Writer’s Quote: Ella wheeler Wilcox

Writer’s Quote: Ella wheeler Wilcox

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I found the above quote while scrolling through my twitter feed and had to share it. Why? Because the atrocities going on in this world are so much that we may sometimes forget there is kindness in this world,

Because, young girls are dying and children are dying. Because, the current generation which are the future are grieving; they’re mourning; their innocence dimming as they see murder  happening around them everyday, it may as well be classified as normal. Because the upcoming generation, and not just those growing up in Syria or Iran or Kashmir, but all around the world- in Nigeria, in Turkey, in Bangladesh, in Palestine, in the United Kingdom, in the states, deserve to have a sky devoid of air strikes, a crowd devoid of bomb blast. They deserve to have peace.

I hope to convey my emotions by sharing the following poem by Ella wheeler Wilcox as my writer’s quote/poem Wednesday submission. I may not be in the North-Eastern part of Nigeria where the boko-haram insurgency has crippled their inhabitants, I may not be in Syria and Palestine where their lives are under constant terror and little seems to be done about it, I may not be in the United Kingdom where a coward of person takes the lives of innocent citizens. But in the words of Ella Wheeler, I echo your cries and I echo your sorrows.

The little white hearse by Ella wheeler Wilcox

Somebody’s baby was buried to-day–
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden track.

Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.

Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under the coffin lid–out through the door;
Somebody finds only darkness and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody’s baby will waken no more.

Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:
I know not her name, but I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep,
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep
In the little white hearse that went rumbling by.

I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;
While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more,
And back to my heart surged that river of woe
That but in the breast of a mother can flow;
For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/the-little-white-hearse-by-ella-wheeler-wilcox

Of Life, of Love-

Of Life, of Love-

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You do not wait for opportunities,
you create them-
in the moments,
between,
the first string of light,
and when darkness-
envelopes the sky.

You do not wait for friendship,
To arrive,
At its time and pace,
And kick loneliness
To the curb,
With a sidekick.
You search it-
At the park,
The cafe,
Grandma’s birthday.

You do not wait for success,
To come knocking,
Down your door
Saying, I’m here now.
You hunt it down,
Axe and sword.
Heat and sweat.
Find it and claim-
It was always yours to Have.

But love… do you wait for love
To arrive, open arms,
Do you not?
Heck… what do I know about love.

Writer’s Quote: Cornelius Eady

Writer’s Quote: Cornelius Eady

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One of the things I enjoy doing during my free time is watching poetry recited out loud on YouTube. I don’t mean spoken word poetry, I mean those classical poems by Maya angelou, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes e.t.c. Watching them being recited adds more meaning to the poems, and increase in my understanding and love for the poems and poetry as a whole. It’s during one such occasion, I first heard the poem- I’m a fool to love you by Cornelius Eady. That poem touched me deeply; it spoke to me in ways many poems don’t and that’s why today I decided to share it with you guys for Writers Quote/Poem Wednesday.

I know I am not done with my AtoZ challenge and it’s already May, will try to roundup soon, the letter X is really not inspiring. Below is the poem

I’m a fool to love you- Cornelius Eady

Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell you, if she could,
About her life with my father,
A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.
She would tell you about the choices
A young black woman faces.
Is falling in love with some man
A deal with the devil
In blue terms, the tongue we use
When we don’t want nuance
To get in the way,
When we need to talk straight.

My mother chooses my father
After choosing a man
Who was, as we sing it,
Of no account.
This man made my father look good,
That’s how bad it was.
He made my father seem like an island
In the middle of a stormy sea,
He made my father look like a rock.

And is the blues the moment you realize
You exist in a stacked deck,
You look in a mirror at your young face,
The face my sister carries,
And you know it’s the only leverage
You’ve got.
Does this create a hurt that whispers
How you going to do?
Is the blues the moment
You shrug your shoulders
And agree, a girl without money
Is nothing, dust
To be pushed around by any old breeze.
Compared to this,
My father seems, briefly,
To be a fire escape.
This is the way the blues works
Its sorry wonders,
Makes trouble look like
A feather bed,
Makes the wrong man’s kisses
A healing.

W- When a girl is born

W- When a girl is born

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They say-it’s a girl,
And a chicken is slaughtered,
When a boy graces the earth,
A cow- he deserves.

They say- it’s a girl,
With one glance and their backs;
A boy breathes first air,
And is enshrouded by a crowd.

They say- it’s a girl,
and their shoulders feel burdened,
Cost of marriage is high-
Faces clouded with grief.

They say- it’s a girl!
In the 21st century,
The women curse their stars,
For birthing their kind.

They say- it’s a girl,
And ignorance comes to fore.
But without girls in the world,
There will be no men.

P- Paul Laurence Dunbar

P- Paul Laurence Dunbar

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My poet for today’s writer’s quote/ poem Wednesday, in correlation with the atoz challenge I am participating in is, Paul Laurence Dunbar. The first time I came across his work was watching a poetry out loud competition in YouTube, where his poem “we wear the mask” was recited. It was amazing. But that is not the poem I’m going to share today. Today’s poem is titled “sympathy” and all I’ll say is, if you enjoyed reading maya Angelou’s- I know why the caged bird sings, you’ll enjoy this.

Sympathy by Paul Laurence Dunbar
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals–
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting–
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,–
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings–
I know why the caged bird sings!

M- memories of past

M- memories of past

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Lets rewind to
Say- 150 years ago,
When my people’s
Wrists and feet,
Glinted of iron sheet,
Under a scorching 45 degrees.

When the sea,
Was a place of terror,
And the shore- a land
Of no return.

When rulers, entrusted
With the right to rule,
Gave it all away-
For miniature return.
Like the lives
Of their men, was nothing-
Nothing but mere goods
To be traded,
Used and abused.

Until the tables turned,
Patience and resilience
Paid off.
Tears and sweat,
Blood and death-
Accumulated a victory.

That-
Is the history of my people
Your people.
Ingrained in their bone,
A will to not give up.
So don’t you give up.

Two weeks of the A-Z challenge done, two more to go. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to reply to all of your comments, it’s been a busy few days, but will Get to them. Thanks and have a lovely week ahead. ❤❤

H- Hope (took my hand)

H- Hope (took my hand)

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Hope took my hand
And said-
Let’s walk a while,
At first I was unsure.

It subtly webbed,
Our fingers-
I couldn’t, them, retract.

With the sound of just,
My heart thumps-
We walked for miles at length.

I tried to slip,
It held me back;
Without making a sound.

Hope took my hand,
Whilst despair,
Was wrapped around my arms.

It gently made
It’s way until,
Despair could not abound.

Hope took my hand,
We walked a while,
And that’s made all the difference.

D- Dylan Thomas

D- Dylan Thomas

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It’s writer’s quote/ Poem Wednesday again. In correlation with the A-Z challenge going on, I chose to share a quote and poem by a writer whose name begins with letter D and that person is Dylan Thomas. Below is one of the most popular poems of his.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

This is a scheduled post. I am away at the moment; take care and happy reading .

A- April revival

A- April revival

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The first time we spoke
Was April,
The day you were born,
Was in April,
The last time we spoke,
Was March,
The day I was born,
Was in March.

My Lord- He kept giving
Signs,
It was over before
It began,
But I clutched on to ropes,
Walking blind,
For he, who was
Never mine.

And I spiralled,
And I crashed,
And I burned,
It was March.

And my Lord,
With his infinite mercy,
Picked me up,
Despite my rebellion.

It Is April,
And spring has arrived,
With His mercy,
healing my cracks,
The one, who’s got my back-

Always.


Surprise! I figured ehh, it’d be nice to try the April A-Z challenge once again this year, to make up for my embarrassing unofficial quitting at letter D last year. (Hopefully this year I’ll fare better.) what to expect? I haven’t chosen a theme, but most probably, poetry and prose from letter A-Z. Let’s see how far I can go this year. Here is my last year’s post for letter A: Absolute Day

Writing because-

Writing because-

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“It’s not just the writing”, she said,
It’s the looking back at a formerly white page, now transformed into a confluence of rugged slanting black ink. Words, which were formerly a jumble in your head. And you stare at the piece of paper, wondering who on Earth could possible read that, jumble.
You crumble it up, dumping it at the back of your room, the back of your thoughts until…

yes, until, someday. Days, months, maybe even years. You find that crumbled piece of paper you had denounced into rubbish. A forgotten piece of work. Your eyes move across the page, word after word, line after line and everything you ever wrote down is exactly what you need to hear at the moment. And the words you had once upon a time sought refuge with cannot contain the bucket of emotion brewing up within you. What you once thought was rubbish, looks like a masterpiece. How time changes everything.

——“nothing is ever wasted”, she said, “so write today, not just for the present, because not everyone will appreciate it, but because someday, those same words might be exactly what you’d need to hear”.