Nwaga Philip

Nwaga Philip Poems

…THOUGH HELL SHOULD BAR THE WAY
...

From Me,
You see,
I love to be a painter
To paint and play with words
For I found that the 'lamest' verses
Could strike the deepest chords
So, here's to you, my jewel
...

Descend! descend! ! cauldrons high on the fiery mount
We wait your plunge from the fiery hills
Thumpy pulses to the vesper's chime
Droopy falls bolt our helpless gape
...

One fair even, at the eve of last summer,
In the green and fertile country fields
Where grew luscious ears of 'eschol' grapes
I lingered by the Ploughman's hedge
...

THROUGH THE EYES OF THE GODS
...

The Best Poem Of Nwaga Philip

…though Hell Should Bar The Way

…THOUGH HELL SHOULD BAR THE WAY



The house reeked crème and finery, the fields a sheer delight
A slaving lot at his sway, a master kind and fair
Arrayed in cloak of colours, that fits with ne’er a crease
Ruddy with striking visage, and body built to please
He hummed a slave yard ditty with lines that seemed to say
”I must be about my duty though hell should bar the way.”


Over the press he dusted with poise and peerless lure
The shutters shot a twinkle, the stable squeaky-pure
The sheep that needed shearing now grazed all sheared and trim
The stock that bristled with milk let down a barrel’s brim
The dirks and foils hung winking, the stack held so much hay
He set about his business, should hell dare bar the way?


Behind a stack of rattan, the barn was dark and queer
A shadow crutched in the darkness, snickering in brazen leer
Astride his book of record, he set to take the stocks
Unwary of what laid in wait; he toggled at the locks
Once in, he did his duty, for stacks and stocks of hay
And there she stood in the shadows, there he heard her say:




“Come lie with me, my bonny for I am drenched in dew
Come now, young stag to the mountains, the cliffs awaits your scale
Your dear master holds the fort; the men are in the field
Oh come, my breasts are towers, my bossom yours to wield
I’ll be your sweet pomegranates and you my swift gazelle
Lets make our little secret for none’s about to tell.”


She stood upright in the shadows but scarce could meet his gaze
She freed her mane from the bonding as she made for the blaze
His eyes were voids of terror his throat was parched and bare
Thus came aloose her raiment and all set bare and fair
Above the throbs of passion, he gained the wit to say
“I must be about my duty though hell should bar the way.”


The men retired at sundown wearied in might and tool
The ploughmen sought the lodging and had the barn yards full
The hirelings made their detour behind a frisky herd
The record scrolls were sorted, bristling udders were bared
And not an owl in the steeple knew what’d been wrought at day
He swore to do his duty though hell assaults his way.



No word of it to his master of what was wrought and said
His master’s wife kept calling to “warm her sides” instead
He would not wrought such mischief though she be fair and free
For he feared his Lord’s fury, his dreams were nigh to be
And oft she wore him weary; He learned to stay at bay
He must be about his duty though hell should bar the way.


As always, days drowned in weeks and moon by moons rolled by
He went about his business, his grace and charm unspoilt
The house was kept in fervor and none should soon despoil
Save for his mistress wanting, twas happy, blest and still
Once when he made the bedstead, humming his sweet refrain
A shadow shot from the shrouding and lo those words again:


“Come lie with me, my bonny for I am drenched in dew
Come now, young stag to the mountains, the cliffs await your scale
Your dear master holds the fort; the men are in the field
Oh come, my breasts are towers, my bossom yours to wield
I’ll be your sweet pomegranates and you my swift gazelle
Lets make our little secret for none’s about to tell.”


She clamped and grasped with manly might and toppled o’er his breast
She reached to wield his loins with lust and leery jest
He tugged and strained in the silence and all her grips held tense
“And here we are! ” she kissed him, He pondered for a ruse
For down his creasy raiment, a weary brooch came loose
With gust and virile vigour, and yank! It came away
He sprinted for the casement and hell stood in the way


He spurred and ran for cover, he galloped scratched and bare
No thought for his ruffled raiment that laid in the silence there
O’er the thistles he scurried but screeched to catch a crunch;
A frenzied wail from the chambers had rent the mirthless air
And making for the postern, deep dust clouds mobbed the day
Thus, in the men came hurtling for who dares bar the way.


As bear with pate replete with sores, his master fumed with ire
He’d never seen his master wroth or day so bleak and dire
The rod came down in flaying tongues, his squeals made for the clouds
And then the jesty snigger behind the doorway shrouds
Then in the hallowed dungeons, his battered back there lay
Gains of dauntless industry, daring hades all the way.



Still when the house needs keeping they say,
“Over the press he dusted with poise and peerless lure
The shutters shot a twinkle, the stable squeaky-pure
The sheep that needed shearing then grazed all sheared and trim
The stock that bristled with milk let down a barrel’s brim
The dirks and foils hung winking, the stack held so much hay
He stood to do his duty though hell stood in his way.”

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