Campus Association of Poet – Anthology


PUNCHEON; An Appraisal To Poetry In Respect of 


The Wordsmith

I’m the wordsmith of the night,

when the night fox howls

with its entire might,

I dip my pen in ink

and find my muse, for tonight,

I want to punch my name into history,

Even if it’s for this one night.

For I’m a wordsmith,

Straight into your skull,

My words will hit.


Mr Waduud.


The Wordsmith.

In the furnace of a blacksmith,

Spawns the roughly fine sword;

Finely processed by the swordsmith;

A tool in the hands of sages and inklords.
The sword leads, cutlasses and hoes follow;

Father of all harmless weapons.

Inform the sparrow to give tongue to morrow,

And morrow to take barrow from bimbo.
A shout out to all my sons abroad;

Tell them to sip from my pot of knowledge.

Use me as an antidote to save lives,

As I lie beneath the poetree
Poetry is a double edged sword,

Piercing the souls of readers and bards.

A word weaving machine,

Dispensing the thoughts with poetic cards.



We Need Help.

soft made hard

rough made smooth

sinky made strong

thanks to the puncheon

we, like raw gold, thirst for a refining caress from the creator’s puncheon

so our acts may towards morality pave way. 
our garden, green and white

now dust-turn-brown is on the verge of a “pitiable pismal-dismal”. like noon handing over to dusk, we have uncontrollably fallen off the high-heel that made us once a giant. we need the savior’s touch!
our societal ills are resistant to pills

our heads are knaves

we need a clean shave

with your puncheon… 

harden our land and make it not turn to a grave! 

look not away, for these we crave.



My pen, my sword,

Weaving to the clock’s tick,

Penetrating blocks,

Dividing bricks.
My pen, my megaphone,

Announcing to passers-by,

Breaking bones,

Soothing lullaby.
My pen, my music,

Appealing to my soul,

Enriching tonic,

Alluring tole.
My pen, my mystery,

Twinkling set of clusters,

Creating history,

Amazing wonder.
My pen, my muse,

Supplying my motive,

Providing clues,

Enhancing additive.
My pen, my puncheon,

Wielding with creativity,

Mending truncheons,

Mystifying captivity.



 I lie to myself 

When I say my poems do not depict my thoughts

I lie to myself

When I say I don’t get hurt

I lie to myself

When I say I like being alone

I lie and I know

But I also say the truth
They say the truth will set you free

So I lay down my truth

I love and I hate

That’s what makes me human

I feel jealousy because I care alot

I have a lot of heartbreaks which is really sad

But I hide it under my smile
The truth is I smile so you won’t know my weakness

The truth is am not proud but I have a functioning Ego

The truth is i want my name to be written in history
But all I do is write in my diary.




His quill is his sword 

The parchment, his shield

The words he writes on it is authority

With these instruments he fights battles and wins wars,

Against the evils of this world

Revered by all and disrespected by none

His words are law for nations

He stays true to his art even during times of adversity

Making sure to uphold the truth and nothing else

He is a poet who shapes the world with his pen.

          OLABODE TAIWO.



The crooked road has been punched

Thus made straight

Thanks to the punch

That make way
For the society has danced

Into flame of shame 

And all that snarled

Through the punch came

To witness the fame

In the fist’s name
In the field of thorns 

The punch waded through

Now a road of torts

The punch made full
Thanks,the punch

The society’s render a bunch



I am the mace,

I stand as your alibi of unity,

I am the gavel of morality,

I am the voice,

That speaks of your ‘heels,

I am like liver,

That metabolizes your nutrients,

I live,

You exist.
I am the wind,

That blows truth in the world,

I stand, when some minds want to bend,

I do not jubilate at a sight of immortality, 

I do that, which will uphold the society, 

I am alive for criticism,

I detest racism,

I represent every conscious minds,

I speak nothing but the truth.
I am poetry,

The one who speaks with authority, 

Mother of creativity, 

Father of morality, 

Friend to a moral society, 

Enemy to the follies of politics, 

I am the symbol of your conscious minds.




Punch on me

As little as the sun rays

A touch so soft

Yet so destructive to blaze

Far above the reach of human thought.
Punch on me:

The raw metals,

The shining gold,

the glittering diamond petals

The beautiful emerald unfold
Punch on me: 

Your nature no such felt

All creatures worth

The beauty of what’s​ ought

And my search will be all sought
Punch on me

The the golden knowledge

The axe of the of fire

The sword of justice

The boldness of heat
Punch on me

For I am here to receive

The punch of transformation

To fight the fight of truth

I am desperate for the punch.

       Justus Ogar.


Affirmation from the elders I seek

Considering the knowledge he has gained

Widely, then was it revealed to me

The mystery behind what I seek

The affirmation is the delight I get

Ye from the bleeding of my own pen

The confidence I derive from my hands 

The pleasure I derive from adding

Oh to my own knowledge
Thou art the affirmation I need

Now that it’s been known by me

What I ye neeeded to do

Is work harder and build on it

Lest I become a better personality

And incoming generation can also seek

Affirmation from me thereof

I do express my words in pen

I do expose the deeds with words

I do make imaginations wide

I do make sake fake seems realistic

I do configure your thought to resemble mine

I do more than you can think with my pen

I do know for sure my own is mightier than the sword

I do need to remember it needs to be sharpen often

I do need to make sure it’s life is retained

Hence make 

I do refill my ink

I do make sure it never hours dry.




In the beginning, God created poetry.

Poetry birthed every thing.

First line ever would be:

Let there be light.
Never of His words would go unfulfilled He said.

His blessings and rebukes through His words.
Prints became immortal sister of words.

Piercing the soul or soothing the heart.



I write in the wilderness of anger

Where i command the pen

To speak, write and proclaim

What it sees, feel and think.
Poetry sets from the North, East, South- West,

It is the mother of every children,

The one who does not have father

Yet, with many unborn generations.
Poetry is the voice

That does not have mouth

But with a melodious tone 

‘Cos it wont sees not to tell but the truth.
Poetry is a soothsayer

That tells the truth

And proclaim authority

With a manifest audacity.
Poetry is a composition of verse

Exhibiting conscious attention to problems

Through the minds –

The ink through which it tell.
Poetry is the bile

That liveth in the heart of the personnel

To correct ill manners of the society

And foster credibility of the moralities. 



The prison is also for human beings

Saith their crappy voice against ours

And we thought we brought them on

So very better we Re-think

Forever seeking freedom; humans

Never running dry; our pens

Only tool they hate; our minds

Their first antagonist; the poets

The long term memories

The day changing secrets

The sooth revealers

All God’s works are all ours

Powerful to rip apart

Unashamed to mend souls

Hope for the weak

Medication to the mind

Medievalist we are
With just a message, she’s off her feet

With lullabies in poem, he’s won over

With emotional poems, we stopped crisis

With written texts, we are all over

Got the keys to the locked gates

We hold the stamp to blueprints

Alas, the voice of a poet resounds

The works of a writer talks

The beauty in our poems shines 

And behold a poet don’t die!

I’m a poet

I’m an icon

I’m a puncheon.



You were there,  

Announcing yourself like the town crier, 

And passing a message, 

Like the sound from the talking drum. 
You are here, 

Bringing words together, 

Creating a platform, 

One that would project what you speak. 
You will continue to be, 

For words will not cease to be, 

An edifice, 

You will forever make out of them. 
Whether you stand or sit, 

In paper or in voices, 

You will execute the purpose,

For which you exist. 



 Lines, stanzas – emotion

All in one, words flow 

Anthology – attention 

They are one in spirit – the glow 
Never underestimate poem’s power

It always work where it could save 

It’s nothing but a life saver 

The true nature is a heart safe
I speak seventeen syllables 

All combined to give a haiku

Five – seven – five words syllables 

All fused in three stanza-coup
I’m a coup mastermind 

Punching words to pierce the mind 

Never scared of using metaphor 

To cause my opponents fall
I’m just a learner who spew poetry 

Although I can’t spell onomatopoeia

Or differentiate innuendo from irony 

I’m not a faker but a word wielder
I write rhymes but worries about rhythm

Wondering if they could add up to create sonnets

Plus if poetry could be sung in church like a hymn

Maybe poetry will breed a lot of Saints.
To who that refuses to see beyond,

Survival of depression without expression 

Is like driving a car with no petrol!

Poetry is my expression and petrol!

        Emaculate Ife.


And who says a poet can be put into a dungeon?

When he has not lost his poetic lines,

Neither has he lost his muse,

He possess puncheon,

Forever with his bleeding pen.
Living with the memories of when poets are neglected,

Kept most poets in emotional trauma.

Their pens remains in everlasting oubliette,

So rusty and dusty,

Only the brave ones survived the agony of the atrocity.
Poets are meant to be celebrated, 

Appreciated and not deserted,

For from their celebrations, 

Comes muse for more word masturbation,

Which produces life beautification and titivation.



Dark and frozen mysteries 

You lighten and turn up stories 

You unleash hidden truths

And teach mighty fools

You crawl into deepest thoughts 

And make minds courts
You cut through noisy hearts 

You rule over gentle minds

They rejoice in meeting their kinds

And they bring nature into art

They bring kings to meditate

And write even on slate
You hold famous legends

And can predict a good end 

You exist to help souls

If they are ready to act their roles

You do no racism 

For You join Euphrates to mississippi
You are not god

But every poets knows your eulogy

For you are the voice of the poor 

The lyrics of every couplet 

And the power of greatest minds

You are a puncheon 

That sink through every mind’s

And you never cease to exist 

For I heard Solomon wrote you an ode

And shakespare borrowed from thee

And I read of Oscars lines 

And am sure you’ll travel till the world folds

And until the earth cease

        QUEEN NICY


Deep down am lost,

feel like am shredded,

but you found me and gave me hope

of years to come.
i wallow in nothingness,

you supported me with your lovingness,

day by day i’m charged towards my slate

wherein my life dwells.
when am dejected,

i find love in u,

you know the every me,

even the darkest side are like mirror to u.




Aged Golden Rod held highly by world’s wordsmiths,

Powerful sturdy stamp that commands both kings and slaves.

Purely colourless translucent drinkable water of the wise,

Unsavory tasteless unswallowable solidity for fools.

Faceless faces breathing heavily with bodilessness,

Call it the immaterial substance that covers space,

Call it the whispering winds in hollow sphere,

The immortality of gone mortals like Shakespeare.
Should I say it is Fairy Power or Real Authority?

Or should I simply call it what it is; POETRY!


          MISS LOVE


Give me this sword

Let me hold it by its neck.

Only this can show to the world

That it is I that has been ordained.
Just this I crave to have

A symbol of hope

For the nation that I have

Been ordained to dominate.
Give me my strength;our strength

Myself and Shakespeare’s

This poetry is our blood

Myself and others.

This poetry is our own authority.




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