Critics' Convergence Poem by Ginikachi Uzoma

Parochial orators of federal laws
Makers of peace, freedom and too of wars
Hallowed thyself by your adjourned witt’ism
For against your laws no criticism?
Shall I guffaw or gather my peace still
And make myself a hermit from this ill?
My trump did sound but none for the call shone
Is it that poverty has their heart won;
That none no more their integrity guide
But twist their hearts with palms begging and wide?

The halcyon days of medieval are gone:
Minds to wits of arts and science now run
And wi’these still run to the hearth of order
To breed, from brooding, the strong…their other.
Hey! Bridle not your tongue, knit not your lips
And sheath not your eyes from this dust that slips
For ‘tis better t’pour your ink on a slab
Than trade it, friends, for crumbs that grant no dab.