Biography of Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
Son of a Headmaster and a Superintendent of schools, Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu, Nigerian poet, novelist and short story writer, was born to Francis and Mary Ogbuagu in the course of the internecine Nigeria/Biafra War. Ogbuagu attended the prestigious Government Secondary School, Owerri, Nigeria, where he began writing fiction in Form 4 and at the age of 15. Ogbuagu has always made it known that he inherited his creative gift from both his parents: his father wrote and published the history of his town in the 1960s; his mother possessed a rare power of oral description embellished in rich poetry. Ogbuagu holds a BA in history, and an M.Sc in International Affairs and Diplomacy. Over the years, Ogbuagu has written 20 books in novels, poetry and short stories. His third novel, BOSHETH WILLIAMS was published in England in 2003. Some of his poems have been published in newspapers and journals and online. A great lover of music, Ogbuagu reads voraciously, sketches and paints and loves travelling.
Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu's Works:
Bosheth Williams (a novel)
Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu Poems
Endloser Regen Nach der Sintflut kommt die ausgehungerte Ebbe zieht das Wasser zurück lässt die Böden flüchten
In The Diary
Kingdoms Queendoms Earthdoms Walk on stilts,
Roots (For Alex Haley)
Pensile clouds of a new Truth loom. With them are selected versions of Extinct grief.
Before light’s encroaching Beams, across wavelengths Of glints, in between yawning Protocols of waking,
In this arid circumstance, on a collage of sacred pulses, this pot - Heritage - merely sits, smoked and besmirched by elements
Verdigris And Wasted Talents
Verdigris is the evidence of death, the symbol of ruin, of waste, of abandonment,
Sunday rises gallantly from behind Distant clouds, orange, on the wall Of low, chintzy, tepid skies.
Images (An Elegy For Shell Camp)
Like a child's toy stomped on by a vicious adult, These images haunt... It's no pribble when I insist that their mothers' breasts, Sucked lame by gelid seasons,
(A poem in honour of Shell Camp. Dedicated to all teachers and pupils, past and present, dead and alive) . So, what says the Morning Information?
Phases Of The Moon
New Moon: through the dark foil of festered clouds, it peeps, a lone trinket of heaven,
Anuruedoahu In Biafra, when we drank from the tilting cusps of dank leaves and washed with the spittle
If you are licensed to love me, Then go on and love me. Do not wait for the moon To remind you...
Piano For The Deluge
Soft on the wings of the raven, Loud on the beak of the dove - The harmony of rain.
I hardly brew coffee alongside the metaphor of
English mornings blended with summer's febrile breath.
But, on this occasion, I did....
It was a stifling moment on television.
The social media was abuzz with the hiss of
Integrated journalism. I hated this moment I failed to believe myself
Upon the altar of this recent toponym. BREXIT.
The name plinks with resounding voices, exerting that energy of