Poetry Corner : Hammed J’s Collections.

Poetry Corner :

Poetry Corner.

Hammed J’s Collections.



The trumpet shall be blown,
And breeze shall rain;


The night shall wake,
And day shall sleep;


Fire would be flowing,
And water would be blazing;


The sky would mess her garment,
And earth shall wane her rug;


Then arise lowly men of high influence,
And high men of lowly class;


Whence nudity shall be normalcy,
And men’s parts shall be witnesses;


Marking as exhibits,
And serving as prosecutors;


That’s then, then no appeal,
Of each men’s autobiographies;


Aye! No appeal
No appeal.



I won’t dare to love again
If love would remain auction,
Making the highest bidder
To be the beneficiary.
What is love?


I won’t dare to love again
If love could be cloth,
That would worn-out with due of time
Making it to be obsolete.
What is love?


I won’t dare to love again
If love’s weapon would ever be tongue,
Soothing for the rich
But stinging for the poor.
What is love?


I won’t dare to love again
For natural elements of love have been murdered,
And artificial elements of love always get watering
Leaving the love’s root to be fragile and her blossom to be sturdy.
What is love?


I won’t dare to love again
If love could bring anguish,
And love could kill certitude
Making one’s face to be Janus-face.
What is love?


What is love?
What is love?
If merriness of love lies not in distance but in time;
What is love?
I just won’t dare to love again!




When it come,
Come to you as a surprise,
That my emptiness becomes my visual,
And real me had vamoosed out vending me to mangle with earthy rug;
Let me sleep well.


When it is shown_
Shown that my image left you in imaginary mirage,
And my sinful soulful soul had swum to the saggy shore,
Whence my determination is left to my autobiographic note;
Let me sleep well.


When you hear_
Hear of my stunned departure,
That I have embarked on tour of endless phase,
Where longitude and feints and trial and stratum would be novel to me;
Let me sleep well.


Oh, let me sleep well_
Let your prayers be my lullaby,
Moan not, mourn not, groan not, weep not for me,
But for yourself – of flimsy nature of life;
So, let me sleep… well.




Corruption begins with me,
For my money is my muscle;
Strengthening me in constructing storey of illegality,
And my wealth is my wing;
Enabling me in flying over the sanctions of our society.

Corruption begins with me,
For I am the marabout whose prayers is meant for beings’ success;
And either way must my kin be the beneficiaries of those beings’ success,
I am the man of mat, I am the man of beads;
Whose aim is of licking beings’ salty sweat as meed.

Corruption begins with me,
For I am the evangelist of prayerful lime;
Whose stock-in-trade is of savouring beings’ dime,
I am the man of hymn, I am the man of bell;
Spiritually gathering the facade of worldly things to my belly.

Corruption begins with me,
For I am the no-nonsense man in a khaki dress;
Whose stern eyes birth much phobia to the beings’ minds,
I am the officer of law and my physique is my allure;
Enticing for me daily breads.

Corruption begins with me,
For I am the judge with a wick wig;
Wicking for me flavours from the balanced beings,
And my black gown is my cloak;
Where usually I hide weapons in juggling judging favourable cases.

Corruption begins with me,
I am the politician whose primary premium prayer is to prey on people;
I am the journalist, I am the teacher, I am the common man on street with the affection for nepotism;
Singing “You are corrupted, I am corrupted, we are corrupted”;
And so – corruption begins with me.

Poet Hammed J. Sulaiman takes into cognizant with this poem, in line with our current society, of how corruption runs in the veins of beings – ranging from the elites, religious leaders, forces, judges, politicians and to the lowest level of common men, who are usually baised with affection for nepotism.

©Hammed J. Sulaiman

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