Uche Nduka

Nduka, one of the leading voices among the new African poets, has recently moved to New York, in the United States, from Bremen, Germany, where he lived for many years, publishing and performing most of his six volumes of poetry. These include Flower Child (1988), Second Act (1994), The Bremen Poems (1995), Chiaroscuro (1997) (winner of the Association of Nigerian Authors Poetry Prize), If Only the Night (2002), Heart’s Field (2005) and eel on reef (2007). Nduka has also published Belltime Letters (2000), a book of commentaries and whimsical meditations in prose.

Unrubberized

the burning soil has not secured our servitude.aint this a hoot.the wind and i tussle to get to you.to get to you.to kiss you first.to kiss you first.keen to reach seeds and deeds,both siegemaker and dreamringer must answer to redemption’s summon.towards a newer kitsch,a raw song teaches that never to get to absolutist point is the appreciative point of aphoristic flavour.take note,wanton.the river is an open letter now.the sky is reading it.a taunter’s self-mockery may not improve anything.listen:it’s still a slim Saturday.aint this a hoot.there is a dexterous diamond that will illuminate an unrubberized maverick.a watershow will take place in a Headshop.musicked stories will calibrate their functions.they shall roll:the ten-toned wheels of a satined tenor. Listen:i can’t speak.when i open my mouth what comes out is colour.i can’t read.when i open the pages of a novel i see only sketches and drawings.not to escape but how to face second-hand people is what i want to learn.my bedroom rules my house.my bed rules my bedroom.in bed i whoosh and advance on a sopranoblond.to which country have her charms sent me?i am not worried about finding out she doesn’t shave and doesn’t bathe.i am not scared of discovering a tea-stained gash in her skin.or knowing she feels tomorrow’s shoes on the feet of today.or knowing she sees the eyes of a fuzz box.now near,now far,she does shine on the slope of day.she leaves billboards behind.leaves hula hoops, tramlines,buses behind.murals point her to the direction of the only life they know.she goes in that direction.is her move an aspiration for satisfaction?and which places have i gone inside of her?we won’t halt the southbound echoplex of megasex.we can spread our legs and stretch our tongues.our brazier has never dulled to a cold lingo.

Counterfactual

at the Soul's Sulphur Springs,i took photographs.when i went into a darkroom to develop them,the negatives went into a coma and never woke up.say something.break out.break out from twisting your grunts around a bus stop.i throw way salute o.man no die,man no rotten.you may prostrate before those vengeful elders but don't do it on my mat.not even between clauses and golden pots.you may be a cut above your aimless handlers.it is hard to tell whether you deserve a bigger stage or a cave.you claim you can rout a hormonal ambush.you claim you can swallow a flood.indeed you may.along the way,it is likely you will give birth to a bamboo.not to mention your plan for buttering up your neighbour--the thirtysomething snob,the humourless householder.your counterfactual expeditions come in instalments.don't they?a life dribbling past a dream is not all we can see.a guitar wearing a night gown in a house of orange is not all we can spotlight.your heroes don't want to stay carved in bronze.your recipes for higher social consciousness don't want to stay written on lined pages.blindfolds,foot-locks,manacles:did they disappear within the boundaries of a glorified State?you wrote a book of rebuke for the country of your pains.remember?don't knock your blessings.count them.i am cooking for you and i will take you to the cinema afterwards. it's time to re-model me and you are the one chosen to do it.the one to massage my mind back to a bootylicious elation.your dogs are still attacking my ankles and am still arguing for a threatened Republic.a crotch full of bees.you may train your slingshot on a short but stained silence.a wild silence.is it a put-on or are you as mercurial as the sidewalk coos?your slow graph rises;you fish for insights hiding under green stones.