 The winner of May Giveaway is Priscilla Ajayi This giveaway is courtesy of SprinNG and Roving Heights Bookstore.
Instruction: Read the publications on the SprinNG website for the month and write a comment on 2 or more of the publications. Add your name and email address when filling in the comment box (email addresses will not be made public). We encourage that your comment meets at least 2 of these goals: 1. Invite another reader into the world of beauty you have seen in a work. 2. Provide a very brief summary of what you read. 3. Give your interpretation/perspective of what has been written. 4. Provide suggestions for improvement. The SprinNG team will evaluate the comments and select the winner of the bookstore gift card at the end of the month. Comment on the poems, book reviews, articles, interviews, and guest posts.
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By Ayoade Olamide  How did this land become deafened to the calls of blissfulness?
It's been long I saw a butterfly flutter freely in the wind. Are caterpillars now morphing into wingless cripples? or have they grown too heavy to be pedaled on the wind's wheels? —All these questions have I taken into my skin, but the dermis remains a layer metaphoring a blank answer sheet, so how do I direct my prayers to God without becoming a stray bullet? By Njikonye Charles  isn't terrorism truly as senseless as rape?
a flash of bulletproof vests & body thronged spaces slaps my mind, & my thoughts eject themselves like cassettes; an Afghanistan fellow bearing the same pair of kidneys as me, same December count on earth as me—crumble into tomb songs at the lodging of two bullets in his body. one bullet crafts a tent from his heart skins & fattens, soaking his young blood. the other hollows his cerebrum, punctures his memories, & it oozes onto his blood-reddened earth, making faded nostalgic holograms of which he folds a paper into an aeroplane, & frees it to float the air. this boy wanted to be a pilot. now, his soul will he pilot into the jaws of By Wisdom Adediji  Where I come from, the night is a stage clustered with dead songs,
songs beheld with broken tongues, with palms reeking of grief, palms trying to grasp what fate wouldn't drop, chasing after a hopeless rainbow, longing for rain like the roots of a thirsty tree, like the face of flowers congested with sunlight, like the hope of kids waiting to By Mary Ini Okaka  In the days leading up to what felt like my death, the dreams came. They were weird and painfully slow with a tired Jew’s gait. They sat heavily like a pregnant woman on my confused memory when I woke up, and they would linger around, tasting like breakfast the morning after a hangover.
There was a creepy consistency to them too. In many of them, I was running. Sometimes from strange animals with wicked eyes, sometimes from men with sticks, and sometimes from myself… In all of them, I was unhappy. It must have been the weather. In the days leading up to that misbegotten day, the clouds fled, and the Sun reigned alone, shining fiercely through the little high window, ruthless and constantly in a bad mood. By Ayiyi Joel  After the war
we tend to our wounds/scars The scars of loss & drowning Of memory, of the memory of all the noise Of all the blood/crimson wetting the soil. After we slept in camps. All we are left with as inheritance is memories Burning/pictures of things we gave up/ Of people who left with the war. |