The poem speaks truth
‘When young boys go missing was a poem that so many voters, many of whom are based in Nigeria, found relatable and relevant, found it showed a ‘truth’ that many of us in the global north are just barely conscious of, and it is for these reasons and more that Abu Ibrahim’s ‘deeply moving’ poem is the IS&T Pick of the Month for July 2024.
Abu Ibrahim is a Nigerian poet. His debut poetry album Music Has Failed Us was considered for a nomination at the 2022 Grammy Awards. He has also been published in literary houses in Nigeria, the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, and more.
When young boys go missing
When young boys go missing,
the neighbourhood rallies a search party.
We panic like a bomb’s ticking
against time. Our fears, ripen to a
burst, we scamper through streets,
cells & prisons holding tightly to the
hem of a flickering hope. Then,
we make a final stop at the morgue.
The icy walk through a crowd of
cadavers is met with a prayer – here,
may we not find that which we seek.
Voters’ comments included:
Thought provoking and emotionally gripping, especially during this time in our country (Nigeria), where lots of young men are taken by the police for crimes they didn’t commit, and we never hear from again
I want to vote for this poem because it resonated with me on a deep level. The language, imagery, and themes spoke directly to my heart and mind. The poem’s unique voice, style, and message stood out to me, and I appreciate the poet’s skillful crafting. By voting for this poem, I want to recognize and celebrate its beauty, impact, and contribution to the literary landscape. I believe it deserves more visibility and recognition, and I’m excited to support it.
It’s a beautiful poem that speaks about the fear of looking for a loved one. It resonate to me very well because I have been in that situation before.
It captures what’s happening in our society
It’s brilliant. Don’t you see?
The reality of the Nigerian people is properly encapsulated in this piece. The cold fear that grips the heart of every parent when children do not return to the safety of their homes.
Intelligently put together and has so much depth, well done
The imagery speaks volumes of the poet’s artistry. Abu Ibrahim’s poem is quite appealing and very much socially relevant
The poet, Abu Ibrahim, uses unconventional style in addressing salient issues that affect our communities today. The work of art, ‘when young boys go missing’ is another exceptional one. Captivating the mind and piercing the soul with lucid words and delivery. It’s definitely an award winning poetry.
It is a powerful commentary evoking vivid imagery. Is it simply Poetry.
The poem’s pulse, ruptured by its final line, plants within the reader pure contradiction, which in my opinion is the goal of true poetry.
It was such an amazing read… and it hits home
It resonates with me on a personal level. I also think it’s a brilliant piece.
The poem feels so warm
The poem is a replica of my reality
It’s riveting and layered with palpable emotion
I’m a Nigerian and this poem hits home
Abu Ibrahim is a very talented poet, and the poem ‘when young boys go missing’ dives into some of the hurdles that are faced in the society and how fear and hope has shaped the society into what it is and I recommend him for the choice of words as it throws a lot of light into the message.
It is quick and full in the way it captures the urgency of the unrest holding our world captive.
It is unique and it goes without saying, IB is a unique writer. The end had my heart.
I love the simplicity of the poem
Clear writing and poignant poem
He’s a world class talent. You never feel like an observer with his writing. Somehow you occupy his poems and even become his characters.
This resonates, as less attention often being paid to the struggles of the men generally. So in hopes that we do better as a society is why I vote for this poem which stands as a wakeup call.
This gets my vote because of its importance in highlighting real life situations of young boys and girls in the country which is also a way of awareness and topics like this and rarely discussed so I really appreciate the author for this and this is my way of showing appreciation
*********
THE REST OF THE JULY 2024 PICK OF THE MONTH SHORTLIST
Property 26-2-24
After West Bank settlement marketing event… in New Jersey.
Some old masters may have operated in good faith:
unclear how they made their riches. Financial
reports, always came back black, boxes
of darker bodies conjuring profit. All that mattered
was master’s name on their deeds. Always thankful
for God’s favour, today we go to market on a bema –
elevated to deconsecrated auction
block. Interest rate rises in the West Bank
far outstrip the real cost. Large settlements
emerge from reclaimed impunity, no messiah to over-
turn the tables. Beneath masters feet
there creeps a thin fault line between feeling
owned, and completely powerless. In this
rubble-stamped world, we choose to care
less, as does the earth, apparently unwilling
to open up. Perhaps the decision is made – through us;
are we not all flesh and blood, born of earth?
Is it not the earth to where all our dust will again settle?
Yet, everywhere I survey, you proudly convey a mother-
less child, a long way from home.
I worry you could persuade me to believe:
your heart is still, and made of metal.
Curtis Brown is a poet, and multi-disciplinary artist based in London, UK. His poetry has been published in several journals, and anthologies; and his poetry films shown in several international film festivals. Curtis can often be found growing in green spaces.
*
Domesticated Animals
I pat its head until its face starts to flatten. Its body meets the floor, legs buckle under the weight of my enthusiasm, then groans out a kind of exhaling sound and attempts to inch itself away. ‘Don’t go,’ I tell it and drag it back. I pat it vigorously. Surprising how thin these things are when you discount the fur. Mostly Bone. It makes its guttural cry again. Low pitched, sad, shows its teeth at me. Melancholic animals are the best. Wonder what its cry is called, like you know, the right word for it? Meow for cats. Bark for dogs, obviously. Shrucken? It sounds more like a skeet, a skeeten, or something like that. Anyway, wild animals aren’t usually this submissive. It’s nice when they take it, when they take what humans want to do with them. I like that about animals. The domestic ones typically know their place, but this one is good too. I pat its head again, its ears go pointy and backwards. The fur on its back lifts and ripples like observing ocean waves from a distant vantage point. I think this is making me feel better. I should do more of this kind of thing. The animal made a few groans to begin with, which were cute. Made me go at him more vigorously. Its mouth is open. Teeth bare. It wanted me to continue. It had enjoyed the force on my clenched fist on its back, being pushed to the ground, being made all safe and looked after, but at this point I had gotten what I needed. Thanks. Time to head off. It groans again, makes me feel good about myself again. It’s bigger than I first realised. Quite a lot bigger. Maybe the same size as me, weirdly. Or even bigger. That mouth is quite large, actually. I can make out three rows of pointy teeth. Like a collection of knives from an orderly maniac. Nice. I huff out all the air of its lungs as I push it down to the ground again. I like doing that. Oh, it has claws. That’s cute. I push it down again, although this time it pushes back, then turns to look at me. Lovely face, it’s got. It growls again, shows me its teeth. I wonder when was the last time it ate? Maybe I can spare some of my sandwich. Sweet thing. I love having a positive effect. Standing up, I take a step away to head home, but it catches my leg with its claw. Stings a little, but of course it doesn’t mean me harm. Obviously wants me to stay. How sweet. Although, it has managed to break my skin. I doubt it realises it’s hurting me. It makes that noise again, that shrunken or something like that, then pulls me back towards it. Lots of teeth, it’s got, actually.
Tom Cardew is a writer and visual artist, having published inLumpen Journal, Hack Publishing Vol 1 and Vol 2, Kajet Journal and in a 2023 Freelands Foundation Publication titled Unchorus. Website: https://www.tomcardew.co.uk/
*
Rite
Maud Gonne’s grief at the death of her son led her to attempt to conceive another in the child’s tomb.
Mausoleum. She puts her tongue
against the word. Thinks maudlin.
Thinks museum. Thinks her Georges,
as darling as a Degas bronze,
his little shoulders quite thrown back.
There is as much darkness
as she wished for. As much moon.
Sometimes it pays to be this tall.
She has to stoop to enter –
thinks pharaoh. Womb.
When she sits, it is on marble.
The smell is of the potting shed –
an old fur coat… She should have brought
a coat. They will not speak.
There is no spell but each long thigh,
her raking hands, her vixen call –
but all of that comes later.
Now, she shuts her eyes on lichen,
parts her lips and rests a palm
on all the letters of her favourite name.
Rachel Curzon‘s debut pamphlet was published under the Faber New Poets scheme. More recently, she has had work published in Ink Sweat & Tears, Magma and Propel Magazine. She lives in Yorkshire.
*
The Crofton Road home team play football with the moon
They have no kit to speak of but compensate
with unshakeable belief they’ll ace the cup.
With this in mind, they’ve got
young Sharkey Thompson up in goal.
Starts well. McGarry heads a blinder,
slips – a fatal strain. Back to the bench.
By four a.m. the lads from Brackley Close
have thrashed them seven/three.
They amble back chewing their lips,
scuffing the kerb. They was robbed.
They lob the moon behind the shed,
go indoors with no goodnight.
Next time they’ll get the win. Tomorrow
they’ll make a beachball of the sun.
Hilary Hares’ (@thepoetlobsterate) poems appear widely online and in print. She has also achieved success in various competitions. Her pamphlets: A Butterfly Lands on the Moon, Red Queen, and Mr Yamada Cooks Lunch for Twenty Three are available through: www.hilaryhares.com
*
On the Ward
No place to put a man
and hope he’ll stay together.
The sensible nouns are already exiting the side door.
They know things are not right:
that a phone charger is not a walnut,
that a six-bed ward is not a graveyard.
Poor sort of billet this,
full of idlers and time wasters
sleeping in the wrong bunks:
they take your words.
An old man limps to the window.
He’s wearing my father’s shoes.
The sooner you get me out
of this two bob joke-shop the better.
The verbs will stick it out for a few more weeks maybe
but nothing’s safe from metaphor
striding down the corridors
to wring what’s left
from a man once innocent of poetry.
Annie Kissack is a teacher, song-writer and performer from the Isle of Man. In 2018 she became the Fifth Manx Bard. Her first collection, Mona Sings (2022), reflects her interest in the stories, landscape and languages of her native island.