Muse Guide

ORGANIZATION OF LOOTING ELDERS - (OLE)

A youth thief in Nigeria can only steal in thousands; the highest any have ever stolen were in few millions. However, when caught, the justice system grew big horns or better still, they were televised to an open shame, shot dead without due process, never to see the light of yet another day.<br />
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Things are not the same as they were before; At old age, a time to reflect on past activities and carefully close any gap for posterity sake, this was the usual. Unfortunately, many of our so-called elders have refuse to do the needful instead they have betrayed us and stolen our commonwealth for self alone: they (elders) have so buried their conscience in the graves where they were suppose to rest in peace and have refused to die because of the alarming wealth in possession.<br />
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Sadly, even when they are arrested for a crime, they are always tried in a stage-managed Court Of Law where they are sentenced to serve a jail term in a home away from home; and on their release they are celebrated like Kings, a true Role Model.<br />
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It is a shame, a big shame that the monies meant for the procurement of arms to fight the insurgency that has suddenly plagued our dear nation like cancer, was so graciously shared by some shameless idiots called elders under the watchful eye of the so-called "Hero of Peace".<br />
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Meanwhile, they (Organization of Looting Elders - OLE) watched a vibrant Army loose their moral while others met their untimely waterloo and the vast majority termed "Cowards" for fleeing the front-lines. Nevertheless, these old fools lived in exotic luxury, daily dividing the nation into factions of political genocide.<br />
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Our infrastructures are in total decay. All sectors of the nation have nothing to write home about. I could go on and on to tell of these fools and their evil deeds. My earnest prayer is for them all to pay for the gruesome sins they committed against the good people of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.<br />
So I pray, Amen!<br />
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#GodsonOsarenrensArtandLiterature<br />
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ORGANIZATION OF LOOTING ELDERS - (OLE)

A youth thief in Nigeria can only steal in thousands; the highest any have ever stolen were in few millions. However, when caught, the justi...

Poets corner entry; THE BOOK OF LOVE

Gently, I opened the soft pages of this magical book<div>
It swept me off my feet while I read of no defeats.</div>
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The first pages I flipped for a good read made my brave heart skip like a disc.</div>
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Like rain drops, I fell</div>
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But the spell in the written words revived my rise and shine</div>
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And like the written words so was I.</div>
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Reading through the leading lines, I walked not in blindness but in happiness and kindness to all.</div>
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The warmth of love filled my ever thirsty soul to peace</div>
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Could this be love?</div>
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So much of it showered on me that I became so wet in glorious splendor.</div>
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The last pages of this special book of mine,</div>
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Made me understand that love lives forever no matter how hurt I may have been,</div>
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So continued and started to read all over again! </div>
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#GodsonOsarenrensArtandLiterature</div>
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Poets corner entry; THE BOOK OF LOVE

Gently, I opened the soft pages of this magical book It swept me off my feet while I read of no defeats. The first pages I flipped for a ...

poets corner entry; LAMENTATIONS

Big cars no fuel<div>
People trekking</div>
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No food, no roofs, no jobs!</div>
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Smiles on only a few</div>
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And the vast multitude, no smiles at all!</div>
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The Naira is voiceless, daily lacking erection to perform.</div>
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Where do we go from here?</div>
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Is this the change we sought?</div>
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For the liquid gold we queue to be cheated</div>
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How long shall we continue in chains of promises?</div>
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The doctor that doctored was a quack.</div>
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Tell me, how a goat who ate our yams suddenly becomes our hero?</div>
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No, not the Police alone should go, all of us should!</div>
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I hope this change will change the change?</div>
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Quite confused, I am fused with deceit, so are all of you!</div>
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Where is the rule of law, the hope for our tomorrow?</div>
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I search to find under the boots of the old soldier!</div>
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#GodsonOsarenrensArtandLiterature</div>
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poets corner entry; LAMENTATIONS

Big cars no fuel People trekking No food, no roofs, no jobs! Smiles on only a few And the vast multitude, no smiles at all! The Nai...

Poets corner entry; In my youngest childhood by Godson osarenhen

In my youngest childhood<div>
How my mum for a suck was my best friend!</div>
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In her absence did I play with sand and even ate them like rice.</div>
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<br></div>
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In my youngest childhood</div>
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Did I act as Papa and my neighbor, "my dearly beloved"; Mama!</div>
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How we had children and stole our first kisses from hiding and seeking.</div>
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In my youngest childhood</div>
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How my bed always rained wet drops!</div>
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And my right finger like Mama's breast, I sucked!</div>
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The wipe was not my friend and to her woes my mouth opened out loud to weep.</div>
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In my youngest childhood</div>
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Listening to the tales by moonlight was fun</div>
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How reading and writing was such a bore!</div>
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Christmas brought in new clothes to wear and a special kind of rice to chew</div>
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Father Christmas was better than Santa, how I never wanted to see him alone!</div>
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In my youngest childhood</div>
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I told no lie, as my innocence always unveiled with no secrets.</div>
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How I wished for adulthood!</div>
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How my wish came true!</div>
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How I wish no more in my youngest old age!  </div><div><br></div>
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#GodsonOsarenrensArtandLiterature</div>
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Poets corner entry; In my youngest childhood by Godson osarenhen

In my youngest childhood How my mum for a suck was my best friend! In her absence did I play with sand and even ate them like rice. I...

AFTER A CONTAMINATED HANDSHAKE, WHAT IS POETRY?

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I will never cease to say that poetry is an emotional outburst of deep lingering emotions carefully painted with words that never ends. These esthetic words often used by a poet shows the beauty, the wealth and the depth of the mind; an astonishing reality of our society. </div>
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It is no news that we Africans are products of our emotions; this is so evident in our thought process and mannerism, just like the colour of our skin- BLACK. Thus, I am not wrong to say, Africa is the home of poetry.</div>
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These unreserved emotional expressions are richly interpreted by our cultures and traditions- "the teacher far greater than that of the classroom system". It is the awakening of the conscious mind, the identification of self and the expression of an inner golden thought familiar to many but garnished and rendered in poetic forms.</div>
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This form of art culturally mastered in the home of poetry (Africa) brings out the rhythm, the flavour, the tears, the joy, the fighting spirit, the hope for survival, the morals, the spirituality and the search for the unknown.</div>
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However, the reverend lifestyle of the African continent was rudely interrupted by the advent of the Europeans into our tribes, kingdoms and empires in the early 1500's. The contaminated handshake gripping firmly the hands of the African continent was a systematic transmission of a strange lifestyle forced down our throat from the days of slavery up until the colonial era in the 20th Century.</div>
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The contaminated handshake, a disease from the West was a total replacement of our norms and beliefs, language, religion, politics, education and socio-economic lifestyle; this disease of over-familiarity abruptly influenced and watered the depth of the African mind.</div>
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"THE INTRUDERS!</div>
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We are the children of noble birth, </div>
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Offspring's an ancestral carriage, ageless pearls!</div>
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Once upon a time, we lived in towns that later grew into an elephantine empire.</div>
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The Oba remains Oba</div>
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Spiritual, philosophical and a sole administrator of all, </div>
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With a well organized hierarchy of warlords, councilors, diviners, chiefs and town criers.</div>
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Ogiso gha to kpere,</div>
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Ise!</div>
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Oba gha to kpere,</div>
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Ise!</div>
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In the said "Dark Continent"</div>
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Was a light</div>
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The beginning of creation.</div>
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Great civilization blessed with precious stones and cultural ethics.</div>
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How they marveled at the realization of our peculiar existence, a civilized nation.</div>
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They wanted to see, they wanted to see!</div>
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Soon came colonial expansion, a meeting held right in the German parlor.</div>
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Exploration began!</div>
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With die-hard miners mining! </div>
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Mining the essence of our pride, our manhood.</div>
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Oba gha to kpere,</div>
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Ise!</div>
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Our gracious existence was first sniffed at by the Portuguese, the dogs from the West;</div>
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These gods had no toes but deceit as a skill to trade. </div>
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Oh yes! Business is good when there are returns and turn overs.</div>
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So were my fathers for so long a tool, their fool.</div>
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Coming and Going </div>
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The intruders march past our tribes, kingdoms and empires,</div>
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With several gadgets of multiple deception:</div>
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Through the missionaries, the opium, the brain wash!</div>
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Educating our minds with "JUNKS NO LOGIC" (Technology).</div>
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Enslaving our true existence, </div>
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Sadly a bleak existence our present tenses.</div>
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Coming and Going</div>
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More from us and more virus in us,</div>
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An injection of white blood cells; A.S! S.S!</div>
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How our immune for survival is totally dependent on them, The New Age!</div>
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Finally in 1897,</div>
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The beast in them out ran our moats and warriors,</div>
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With a different kind of arrow unknown to us, they unleashed.</div>
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Ewo!</div>
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Unheard abomination!</div>
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My sacred Oba was exiled to Calabar to eat Afang soup with the Effiong's,</div>
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While the white oppressor crowned himself, The Oba of Benin!</div>
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Oba gha to kpere, </div>
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Ise!</div>
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The Oba remains Oba;</div>
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Though a diluted juice, more or less a punctured tyre of our ancestral carriage.</div>
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Yes, we remain proud in the nobility of our Oba!</div>
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Where is Queen Idia, the mother of our city? </div>
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She is still starched up with the Queen who lives in "Bulky Harm"</div>
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When shall I see my home, her endless cry out loud!</div>
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But the Queen is too deaf listen in Edo.</div>
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The new age is our robotic future </div>
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A colonial vulture feeding on our decayed culture,</div>
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An era were ogun and other wise gods are seen as dirt, motionless and speechless.</div>
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And the Holy Church, a holy matrimony of the same; pro-creating test-tube babies!</div>
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Tufiakwa! </div>
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Children of Erediawa, Shine your eyes!</div>
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The intruders are rude perverts exposing our private parts to a naked shame, </div>
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Sweetest Taboo!</div>
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And they won't give up not until the Ivory continent is an exact photocopy of their wet dreams.</div>
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I guess those days so brainwashed as blind were better of to see,</div>
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An era of wise gods, hard work and a good moral standing.</div>
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Take me back!</div>
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I want to go back!"  </div>
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I know many might disagree with these claims that the contaminated handshake was rather a light to the African continent. Tell me, how will you feel when I claim to give you what you already have?</div>
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As African poets and writers, we are the most fortunate in the globe. First, we have the tool of an enforced language due to colonialism and that our cultural tongue, our mother tongue. These languages (foreign and local), a tool for the expression of our thoughts increases the depth and wealth of our literary works and these literary prowess have been noticed in the past decades.</div>
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"MY WHITE PRIVILEGES.</div>
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By birth I was privileged to be human like any other</div>
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And of the African sunshine I daily rise at dawn.</div>
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My colour for so long have been looked down upon and classed;</div>
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Meanwhile, we all are students of vanity,</div>
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With the supreme being; our teacher, our maker!</div>
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The privileges of supremacy are deceitfully wrong, unfollow!</div>
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Fashioned to make me less than I am,</div>
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In a world that I was born into like any other.</div>
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Animals claim superiority and domination over others; the lifestyle in the jungle.</div>
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And of the struggle to survive this inhuman act is the black cross;</div>
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Carried from generations to generation with such complex.</div>
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Will this white lie ever stop?</div>
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However, times have changed like the climate!</div>
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Most of all of us could pass for the West</div>
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Except for our skin that is as dark as their heart.</div>
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Now, I have my white privileges even though I am this black in their list.</div>
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It is the language they speak and of it I hear so well,</div>
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With an untamed tongue to tell these wrongs as long as I live."</div>
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Oral literature or Spoken Word Poetry have always been an African art for expressing deep lingering unreserved emotions; however, it was stolen from Africa and re-branded in America and sold back to us as a new form of art (L.I.E.S).</div>
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I get really sick when I read poems done by African poets painting Africa like the West using dictions more sophisticated than that of William Shakespeare; Yes it is poetry but I tell you most frankly, you can’t beat the West in the expression of their mother tongue, it is their art. </div>
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At this point what should be most paramount in our hearts is the local research of our historic facts and the preservation of those cultural heritage that we can still find after a contaminated handshake through poetry.</div>
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Poetry is a veritable tool for expression, so let's speak! We should be seen as 'repping' Africa and not raping Africa- a direct photocopy of the west. We should come up with works that bring back that nostalgic feeling and pride as true Africans.</div>
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"THE AFRICAN FEVER.</div>
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I love the African fever</div>
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And of this I don't want my healing.</div>
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It flows in my veins</div>
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It rains down on me</div>
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Dripping, dropping until I am so cold.</div>
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Even when I catch a cold</div>
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The sun smiles down on me</div>
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To shake off every alien fever.</div>
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At crow up until the moon shows,</div>
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A taboo I dare not break</div>
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As the god's, in wisdom their ever saying mouth.</div>
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The African fever, my endless fever.</div>
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On her stretcher I daily find myself</div>
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As only her oxygen revives me time after time.</div>
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I can no longer hide the her in me and the me in her.</div>
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As we are forever one.</div>
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Her cry in my dreams is deeply heard</div>
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As all of my immortal being cries out MAMA!</div>
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And from her ebony breast I daily suck a higher fever; The Required Immune Conscious Syndrome.</div>
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I know my brothers outside the distant shores do miss, </div>
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Her soup and her song</div>
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Her rights and her wrongs</div>
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Her rise and her fall</div>
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Her fall like the Victoria it falls</div>
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And for her rise the sun will stand.</div>
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The greenness of her green, Herbal!</div>
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The mountains, the valleys and the hills, Spiritual!</div>
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The people and the will, The Fever!</div>
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The rulers and their greed, The rebellion!</div>
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The hunger and the endless waste, Our Failure!</div>
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And on our skin the fever really shows,</div>
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And in our hearts the drum beats survival.</div>
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And with the drums rolling and rumbling in a resounding force</div>
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Another African child just caught the fever at birth."</div>
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I tell you again, the West can never give up their lifestyle to accept our's. Most of all us have ceded over and this has affected our style of writing. Just imagine Ogun eating salad or baked beans, the feeling is Tufiakwa!</div>
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This is a clarion call to all African poets and writers, a call to depth, a call to our cultures and traditions that binds; Africa might go into extinction by 2050 that is to say a direct photocopy of the West if we do not change our ways and do a soul searching. "Be African in thought but global in views and expressions."</div>
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Examples of what I mean;</div>
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“The Calabash, the immortal drunkard</div>
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The only friend to the palm wine</div>
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My ancestors know you as he who drinks sweet wine</div>
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But how much can I tell of you”</div>
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“Gone are those days across the clouds beyond</div>
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When Sango the son of Orayan, the terrible one</div>
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Is called upon and he replies with thunder”</div>
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“The iroko tree my dwelling place no longer stands on her feet</div>
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On her sacred secret peaceful place is planted a big shrine</div>
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Where large smelling mouths shout, Hallelujah</div>
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What a slap on my face!”</div>
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“The reddish muddy sandy land that grows green herbal vegetation.</div>
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The cultural temple of the world second to none</div>
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The children of great warriors whose descent can be traced to the nobility of the Oba</div>
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Oba gha to kpere,</div>
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Ise!”</div>
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In addition, the wealth of our literary works which affects our thought process and writing in general can be resurrected from a foreseen decay, if only we can pride in our culture and relate with the locals- visit our home towns and villages.  </div>
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For more revelations on the Africanism after a contaminated handshake and need to save our continent from extinction through poetry read works done by Leopold Sedar Senghor (The father of Negritude), Davip Diop, Walter Rodney, J.P Clark, Oswald Mitshali, Wole Soyinka; Peter Tosh (Music), Tracy Chapman (Music), The Root (Movie), Twelve Years A Slave etc.</div>
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A lost African child who will find you? Poetry is an oath to depth and we African Poets should find this depth in the relics from a contaminated handshake. </div>
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Thank you for your time!</div>
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Much Love Like Rain. PEACE!</div>
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#‎GodsonOsarenrensArtandLiterature‬</div>
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#GOAL #FridaySpecial #Poetry #Africa #Europe #FOS #UnitedNations #AU #Nigeria</div>
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AFTER A CONTAMINATED HANDSHAKE, WHAT IS POETRY?

I will never cease to say that poetry is an emotional outburst of deep lingering emotions carefully painted with words that never ends. Th...

Poets corner entry: journey-continuum by Abd-afeez Abd-hamid

<p dir="ltr">Journey-continuum</p>
<p dir="ltr">The beginning was a skewed existence, <br>
Whose certainty adheres to a divine pledge. <br>
Life is a journey of mysterious transcend,<br>
Whose lanky soul vibrates an expanse of perplexity. <br>
We've been birthed as a progeny of a supreme purpose. <br>
Our ethos bathed irony in ego's rigours, <br>
And we live in random courses, yet united by strange divine curses. </p>
<p dir="ltr">A cascade into our very consciences, <br>
glimpse irony there in. <br>
Our jaundiced hope lacks rhythm, <br>
As season upon season our luck dances, <br>
Indicative of our very wavery sense of consistency.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Yet, our ignorance whispers to us a faltering confidence,<br>
Hence soars pride, spreading its virulent root across our conscience.<br>
We've been infected with an infestation of overconfidence.<br>
Such weakness that filled us with uncautioned  pretence. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Yet we mount our hopelessness to its very peak, <br>
Only to leap and dive into its eerie atmosphere of redundancy, <br>
Our senses lies milked, a stripped continuum of our wisdom-leprosy. <br>
Virtues light goes bleak, fading slowly into a thinly abyss. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Yet, nothing changes in reality, <br>
Men, plants, animals or things, <br>
It doesn't matter which exists.<br>
Life remains a journey-continuum,<br>
As generations come and go, <br>
They live and they die still, <br>
Nothing changes, life continues,<br>
However, their every legacies, <br>
Every bit of its expanses, <br>
Remains a component of nature's continuum matrix. <br>
And forever their memories<br>
shall exists in the very root of earth's fabrics.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Dedicated to our gone; families, friends, warriors and heroes.</p>
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Poets corner entry: journey-continuum by Abd-afeez Abd-hamid

Journey-continuum The beginning was a skewed existence, Whose certainty adheres to a divine pledge. Life is a journey of mysterious trans...

Poets corner entry: liability company by Bolaji Akinwande

<p dir="ltr">Liability Company</p>
<p dir="ltr">i<br>
On your birthday<br>
I will not laugh<br>
No chocolate<br>
For you!</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
I will frown my face<br>
Like someone killed<br>
With the stench of fart<br>
Your age I count, <br>
nothing, nothing!!</p>
<p dir="ltr">iii<br>
On your sick-bed I longed for<br>
Die! I will spend my last naira<br>
To entomb you and dance<br>
They kiss the shroud like that!</p>
<p dir="ltr">Bolaji Akintola</p>
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Poets corner entry: liability company by Bolaji Akinwande

Liability Company i On your birthday I will not laugh No chocolate For you! ii I will frown my face Like someone killed With the st...

Poets corner: in her eyes by Aremu Adams Adeyemi

<p dir="ltr">IN HER EYES</p>
<p dir="ltr">***********<br>
I'm locked in the jail of her eyes,<br>
behind the barricades -<br>
-those tiny lids under the guise<br>
of radiating shades</p>
<p dir="ltr">•<br>
where sun glisters as twinkling stars<br>
flicker within the shed<br>
arranged in beds and raven bars<br>
like glossy java spread</p>
<p dir="ltr">•<br>
to gleam the darks in universe<br>
her eyes are good enough<br>
as symmetry will reimburse<br>
they shoulder every cuff.</p>
<p dir="ltr">•<br>
They scorch my personality<br>
and blind and bind my heart<br>
and make me sleep in helotry -<br>
-in words that fall apart.</p>
<p dir="ltr">•<br>
This pretty jail I never pray<br>
in any shortened time<br>
to be freed from its caging prey<br>
and in its paradigm.<br>
______________________________</p>
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Poets corner: in her eyes by Aremu Adams Adeyemi

IN HER EYES *********** I'm locked in the jail of her eyes, behind the barricades - -those tiny lids under the guise of radiating s...

Museguide special entry: Hell Goes The Sex....

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09:11:15
.
 Hell go the sex,
(a favour from the Devil)
...
Many a time
the tommy will growl
while so empty 
is the stomach's bowl
.
A man; 
a hungry man 
is an angry man
he's also a violent man
.
somewhat frustrated
and shouldn't be underrated.
Many a guy
ask themselves 'why?'
.
as money afar glares
approachingly seeming scared.
Let's out of unknown, 
create a worldly known
.
and make plenty dough
from there though.
The scary folks
with a weary heart in folds
.
ingressed looming bold
came to our listening road
steal what our lots' told
with their olfactory lobes. 
.
A pledge to rescue
didst fledge the devil 
as we shall overgo sex
the in-thigh muscle won't flex.
.
 Dimwitted ilks, they won't think 
my heart bleaks, my soul blinks
my mind leaks, "be a Rink"
my brain kicks, it makes me jink.
.
My intentions; I shall overturn,
elude my mind's retention, mere fun
ill-soul's abortion, saving a heartburn 
to brain's attention, I shall hence turn 
.
Devious devil cares not a thing,
he may steal from a Thin,
he can still from a Thin
draw blood to his drinking tin
.
A friend was trapped
many gals chased his dick
they want a dip of his stick
inside their pit, wrapped
.
How holy can you fight?
when 'coitus' is the versus, 
Monk so hard, mutton strived
a saint will be hailing Jesus.
.
He tried but failed
sex ways can't be paved
as a compromise to our goals
except for those emasculated folks. 
.
Don't under success guise
invalidly dishonor your honor 
a man will think it t-wise
to prevent forever dolor. 
.
wizard calidad
#BIS</div>
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Museguide special entry: Hell Goes The Sex....

09:11:15 . Hell go the sex, (a favour from the Devil) ... Many a time the tommy will growl while so empty is the stomach's bowl . A m...

Featured profile entry; The legend of Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

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<div dir="ltr">
The legend of Walt Whitman (1819-1892)<br />
..<br />
 Walter "Walt" Whitman was an American poet, essayist and journalist. A humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works.<br />
 He was born on May 31, 1819, at West Hills, long highland, New York, in the United States of America. He was the second of nine children in a family of eleven. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. His work was very controversial in its time, particularly his poetry collection, Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sexuality.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
At the age of twelve, Whitman began to learn the printer's trade, and fell in love with the written word. Largely self-taught, he read voraciously, becoming acquainted with the works of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, and the Bible.<br />
Whitman worked as a printer in New York City until a devastating fire in the printing district demolished the industry.<br />
In 1836, at the age of seventeen, he began his career as teacher in the one-room school houses of Long Island. He continued to teach until 1841, when he turned to journalism as a full-time career.<br />
He founded a weekly newspaper, Long-Islander, and later edited a number of Brooklyn and New York papers. In 1848, Whitman left the Brooklyn Daily Eagle to become editor of the New Orleans Crescent. It was in New Orleans that he experienced firsthand the viciousness of slavery in the slave markets of that city. On his return to Brooklyn in the fall of 1848, he founded a "free soil" newspaper, the Brooklyn Freeman, and continued to develop the unique style of poetry that later so astonished Ralph Waldo Emerson.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
In 1855, Whitman took out a copyright on the first edition of Leaves of Grass, which consisted of twelve untitled poems and a preface. He published the volume himself, and sent a copy to Emerson in July of 1855. Whitman released a<br />
second edition of the book in 1856, containing thirty-three poems, a letter from Emerson praising the first edition, and a long open letter by Whitman in response. During his lifetime, Whitman continued to refine the volume, publishing several more editions of the book. Noted Whitman scholar, M. Jimmie Killingsworth writes that "the 'merge,' as Whitman conceived it, is the tendency of the individual self to overcome moral, psychological, and political boundaries. Thematically and poetically, the notion dominates the three major poems of 1855: 'I Sing the Body Electric,' 'The Sleepers,' and 'Song of Myself,' all of which were 'merged' in the first edition under the single title Leaves of Grass but were demarcated by clear breaks in the text and the repetition of the title."</div>
<div dir="ltr">
At the outbreak of the Civil War, Whitman vowed to live a "purged" and "cleansed" life. He worked as a freelance journalist and visited the wounded at New York City–area hospitals. He then traveled to Washington, D. C. in December 1862 to care for his brother who had been wounded in the war.<br />
Overcome by the suffering of the many wounded in Washington, Whitman decided to stay and work in the hospitals and stayed in the city for eleven years. He took a job as a clerk for the Department of the Interior, which ended when the Secretary of the Interior, James Harlan, discovered that Whitman was the author of Leaves of Grass, which Harlan found offensive. Harlan fired the poet.<br />
Whitman struggled to support himself through most of his life. In Washington, he lived on a clerk's salary and modest royalties, and spent any excess money, including gifts from friends, to buy supplies for the patients he nursed. He had also been sending money to his widowed mother and an invalid brother. From time to time writers both in the states and in England sent him "purses" of money so that he could get by.<br />
In the early 1870s, Whitman settled in Camden, New Jersey, where he had come to visit his dying mother at his brother's house. However, after suffering a stroke, Whitman found it impossible to return to Washington. He stayed with his brother<br />
until the 1882 publication of Leaves of Grass (James R. Osgood) gave Whitman enough money to buy a home in Camden.<br />
In the simple two-story clapboard house, Whitman spent his declining years working on additions and revisions to a new edition of the book and preparing his final volume of poems and prose, Good-Bye, My Fancy (David McKay, 1891). After his death on March 26, 1892, Whitman was buried in a tomb he designed and had built on a lot in Harleigh Cemetery.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Along with Emily Dickinson, he is considered one of America's most important poets.<br />
(Curled from poets.org)<br />
.<br />
wizard calidad <br />
museguide<br />
©2016</div>
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</div>

Featured profile entry; The legend of Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

The legend of Walt Whitman (1819-1892) .. Walter "Walt" Whitman was an American poet, essayist and journalist. A humanist, he...

Writers' news entry: call for submission CBSP

<p dir="ltr">Chrysolite Bi-Monthly Poetry Contest (CBPC 2.0)The Chrysolite Writerz Team is calling for entries for her Bi-Monthly Poetry Contest which will be compiled into AN ANTHOLOGY by the end of 2016.<br>
Submission Guidelines<br>
1. The poems must be the original work of the entrant.<br>
2. Each poem must not exceed 25 lines.3. Entrant should include name, mobile number, facebook user id. and short biography.<br>
4. Entry closes 11:59pm on January 20.5. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Submit ONLY ONE poem (on the theme: THE AFRICAN LEGACY) as BODY OF MAIL to chrysowrite@gmail.com with the SUBJECT of the mail as ‘CBPC002’. No attachment please..The works of the first three poets gets published <a href="http://chrysolitewriterz.wordpress.com/2016/01/02/call-for-submission-cbpc-002/?_e_pi_=7%2CPAGE_ID10%2C6039300417">click here</a> to READ THE <u>REST</u></p>
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Writers' news entry: call for submission CBSP

Chrysolite Bi-Monthly Poetry Contest (CBPC 2.0)The Chrysolite Writerz Team is calling for entries for her Bi-Monthly Poetry Contest which wi...

Scenerymania entry: wits from the dark 5

<p dir="ltr">The recent incidence between Tolu and Jibola had casted doubts about the realisation of the plan that was seemingly on a 100% path to success: it now throttle upon the dirty path of futility. Tolu had called me yesterday night after a long moment of silence. I remember her actual words.<br>
“I really need to see you tomorrow, some serious issues came up.”<br>
I began to wonder what kind of issues could transform Tolu’s voice to that terrible status of being husky. I spent the next couple of hour anticipating what the on knocking lunch hold in stock for me. The time seemed to read my mind as it hastened and lunch time happened sooner than anticipated. It was a sunny afternoon and the cool breeze of the air conditioned room was such a comfort as Tolu and I talked over our lunch. Tolu had been very emotional that afternoon stressing how stunned she was at Jibola’s seriousness so far. My fear was slowly getting affirmed. After her deep story wrapped around convincing me to believe in her reasons for her short comings as regard how initial plans. I had expected Jibola’s attitude to have been her strength. However who would blame a single lady like Tolu if she found sincerity in the company of Jibola? Such company is that she would never throw away with levity. We haven’t exchanged words in over five minutes. I eventually broke the silence.<br>
“The moral of this your whole story is that I should expect no information from you?”<br>
“That is not what I said, however I needed to tell you so that you won’t be disappointed if I held back certain information. I would, like I reiterated, not risk anything that could wreck this dream relationship I found with Jibola. As a friend Dare, you were not able to open up to me as to the reasons why you need such information and I believe we’ve come too longa way for you not to trust me on such issues.”<br>
I was lost for words, it dawned on me that pushing Tolu further might even lead her to opening up to Jibola and the only reason she’s said nothing was simply because of our strong bond of friendship. I also believe she knew breaking such news to Jibola might yet wreck the relationship she tries so to protect. I left her an angry and frustrated man, the whole issue was compounded by the fact office work resumes the next day and I would hence have little time for my quest.I reached work the next day a bit gloomy, I had only spent two minutes in my office when director James called me. I went to his office trying to force as enough spark to my mood as I could. I met him in the middle of a morning tea. He offered me a sit.<br>
“James how was the leave?”<br>
“it was fine sir?”<br>
“I called you to this office because something came up after you left.”<br>
“Hope it wasn’t something terrible sir?”<br>
“It was indeed terrible and sorrowful too.”<br>
“It involves that incidence that happened to you that almost took your life.” I was dazed by that revelation.<br>
“Sir what have you had about that incidence?”<br>
“I used to have a school son and I’ve been wondering about his where bout until I heard he died during that raid on you?”<br>
“I am very sorry about that sir, Oga I don’t suppose your son in law would be a criminal sir, why was he among that gang that night?”<br>
“All I know is Dare is a good man and would never been a true part of the gang, maybe he just ran into trouble?”“Did you say dare sir?”<br>
“Yes, Dare.”I couldn’t believe my ears, how come Dr James knew Dare? <br>
“Mr James, that was the man that saved my life that day,” I said.<br>
To be continued<br>
Check the Scenerymania section for previous entries.<br>
Abd-afeez Abd-hamid</p>
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Scenerymania entry: wits from the dark 5

The recent incidence between Tolu and Jibola had casted doubts about the realisation of the plan that was seemingly on a 100% path to succes...

Industreet vol 1; Ola and jazzy by Yussuf Abddulqoyum

<p dir="ltr">Ola and Jazzy.... <br>
..<br>
Industreet volume 1.<br>
...<br>
"And the award goes to Reekado Banks", atimes, many a time, just a time... Lol, don't mind me.<br>
Seriously, it's a matter worth discussing, the next rated category of Headies award (Nigeria's version of grammy) had everly remained an unvoted one, that is where the corruption starts from, because, telling us that there judgement is better off and more precise than several million Nigerians is uncalled for, especially during this Buhari-led change regime. What are the criterias? The only answer i can profer to this is 'money', probably the category is a aunctioned one, that only the highest bidder can win, because if that's not the case, i don't see Reeky bagging that award.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Two things worsen the case, an alcoholic-rage driven Olamide and an immature statement by a seeming mature Don jazzy. Few months back, they had a smooth relationship that only Ayo at Headies and Hiptv family can make sour over a night. Infact just last month, Olamide was featured in the mavin's queen-bee just released album, 'RED'(Romance Expression & Dance). No one see it approaching.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Furthermore, I on behalf of many others think this rukus was purposely staged by Headies organizers to start a war in the peaceful industry, but it seems they missed their targets or aimed wrongly. For every disses to be deuced, both parties must be up to par, The likes of <br>
Ruggedman vs Eedris<br>
A-booming-9ce+looming-Seriki vs A-fading-Ruggedman(thank God he's rugged)<br>
Vector vs Reminisce<br>
Pasuma vs Osupa <br>
2face vs Faze<br>
All these will probably be deuced fine and nice but when you're pairing Olamide with Don jazzy, huh! It's nothing but cheating, the Ybnl boss will with word slaughter the Mavin's boss, even a pair like Ybnl vs Mavin is still unmatched because rappers are traditionally known to be comfortable with beef and diss unlike singers not even to consider this era that Indigenous Rappers are untop of the game ruling the industry. <br>
Why should they fight? I'm yet to see a reason why, Headies should be responsible for all of this, even Jimmy Jatt was quoted to have said it's nothing but a cheat, it should have been either Lil kesh or Kiss Daniel, for they both had more hit songs this year than anyother person in the category, he also said he will rather invest 10million naira on Lil Kesh than Reeky, also Katapult is just a popular song and not a hit as no one will ever request for it in his parties.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Some other stars either directly or indirectly supported Olamide, though on a normal day,  evryone would blame him for his childish reaction (childish!!! The guy is older than me ke, lol). Wande Coal's comment was the funniest, he commented with "lol, passing through" then he followed Olamide on twitter, Davido was frank,  claimed it belongs to Lil kesh and so many others like that, but the baddest(bad,badder,baddest lol) comment was from Wizkid, the guy whose hit song 'Ojuelegba' was said to be the 12th most popular in the world for the year 2015, as he with his comment bombed the sainty ears on the social media, as he focussed on Dija's chest, a songstress of Mavin, condemning her mammary glands. (eh! eh!! Buoda Wizkid).</p>
<p dir="ltr">Peace is all we need, Olamide was furious for a wasted effort but needs to calm down, just an award can't determine what the future holds for his protege. Don Jazzy as well should keep his cool to allow more peace to reign.<br>
God bless you all<br>
God bless the industry <br>
God bless me. <br>
.<br>
Yusuf Abdulqoyum (wizard calidad)</p>
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Industreet vol 1; Ola and jazzy by Yussuf Abddulqoyum

Ola and Jazzy.... .. Industreet volume 1. ... "And the award goes to Reekado Banks", atimes, many a time, just a time... Lol, ...

Poet corner entry: when I die by Godson Osarenren

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<div dir="ltr">
WHEN I DIE</div>
<div dir="ltr">
When I die<br />
After writing my last lines<br />
Poetry should be read for me<br />
Till I sneeze</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Oh earth<br />
Thou art blessed me<br />
With variety of foods<br />
That helped me grow</div>
<div dir="ltr">
In you, I am a seed planted<br />
Ready for decay<br />
To help the flowers over me grow</div>
<div dir="ltr">
When the rains fall<br />
When the sun shines<br />
I remain a friend<br />
Your very friend till the end</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Cry not for me<br />
Smile for me<br />
Read me a poem<br />
Because to poetry I belong</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Godson Osarenren</div>
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Poet corner entry: when I die by Godson Osarenren

WHEN I DIE When I die After writing my last lines Poetry should be read for me Till I sneeze Oh earth Thou art blessed me With va...

Writer's muse entry; a god called writer

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There exist a god, with an unlimited power to create, as far as he's got his special power which he calls pen. I am not bluffing, nor is any humour intended. There are virtues meant to be achieved before a god status is earned. The truth is there are many doings of a writer absolutely god-like. A writer can write destiny and erase one as such. This can be explained well, using 'Merlin' as an example. Julian Jones wrote such hefty destiny for a young boy. The truth is, Merlin ordinarily as a young boy shouldn't bear such burden, it was as if he lived for authur and his sacred Camelot. However when a god like Julian Jones says so shall be Merlin's destiny; Who are we to say no? Writing destinies is a fair thing, however the god called writer can yet rewrite destinies. George Lucas, who wrote star wars rewrote the destiny of obi wan Kenobi, to the evil destiny of Darth Vader. The world a writer can create by his magical pen is unlimited and only restricted by his expanse of imagination. Hence it stirs this important question; ''How much should we be bothered by reality?'' Should the rarity of Elysia on earth restrict the incidence of Elysia In your story?' Should our own rigid reality, blur our prospective utopia in our dream writing-world?" The big task lies with the writer, you are your own god on your own, write as many destinies as you can, create as many worlds as you can.  Paint utopia inside some Elysia, or even legalize sin and trivialize nemesis. You are your own god, but to remain sovereign forever, remember to please your readers and fans. Keep writing prolifically.Abd-afeez Abd-hamid For the museguide team<br />
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Writer's muse entry; a god called writer

There exist a god, with an unlimited power to create, as far as he's got his special power which he calls pen. I am not bluffing, nor i...

Poet corner entry: Lullaby by Bolaji Akintola

<p dir="ltr">Lullaby<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">I</p>
<p dir="ltr">The sun at its last strength<br>
Shone the deceitful sun<br>
Wearing popinjay rays<br>
Posing gimmick afternoon<br>
When the children play-way senses<br>
As the river paths weep dampness<br>
and potshards<br>
For fireflies have licked sun rays<br>
To quench sunlight.<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">II</p>
<p dir="ltr">The sun has gone asleep<br>
Thus nocturnal comes<br>
When power supplier sleep<br>
beyond be careful<br>
And griots cooked tales<br>
From animal kingdoms<br>
To legendary empires<br>
Bringing gentility hands<br>
To play snores rhythms<br>
Beyond the griot's world<br>
Roaring in the heart of Disneyland<br>
Laughing Tom and Jerry<br>
Only to see sunrise quenching lamps<br>
As the cock crows.</p>
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Poet corner entry: Lullaby by Bolaji Akintola

Lullaby I The sun at its last strength Shone the deceitful sun Wearing popinjay rays Posing gimmick afternoon When the children play-w...

Androbeat tutorial; lesson 3 beginner's class

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Today I will talk about the overview of my choice of Android beat making app, this app is called caustic. Check the previous post for details about caustic. When you first launch caustic you will be greeted with the pre-installed welcome song, made in a dubstep kind of dirty beat model. To start making your beat, check slide one picture and look at the bar at the bottom of the screen, then click on the second box counting from the left, d box is d option key tagged (1 in red) and it will bring out a list of options choose new from the list as shown in slide two (tagged 1 in red) .<br />
Also in slide one, you will notice series of short black bars on the screen (tagged 3,4,5 in red) , these bars are the step sequence for the beatbox pattern. Also at the end of the post I will share a link to download a loop of that pattern from the full song. Later one in the series if I get enough request I will drop the project file and the full song so that museguide fans can use them to practice too.<br />
After clicking on the new option, you will be visited with a black screen, without any of the machines, to add a machine we simply click on the leftmost button on the lower bar (tagged 2 on slide 1) and then click on an empty slot (tagged 1 on slide 3) to add any machine from the list shown in slide four. After adding a machine you can then create your pattern sequence from the machine. Slide 5 shows the look of the Beatbox, the simplest machine on the machine list, the pattern on the beatbox in slide one is the basic sequence of the drumline in the loop on the download link. You can switch from the main beatbox machine to its sequence using the scroll bar (tagged 6 in slide 1 and 1 in slide 7 both in red). I want you to drop random bars in the beatbox sequence and make sure you choose a preset from the loading bar (tagged 2 in red on slide 5) it takes you to a list of preset on slide 6 where you can load the preset. Note you won't get a Sound on the beat box if you don't choose a preset. Then press the play button on the button bar to listen to how your beatbox bars pattern sounds.<br />
I will stop here for today, tomorrow I will cover the whole of beatbox, tweaks, tricks and advance secrets and the entirety of how to use it.<br />
For questions and enquiry kindly reply this post. Thanks for reading, until tomorrow.<br />
<a href="http://www.datafilehost.com/d/81c8c60c" target="_blank">Click here</a> for the loop file, for the drum sample in slide 1.<br />
Abd-afeez Abd-hamid<br />
For the museguide team.<br />
<br />
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Androbeat tutorial; lesson 3 beginner's class

Today I will talk about the overview of my choice of Android beat making app, this app is called caustic. Check the previous post for detai...

Featured masterpiece entry; cacophonies

<p dir="ltr">Cacophonies Is a poignant poetic outcry from a ground breaking upcoming poet, named Ayoola goodness Olanrewaju who happens to own our featured profile of the week also. When contacted for the reason why he wrote such emotional message-laden piece. He had this to say </p>
<p dir="ltr">''The thirst for peace for our dear nation. A craving for comforts to our ills. Lending a voice to the muteness of our agonies''.</p>
<p dir="ltr">In reality, the poem was nothing less his intent. It was indeed an emotional outburst painted in the reality of the very decadence creeping upon our society. If voices can indeed stop the terrible trend and install an effective zeal for change. Voices like that of Ayoola's Cacophonies can indeed make such impact. Cacophonies is an undiluted direct piece, spiced heavily with imageries and the power of Ayoola's vivid emotions, illustrated in words. <br>
Ayoola wrote cacophonies as a 10 stanzas series in 10 days. <br>
Museguide presents this week featured masterpiece, Cacophonies, enjoy. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Cacophonies</p>
<p dir="ltr">i and poetry speaks to my poetry<br>
in the echoes of noises in the heart of a hole<br>
this hole is my heart...</p>
<p dir="ltr">these are the tears of my hands<br>
the pains of the claps that killed emptiness and not the flea...</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
of youthful chants of sorrowful psalms<br>
in the blurring tomorrows of the old testaments...</p>
<p dir="ltr">these toothless wrinkled gluttons still want meat<br>
they crush the characters of tomorrows within gummy teeth...bloody</p>
<p dir="ltr">in the covetousness of mobile adverbials...<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">II</p>
<p dir="ltr">i<br>
i hear voices rend in shrills<br>
like the chorus of metals in the skulls of tambourines<br>
like the branches stomped by the wildness of<br>
the windshaken bruised and broken...</p>
<p dir="ltr">in silenced cacophonies of falls and frails...</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
and there are the creased voices in the tangle of sheets<br>
craving for folds and smoothness...<br>
tell me where again do we find rhythms for celebration?<br>
when our drum-skins are beaten to tears and tears<br>
when our drummers are maleficent at heart...<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">III</p>
<p dir="ltr">i<br>
these voices eat me deep<br>
like a gluttonous distance<br>
who dines on the meals of the fast and furious...</p>
<p dir="ltr">i feel heavy and defeated<br>
like an incomplete destiny of a phrase...</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
only if these were not cacophonies of dirges<br>
we would have blessed our legs with beads of<br>
rhythm...and dance<br>
even on the face of a can concession...</p>
<p dir="ltr">how do one dance the melodies of war?<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">IV</p>
<p dir="ltr">i<br>
i swallow a thousand times<br>
to drench in pleas in mucous libation<br>
for the clustered spirits of noises within me...<br>
i hear piercing whines<br>
cacophonies in the pockets of giant terrors...</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
shall i not scream from their screams<br>
and cream your ears frustrating tingles?<br>
shall i not scream from their severed screams<br>
screams from scorching torture and silence?<br>
and spell your luxury of sleep restless ghouls and cacophonies...<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">V</p>
<p dir="ltr">i<br>
when we tuned in the rhythms of felicitations<br>
for the hairs that grew over our baldness...</p>
<p dir="ltr">did our songs not melt into distressed cacophonies?<br>
did we not summon tidal waves of cries for our eyes?<br>
when we found out we have gone bald again...</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
what stories do we tell our children?<br>
do we tell them the lies they told us?<br>
when we have promised them the candies of hope<br>
and boast brightness for their days of darkness...</p>
<p dir="ltr">tell me...do we return again with this empty hopes?<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">VI</p>
<p dir="ltr">i<br>
i feel cacophonies burst in my bowels<br>
like formidable streams of dexterity<br>
in the arms of a passionate drummer...</p>
<p dir="ltr">i am a market of noises<br>
am i a market of noises?</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
could that be the beats of rains<br>
or the cheers of dancing beads over the belly of the gourd?<br>
ah! it is the weeps of soulful spirits<br>
the spirits of mothers who lost their gold<br>
to the wickedness of the wooden ballot boxes...<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">VII<br>
i<br>
they steal away the rays of our brightness<br>
from the blessedness of our suns...<br>
they spill darkness on the canvass of our days<br>
the darkness in the city of their hearts...</p>
<p dir="ltr">they play the deaf to our cacophonies of succour...</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
how they maim our binds of friendliness<br>
with keen daggers of hostility and blood...<br>
they break in asunder our placenta of love<br>
and rip-rape our sister, peace<br>
under uncouth libidos and dangles of wars...<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">VIII</p>
<p dir="ltr">i<br>
our peace has the price-tags of wars<br>
the peace we never bought...we never had...<br>
a minute silence... booms.bursts.fires.blasts.sands.blood.bloods.wails.voices echoes...<br>
cacophonies in pods of paradoxes-deadly and death</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
if you want peace prepare for war<br>
if you do not want peace prepare for war<br>
if you want war prepare for war...<br>
pieces.piecemeal.wars.peace.pieces.piecemeal.peace.wars<br>
how do wars find peace?<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">IX</p>
<p dir="ltr">i<br>
I have walked the night<br>
in the nakedness of darkness...unclad...<br>
my ears crave for silence...</p>
<p dir="ltr">and within the silence is the loudness<br>
of my heart...<br>
louder than silence...</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
the noises for alms of many mouths<br>
the noises of street children estranged and violated<br>
the noises of the mothers and daily dirges to the sun<br>
the noises of pleading victims..</p>
<p dir="ltr">corpses awaiting coffins...<br>
the noises of scenes hollowed, hidden in my heart...<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">X</p>
<p dir="ltr">i<br>
and yet it is these noises within medry bones fluting for flesh...<br>
for life...craving for breath<br>
the breath of peace from putrid belch of wars...<br>
crying... ‘do not give up on me’</p>
<p dir="ltr">ii<br>
i am a poet of troubled noises<br>
a poet of tears<br>
i shall wing and bellow the ears of heavens...open<br>
i shall scurry and burrow into the soul of poesy...deep<br>
until these cacophonies trade for celebration.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Expect more of Ayoola's poem at the poets corner section of this site. If you want to know about the author, visit the featured profile of this site as he owns the featured profile of the week. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Note:<br>
If you think you've done something creative enough to glimpse this section of the site, kindly email museguide@gmail.com for a review presentation. Thank you for reading.<br>
Abd-afeez Abd-hamid <br>
For the museguide team. </p>
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Featured masterpiece entry; cacophonies

Cacophonies Is a poignant poetic outcry from a ground breaking upcoming poet, named Ayoola goodness Olanrewaju who happens to own our featur...

Featured profile entry; Ayoola Goodness Olanrewaju

<p dir="ltr">This week featured profile is a poet named, Ayoola Goodness Olanrewaju, he was born in Ibadan, but he is an indigene of Osun State. He studied NCE in English and Yoruba languages at Federal College of Education, Osiele, Abeokuta, Ogun State. He also bagged B.A(ed) in English from the University of Ilorin, Ilorin, Kwara State.<br>
 As a poet, Ayoola is renown for his vibrant imagery and the poignant power his poetic pieces solely reeks. He has bagged some awards due to this his prowess.  His journey towards poetic freedom started way back in secondary school.<br>
Then, he never thought he could write any poem, but back in the year 2002, when he was in JSS3; his coordinator, Kola Obadimu (Jnr) who runs a children organization, African Children Voices ( which he was part of), asked them to write a poem for the organization. He did write one and when he saw it, he loved it and encouraged him to write on. He was the first person to call him a poet and right there his passion for poetry was ignited</p>
<p dir="ltr">He afterwards had worked on his poetry and sought every means to get better. Along this progressive journey, Prof. Niyi Osundare had been instrumental to his inspirational drive, so had all the poets he had met on social media</p>
<p dir="ltr">As a poet, he doesn't have any favourite genre as he gets to write whatever inspiration and muse brought to his writing desk. <br>
In his words he had said<br>
''When I write a poem or in most of the poems I write, everything motivates me, that includes the environment, mood and every factor that may be involved. I believe for everything, there is a poetry to write''.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Some of his notable moments as regard poetry include: The day, his great friend, Sir Phunso Oris, gave him a treat for his poetry. There were other moments too which he claimed he would also consider his best, and that was the day his poem 'sound of a needle-drop' won the Peregrine Reads Patriot for Change Contest in 2015 plus the Brigitte Poirson Monthly Contests which is anchored by Kukogho Iruesiri Samson in which he made a four-time, top ten finalist.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Ayoola is yet a humble man, when I met him at the WRR festival 2015 he had truly played to the tune of humility without any sort of acting. In his words he had valued his friend's appreciation of his work over any of the poetry prizes he has ever won. <br>
''I think if I am to name prizes, I would only say that they are the feelings which I get from my poetic expressions and the appreciation from great friends and fellow poets.''</p>
<p dir="ltr">Ayoola dreams to achieve an index of change with his poetry. He thinks, for virtually every poet and art in general the index of change acts as a vital driving force.</p>
<p dir="ltr">He also do prose and drama too, however it is not as regular as poetry. He also can draw a little and play some musical instruments too. However, it is prose he develops next to poetry among his other talents.<br>
 <br>
Now let's get personal.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Ayoola favourite quote is;<br>
'do all that you do with all your heart'. He loves children a lot and dislike anything bad. His role model is his Mother.</p>
<p dir="ltr">His best meal is beans and fried plantain. His best friend is Abdul wahab Mariam, which he claims is his great friend in deeds indeed. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Watch out for some of Ayoola's wonderful poems on poets corner of this site. However for this week, Ayoola's ''Cacophonies'' is the featured masterpiece with the full poem and a brief review. Head to that section of the site, to read it up. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Note:<br>
If you think you are creative enough to be our featured profile of the week,  kindly send an email to museguide@gmail.com so we can contact you back and get your details. Thank you very much for reading, remember, stay creative, all day, all year. <br>
Abd-afeez Abd-hamid <br>
For the museguide team.</p>
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Featured profile entry; Ayoola Goodness Olanrewaju

This week featured profile is a poet named, Ayoola Goodness Olanrewaju, he was born in Ibadan, but he is an indigene of Osun State. He studi...

Poet corner entry; booked love by Aremu Adams

<p dir="ltr"><br>
We started our love with prefaces<br>
without a table where contentment<br>
could be listed with priorities <br>
--a table of contents</p>
<p dir="ltr">•<br>
we love in crystal leaves,<br>
white as delight, transparent,<br>
bound together with a hard cover <br>
--the shell of our hearts</p>
<p dir="ltr">•<br>
we put love into action<br>
in the chasms bitwixt parallel lines<br>
as she moans in sprawled alphabets<br>
and in knotted contextual meanings</p>
<p dir="ltr">•<br>
we smile in acts and fight in sequels<br>
to be seen as the cast in scenes<br>
at the end of every chapter</p>
<p dir="ltr">•<br>
as each page flips and drags<br>
till the antagonist is the protagonist<br>
and the latter soon is the former,<br>
we take the climax for a coin;<br>
a head or a tail <br>
--a comedy or a tragedy</p>
<p dir="ltr">•<br>
and when it ends with a tail<br>
we'd see it to be a drama<br>
written by our hearts<br>
with a beginning<br>
and an end<br>
******</p>
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Poet corner entry; booked love by Aremu Adams

We started our love with prefaces without a table where contentment could be listed with priorities --a table of contents • we love in...