Lord of Harvest

When I trod round these long green hairs
They neither hid nor exposed your things for jam
Cutlass and hoe are fame of old
Submit me my file to a dairy home
The blistered ball-breasts swing to meet the sky
And the bearers threaten with war their rights –
An allocation for their monopoly breasts
Otherwise the hanging rains of BIAFRA fall!
Now like a scorched orange gradually the breasts shrink
Yet our freezers reveal us a parody of milk-maids
If pride let us our cutlass and hoe
Lord of harvest!
Will harvest still be as fat as long ago?

Gbenga Ogunleye

About Ijagun Poetry Journal

Ijagun Poetry Journal is a quarterly journal that provides a platform from which we can tell our own stories in the authenticity of their multiplicity through the poetic medium. We don’t want to hear these stories from our master “griots” alone; we want to hear from those mastering their art, too. Hence, we aim at publishing new and emerging poets. We also welcome the works of established poets in order to encourage the poetic genius of those mastering poetic art. We prize original works that conform to, break or reinvent conventions. Again, we accept reviews and critical essays on poetry. We also accept powerful art works and photographs that make us appreciate the "poetry" in everything.
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