Today, I unveiled the dust from “Eeries of Silence”, it has been a tremendous task. So glad to work with able souls with telemagnetic rays. Many thanks to Dr. Anwer Ghani Jaber, Dr. Pragya Suman, Jerry Langdon, Roman Muscheidt, Sher Chandley, Umar Yogiza Jr., etc for being part of my tavern. I would state that the journey towards the unveiling just began… limited copies will be ready soon. For booking and reservation of copy (s), kindly indicate at the comment section below or private message me. Thank you!
Review of Eeries of Silence: Stylistic Expressionism in Martin’s Poetry
Expressionism in art in its clearest sense is a unique stylistic feature and distinctive color. Stylistic expression is the mother of all contemporary artistic trends. In revolutionary visions, issues, and objections, this is the moral expression. Although expressiveness exists in art, the dominance of moral expression and its manifestation is clear, and although stylistic expression is found in literature, the dominant aspect is the emergence of its moral dimension.
Martin Ijir is a Nigerian poet with extensive literary experience, through which he was able to combine originality and innovation in style in his writings, which is very difficult, and he brought us objectionary, revolutionary, and unique literature on the level of meaning and issue and on the level of style and form, especially in his collection ” Eeries of Silence ” which is a collection of horizontal narrative prose poems, and these recent practices and experiences signify unquestionably aspects of stylistic expression.
Creativity in Martin’s poems depends on achieving his goals with a profound impact on the recipient and on achieving the tremor within him through the pursuit of salvation and revolution on reality and distinct vision, and this is also achieved through stylistic expression; according to a distinct method and a message that cares about the reader. The poems would not have achieved what it had accomplished without shocking method, along with the question of searching for salvation and revolution on the ground. Martin’s poems have taught us that achieving a real and non-repeatable literary personality is that the text is expressed in two expressions, moral and stylistic, and what we see prevalent in most poets is meaningful expression, but they do not approach stylistic expression but rather write according to what the audience wants without attention to the truth that this cannot be real, and even welcomed by official cultural institutions. Rather, there must be two forms of expressionism, moral and stylistic, and this is what was actually provided in Martin’s poetry, which adopted the narrative horizontal prose poems in a distinctive style.
Literary analysis has moved from the middle of the last century to a greater accuracy in terms and concepts, and it is no longer acceptable to speak in broad terms, and stylistic criticism has succeeded, to a large extent, in crossing criticism towards scientific approach, and it became true that we describe the era of literature at the end of the century as the era of scientific literature. Stylistics has made great progress in this regard by presenting objective models and tangible material formulas for literary idea and analytical concepts, and here we will try to shed light on stylistic aspects of expressionism in poetic texts of Nigerian poet Martin Ijir.
In the poem “DUST” Martin says:
(My body dies, my spirit becomes dust then my soul transcends unto pillaging bed of refurbishment. The bequeathed sky above, whistles the work of my hands, bands of life and its enchanting buoying songs I refute to singing; will I recite on the day of my recurrence. I am single out like a simpleton upon a water floating in the sea of silence. My silver cloud turns into melee ice as I melt as dew encountering my first sun.)
We do not need much talk to refer to the expressive moral in the text as he asked for salvation and revolutionary in the title of the text and in each of its sections and the text is charged with the message of alienation and sadness and the request for change.
The poet here relied on stylistic expressions and formulas, including (narrative), as the text was based on the narrative style, and this is a distinction and contrasting to the prevailing poetic writing based on fragmentation even in prose poetry in the free poem. Also, the narrative here was not a storytelling narrative, but rather an expressive narrative with the intent of living and symbolizing and maximizing the energies of language. There is no doubt that (prose poetry), and with this force in which prose manifests itself with its techniques, is a style different from the music and formal harmony in which the prevailing poem is concerned.
In the poem ” ALONE ” he said: ( I traveled through the galaxy, in a chimera wagon, a steamy light appears like the steeds of fogs, poised in a disheveling position, my clogs pores on the shore of hydroponic merriment, this must be home, I longed long for, this must be home, no this is not a home, a voice contradicts my thoughts, I grunt upon him or is it her as they confused my intuition. The path to home is narrowed I learned. Now I am about to finish my learning and long suffering.)
We find another stylistic expressive side, which is (freshness) accompanying a sweet symbolic text and high poetic art, and this also distinguishes and contrasts with the prevalence of the modernist symbolism, which is usually characterized by estrangement, and transcendence. Also, the poet adopted the special vision of things and assets in (expressive and apocalyptic), which is a different method and distinct from the deliberative on which the written rule depends.
In ” Distance Sky ” Martin said: (I saw her stretch wings, with leathery feathers bearing my flavor of silver, so close your distancing appears. As my wings fluttered upon the musk of air, a fingertip that pierces the altar of iceberg tears our conversation. Inside me I reach what’s hidden and awaken the dust that hinders my transcending. I closed my eyes and watched the melting sun decays as dew flowing from tendrils of exaltation, a harmonious power that controls earth, elements and shell of my body.)
The poet intends to a narrative passage that is purely expressive in message and it is a model for literary expression. Such a reduced text filled with questions, appeals, descriptions, alienation and delusions, which ends with an expressive combination of certainty and legend achieves remarkable expressive distinction.
Dr. Anwer Ghani
The Review of Eeries of Silence: A poet with eternal vibes
I came in contact with poet Martin Ijir through his prose poetry though they were fleeting glances. They caught my attention at once but alluded after sometime in flood of poems upon social media. When I perused through his collection of prose poetry “Eeries of Silence“ in much personal mode it was a novel moment for me. Words appeared warm even in winter ,such a catchy choice was there.
In a mischievous moment prose poetry has been defined as “A poetry set at ninety degrees”. It has been written in horizontal block. Blocks compressed traditional verse in such a revoltic way that instead of distortion it got melted away in magical form retaining every essence of poetry except its outer outline though lines were unbreakable. Prose poetry is of varied types like POSTCARD, FACTOID, DEADPAN NARRATIVE AND SURREAL NARRATIVE. Collection “Eeries Of Silence” is not a particular type but it is a beautiful blend of varied hues of prose poems.
In literary stylistic analysis also called New Criticism, the main focus remains entirely on the text ,the words on the page , that are in front of you. Here it is examined how the poet expresses his theme and tone through the stylistic devices like imagery, alliteration, assonance, rhyme, point of view. It simply squeezes all possible juice out of the poem and how they are arranged, without regard to the poet’s life or times.
In the poem “Night“ he says “stuttering clicks of whispering voices foretold how dark souls became when night comes”. His use of imagery is magical, as the pitch of sound ascends in silence at night.
He says “I can decipher her voice like a lady sobbing the loss of her groom“. The Poet’s probing eyes glances so deep. He feels pain at an abstract level.
In the poem “Distance Sky“ he says “one must be blind outside, and be able to see inside the stairs of our soul that one can walk upon the distant sky”. A perfect promulgator of surrealism! The poet has used surreal narrative in a wonderful way as he tells about iceberg tears, glimpses of melting sun with closed eyes, etc.
In the poem ”Dust” he says my body dies, my spirit becomes dust then my soul transcend unto pillaging bed of refurbishment. A metaphysical, vicious cycle of destruction and renovation !
The Poet uses many metaphors, similes, and imagery like in “eternal Ivy” an exalted seat of soul , pearls of gold found in Persian rivers, glamorous rose with whitening effeminate qualities etc.
Overall it could be said that poets has deep philosophical fire burning deep inside . A philosopher is like a dry desert where there is always a lack of limpidity of poetry. But a true poet must always be a philosopher.The Poet’s efficiency depends on how meticulously he hides philosophy in the core of seed and gives a multiple layering of magic which sucks out all dryness in its magical touch .
Poet has proved it indeed !
Dr Pragya Suman
copyright @pragyasuman 28 / 2/ 2020
The mad man
The mad man
Long before now, long before time was infused inside my soul. Before I was sent to the earth. Near the stream containing many shrubs I walk on, elegantly without fear, shame, and harm. I have seat my self in those sullen water, i guessed nine months or thereafter. I was threaded with the placenta of birth and death. Betrothed to life scorching sun, smiles of bitter rain and lustrous muses of scavenging for the nuts to nourished my body, unite my spirit and guides the soul to manage his genderless attributes back to where time wasn’t created. I have walked a million time to the stream, casting my net daily, catching nothing. Even the little tadpoles which a child catch without suffering I alone couldn’t lay my net on. I have lost none inched of a hope because I targeted the daily calmness of the stream. If i could not get hold of the beings on water at least I can pluck the flowers near the stream on terrestrial abode. I walk to the flower, with songs of conquest. She smiles as nature, baring the regalia of wild purple, waving her nectar in silent wickedness. The wilderness that separates the flower from the stream encamp countless bees that sleeps and enjoy their sun, conversing with the gloom of their wings as they chat. I fluttered myself into this trap. I was stung by the bees. I became a madman. Having no fishes, no shell, no pebbles, no gold, no flower. I am having nothing and carrying nothing inside my haversack bag, as I am going to be infused back into the cubits were time end as a soul.
(c) Martin Ijir 2020
The merchant
We have travel from shop to shop seeking for what holds breathing in human’s nostril. Each shop we visited stalls our conversation with groceries, butter, tuna fish and fired spreading meat. Always the can milk stared at me whenever I stepped to a shop. The glance at her eyes invites patronage like a whore showing the lameness of her beauty. I hated each ounce of the milk that trudge the premises of thinking. The long rigasa train where banditry sleeps waiting for merchants to kidnap, stood at the dim night as we speed pass. I held the rails tightly, for I have heard of the tempting water of those kidnappers, and wish not to be their honoured victim. For I am only a merchant seeking the house that helds countless breathe. Something inside me whispered, let go off your hands from the rails. And see the dynamic of an invisible shop waiting your arrival! There you would have answers to your cajoling question. Foolishly, I let go the rails. For I love the words in obey and command. I am left sobbing in bruised excitement and tapping drops of breath gaping behind my soul. Truly, this impracticable journey consumed whoever voyage her path calmly. I can’t be dead, I say…
(c)2020 Martin Ijir
Poisonous wine
This poisonous wine drenches my breath
Her toxic draws perspirating smiles in my veins
near the burning fire my soul takes his shield
This poisonous wine lift my sorrow away
Like compass it guides my eyes to the stream
My soul understand the gathering of longing
Near the fig tree love bears countless fruits
the long winds of harmattan releases the wine
On my skin, downing enigmatic expression
Why is this poisonous wine not killing me
i cant sum the ingredients that makes this wine
But i can tell about her intoxicating ebbs & strength
(c) 2019 Martin Ijir
Fifty nine inches grave
Fifty nine years of baking a bread
fifty nine years of searching for bed
linking roof, sheathed with naked fire.
Poverty, banditry and corruption’s clip
fifty nine inches grave of bad leadership
and blind misaligned themselves as followership.
Yesterday, i was chased by ghost of feudalist
foolishly, i ran inebriatably to the door of an animalist
he drown me with axe onto the grave of fifty nine inches.
Life is hardwired by spokes of division
cursing plague of wild and mild depression
yeast of suffering in joy intoxicates than kunu zaki.
I wonder when fifty nine tides of flimsy lies
will be sieved, calmed and distilled into truthful progress
while pragmatic, social materials solidifies all to smiles.
(c) Martin Ijir 2019
Kaftan and Deltan Clothing
This tattered leaves shrink as it grows
with lulling children and sullen faced adults.
Who curse you O beloved country? Many
impersonates truth but clone with linings of fraud
incorporated with deceit and corruption perfumes.
How come your masses worn silence garments?
Can’t you see them holding ethnic drums and songs?
Parading the potholes of poverty on unoccupied street.
How come many can’t conceived the bluff of gold and grains of nature?
Instead blood flows the land like honey squash with grapes
faces buttered like a seasoning river, bandits and cultist marauds the street with flute to lull many to timely rest.
Your son’s rebels for self-aggrandizement
hearts are indoctrinated by religion and money rituals
Who have stripe your cloak of peace and progress?
O a new heritage plausible in kaftan and deltan clothing
Copyright 2019 by Martin Ijir
Master Poet
Lead me to the house of the master poet
let me break my fast, drink the wine
of thy pot, slain my flesh of lust
let my eyes sees the beauty of love
as I sit near the fireworks of thy hands
Take me to the master poet
let me learn the words from thy torment
and pin the lesson in my heart:
each word rejuvenates as water, an air to my nostril
they salve my soul like herbs gotten from the sixth hill
Hold my hands, tear my skin
stripped my sins, as a spinning thread
as works of thy hands bind
a mastery artwork of subliminal seance
take me into thy apprentice class as a poet
As a poet, let me be a master poet
where truth be learn as an empty well
let many drink from the course of thy root
for it is formless as living water
taking their infirmities and resurrecting their soul
(c)Martin Ijir 2019
A Bard Sails Home
The waves of the sea storm calms
and the sullen bells rings
the ferry of the candlestick burns
its wax melt down abruptly…
a sage has come grant him admission
How the notes of a spirited muser taste!
at the lips of those who recites his name
Okara, okara the ferry bard sails home
the waves of the desert covers our eyes
a blissful dust is raised up in the heavens
Adieu Pa Gabriel Okara
(c) Martin Ijir 2019
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