place on Diokpa’s grave

But the jeremiad continues…

Friday Poetry: Bread and Blood Tonics

This is another excerpt from my book. Preview a pdf version of the book here. In fact, it's the title poem (Moin told me to plug the book on the blog more, and perhaps it'll make the bestseller list soon enough). This one is best read without pause.

notice that the difference in the spelling of regimen and regiment is t. thus the t when fully crossed after the dotted i transforms a life promoting word into a unit of human batteries used for crushing life. which is why the word gun can be used to kill a gnu because the u has taken the place of the n in the semantic order. attempts to explain this phenomenal boisterousness of the English language will essentially culminate in futility or headaches. fodamore god is spelt in two ways one with a small letter g and the other with a capital letter g to explain nuances and the African one, and blood is the same every place whether in America or accra or in the dictionary or spilled in Somalia or is donated transfused drunk or used to manufacture bread and blood tonics.

Friday Poetry: A Nursery Rhyme for Patriots

i your commander-mis-chief
i saw a child with big head and sticking out ribs
i said to its mother
i told her with tears in my eyes
woman, may god punish you both, you and your child
may your child die of kwashiorkor
may your breast dry up and may you both be put
on fish rings and roasted
don’t you know my gofment has no money for the poor?

i heard a very important talk talk oversabi* write write freedom fighter bullshit man say our environment this our environment that
  this one say that one no say
  i said may your mother suffer stroke
  may your father piss blood
  he did not hear
  i said don’t you know i and my gofmental people must burn the oil
  we must scatter scatter the environment
  we must pollute your water
  kill your fish
  for the survival of the nation
for four fillion farrels of oil equal to four something something fillion dollars per each armed felon ruling councilor swiss account

the bastard did not hear
  so i bought a noose with the oil money
  and hanged him
  but i think what about some of this oil money for
  the child and mother on fish rings
  and i said, “ah, foolish thinking.”

Friday Poetry: (forward)

(iii)

…love me fern says to kernel tree
feel my embrace handsome lover
mein liebes, long as felled iroko dark as night
blood so supple it produces nuts
love me fine beast of the savannah

every truth is sporadic
like good luck

(iv)

wood bleeds
        hissing foaming watery blood
sitting on its flame the pot of mama’s love
and her eyes
red teary dreary
blows stokes rekindles
the breath of her spirit flows

(v)

our land where serpents shed skin
in the midday sun
then go about swallowing unborn chicks
and hissing at school kids
we are the children of the midday sun
running from serpents with new skin
aliens in our own land   

Friday Poetry: (rewind)

metal water runs beneath the river you see
all amok
a few cups were shed as tears
many to bathe virgin cancers
    left, only a grain of sand buried
    in the heap of sea salt
the earth river kills, it kills hard
the earth river rules

    it is tragedy
    when the father to the scholar son says
    “what are you really”
    hot throbbing mad tragedy
    and the scholar son rages
    like boiling stew streaming down a firepot
    look what a tall drink of toxic water has brought upon you
    scholar son to father says
    metal madness

all lies are non-fiction
all non-fiction are non-truths
perfect syllogism

(Excerpt from work in progress. I'll post the sequel, titled "(forward)" next week)

Poem: Untitled

splash of stillness
time made flesh
twist of memory
knock on the head
termite travels through clay highways
on the courtroom wall
crashed by the briskness of a broom
mole on my thigh
seeking for eyes
hidden by modesty
jug full of water
thirst for bite
maiden’s lacerated earlobes
craving for gold
whisper in the dark
no light to guide me there
touch my grey hair
and tell me how much longer
I have to live

(excerpt from Bread and Blood Tonics, about the reflections of an articling lawyer on a first time visit to a Nigerian courtroom).