Victor Okey Nwatu

Victor Okey Nwatu Poems

How it all started, we all know.
‘cos it did draw emotions, and rightly so.
Emotions at both extremes of the joy divide
that threatened our well-knit class to divide.

No idea is original;
but let the copying be minimal.
It’s better if the copying is marginal.
‘Cos complete dubbing is criminal.

If there’s anything I’ve missed a lot;
It’s mostly one thing – being me.
To stare at the stars, I’ve missed a lot.
Same with being at peace with the calm sea.

The posers that I skillfully side-stepped, dodged,
did the unimaginable, the uncommonly unthinkable.
Kicked me in the shin, rattled me and I budged.
I thought I was at my imperious best, unassailable,

About three heartbeats ago,
from a geologic time view point,
we traced our steps to how the earth did grow,
gulping every story though some appear disjoint.

Through a route that's the same
You and I both came.
But, chronology was not the same,
A dozen moons made it not to be same.

I've done it a hundred times.
Why is this so different?
I've cooked over five thousand rhymes.
Was it not in-born, inherent?

Hours gone by, iris still at full bore
And for most nights, have been at bean size 72/64
Records broken, prizes delivered,
Whole body system, not looking bad


Rain. Oh! Sweet rain.
Fall with your peculiar freshness.
Fall to ease our pains.
If possible, walk away with our weariness.

It sometimes was gloomy and dark,
It had rains and storms and thunders,
It also had sunlight in-between the lightening spark,
In sequence, sunlight rays and rainfall showers.

I would always remember FESTLAJID, the Prof.
Meticulously methodic when Process Engineering gets tough,
attacks the simulation with a bullish zest,
and emerges with a familiar grin, no beating of chest.

It's been seven days gone
Since I left where I called home,
to a land that I really don't know.
Name of the journey, tactical roam.

When oil and water suddenly mix;
and regeneration power deserts the phoenix.
When fresh water resides in the Dead Sea;
and honey comes from another, not the bee.

I’m at it again; encore, again.
Still me and my always cagey confessions;
Still constantly bountiful, like July rain;
Still an admix of countless emotions.

Were it not for broads, I would rarely confess
‘cos it’s when love turns sour, and I’m in distress
that I unlock the floodgates of my creative power,
and lines I churn out, from love turned sour.

It’s been long: three months, or maybe more
Since I had dropped any form of poetic lines.
Vicissitudes has tossed at me some cold slur
Constrained my poetic side to the sidelines.

Victor Okey Nwatu Biography

Born in the town of Enugu, Nigeria. Victor Okey grew up studying engineering, but with a mind for poetry and an ear for music. That culminated in his writing poems and reading established poets. At present, he writes poetry during his spare time (in addition to working on his novels) while he does his engineering job as his 9 to 5.)

The Best Poem Of Victor Okey Nwatu

The Long Wait

How it all started, we all know.
‘cos it did draw emotions, and rightly so.
Emotions at both extremes of the joy divide
that threatened our well-knit class to divide.
But, time has, all emotions, vapourised.
And left us more united; our unity un-terrorised.

But before that, it did place a barrier
between us and our beloved chosen career.
Eleven souls were seriously tempted to say,
“we’ve made it, it all went our way.”
And the other nine had the temptation of saying,
“we’ve lost out; our time we’ve been just slaying.”

To say this, I’ve got to be bold –
All that glittered wasn’t pure gold.
‘cos the eleven that thought they’ve made it
saw that theirs wasn’t an instant hit.
They had to tarry for number of months, seven
Before names were reeled out; they were seven.

Of the seven names first rolled out;
two were picked up and flown out.
And like the pendulum, went to-and-fro Seoul.
Where they toiled and were toiled for, body and soul.
And it was waiting game for the other four;
who, as days rolled, almost became the poor four.

Then a name popped out as a call came through.
And it was the one with first name, first letter U.
Her call was a casing, cement, a taut rope
to the caving formation of the three soul’s hope.
For them, theirs was around the corner.
So, their resumption crawled back to the front burner.

But, the enthusiasm ebbed after it got to peak
for it wasn’t matched by Baba T’s crew, so to speak.
‘cos the call never came around in a matter of days.
It appeared in after many months and many days.
When it came, it was just one out of the three.
Which wasn’t Ishan’s finest, wasn’t me.

Four months’ calls almost made Baba T’s fone a wreck;
And for that, all hands were on deck.
All including the good ole Grace,
Were conscripted, dragged along at our pace.
Till on a reçu un appel of joy
That made Faffy a don from a poor boy.

It still remained Okoduwa and I
left literally out in the cold; maybe, high and dry.
But we formed an alliance; a common front
and Baba T’s fone did bear the brunt.
It was called with a constant frequentation.
In its being called, there was no hesitation.

It took about a month’s time tick,
for everything to finally click.
And the files swimming since July
made it home, not submerged, still dry.
The awaited call then came through
and I now have a job like y’all do.

How was the Baba T henpecking experience?
What really did we experience?
Did we like by other – on life support?
Or did we make it on our own, no support?
These and other questions, I won’t answer.
They are addressed in the poem How I got over.

For putting up with my poems, you’re all kind.
I promise this’ll be the last of its kind.
No more invasion of your private city.
No more free poems; no more free publicity.
From now till March, there’ll be silence.
Just wait for my book of poems – Poetic Licence.

(Oct 2010)

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