On a normal day
On a normal afternoon
In a topnotch hotel
A pang of strange premonition fills the air
And in the carnival mood that was getting merrier every hour,
A loud explosion is heard, followed by a ring of gunfire
And in the briefest of seconds,
Flames and plumes of black smoke are seen billowing into the overcast sky
The enemy is back,
Back to campaign
Campaigning for gloom and despondency in the country
Campaigning for superstition and bewilderment
A bird’s eye view sees nothing but something akin to rapture
All these gave birth to an infant ruckus
And some heads are seen spinning incessantly and in turmoil!
Some are seen scattering helter skelter
Those in the hotel are huddled stoically in bathrooms and wardrobes
As some are camouflaged in curtains!

Wrinkled faces, unsmiling and as ugly as sin, are seen approaching,
Armed to the tooth
Shooting at anyone and anything
Their course is to create a recessive schism and angst
A schism between Muslims and non-Muslims
A schism between Kenya and her ideals of love, peace and unity
A schism between Kenyans and courage
Little do they know that they are going to fail,
Fail like a brief dream of unremaining glory
Fail like an unreplenished stream
Fail like the trances of the summer air
They’ll fail like they did with the Westgate mall!
Right now she’s standing tall, smiling and welcoming them back
Welcoming them not for a glass of acid, but a glass of wine

As a whimper fills the air,
Kenyans are fuming
Fuming with flaring nostrils and eyes glittering with anger
And in a sotto voce we are saying,
‘This is Kenya. And we are forever unbowed to junior nobodies’
We are going to canalize our anger to the mountains
And build more and more skyscrapers
May they obliterate them all if they can
Our abhor will not be directed to each other, but rather to the enemies of progress
We will not recoil to fear but rather we,
Are going to stand tall and fight till the end
We may have failed in the past but now, we are working
Working hard to close the loopholes so that the foe won’t come through
Working hard on our course
The enemy may have caused a twinge in our conscience
They may have caused a conflict of emotions in our hearts
But our course is still on
As they kill and destroy,
We are going to carry each other
We will love each other like a mother
We will find each other in those wreckages even as tears will be spilling hotness down our cheeks
We will do all these because we,
Are Kenyans
And we,
Are forever unbowed!!

By Jamin Clement

I wrote this poem with a dam welling up in my eyes as a result of the most recent terror group attack, Al-shabaab,  on our Kenyan soil. Lives were lost and the best way I could encourage my fellow citizens and countrymen was through writing a poem. I’m Jamin Clement, a storyteller and a poet.

Blog : j4min.wordpress.com

If you would like to have your work published in The Poetry Bar send your poem, a few words about yourself and the link to your blog and Instagram account (if you have one) to the e-mail poetrybar1@gmail.com 

Alejandro Hormúz

Accomplished so much with little,
All worthless with this wound.
The wound which I created age 16,
The wound which bled age 27.
From México we left, but that
Wasn’t the first time I separated family.
Bautista, my brother and I, worked for nothing.
I had to leave the field, run, but he didn’t come.

I found a job which payed in River Spoon,
Simply brewed the morning elixir for the police station,
Simply meaningless, yet nothing to fear.
I arrived every dawn, I departed every dusk.
I tasked myself in the police,
Took up the Sheriff’s Badge once he retired.
A new day, a case like never before, or rather CASES.
A line of murders in this city.
Each of the four victims,
Five fingers I had, four fingers theirs.
Though they had five,
He, the murderer, stole the fifth.

The first murder, in a bar fight,
The second murder, in an argument,
The third murder, in the midst of a bribe,
The fourth murder, but not the finale, a personal grudge.

That night, I waited for the fifth.
But I missed it for a sight, 11 years old.
Through the gate, He and she left,
But the hair, his tone, mi hermano Bautista, my brother.

Should I follow, should I not?
Was not question.
My heart follows its,
Without caution, I surrender and follow Him.

Yet who was she?
I couldn’t help to wonder.
So much I wanted to say to Him,
Yet so little of Him I knew of what to say.

It was quite dark,
But where I could only see him, it was only darker.
Why couldn’t I see her,
She was no more.

She was the fifth murder,
He the lone murderer.
Bautista, for the first time in 11 years, I pronounced his name.
Alejandro, his first word.

“When did I teach you to kill, my brother?”
“When were you there, Alejandro?
Did I kill 11 years ago? Surely not?
But now, how are you a part of me? How, Alejandro?”

“Who taught you to kill?
It wasn’t yourself!”
“It was fate!
Fate which left me helpless, fate which left me choice-less.”

And then fate ended its story of mine,
With the physical pistol of His,
Which I never regarded to disband.
And my life was now finished. Y mi vida terminó.

I’m a young, 17-year old poet, drawing inspiration from the likes of Urdu masters Mirza Ghalib and Faiz Ahmed Faiz and famed American poet Emily Dickinson. Along with English, I usually write poems in Urdu and one can read some more of my verses at urduahsaas.wordpress.com

If you would like to have your work published in The Poetry Bar send your poem, a few words about yourself and the link to your blog and Instagram account (if you have one) to the e-mail poetrybar1@gmail.com 

Painted Heart

I’ve been thinking of a painting
That I’ve created in my mind
It’s a painting of something special
For which colors are hard to find
I’ve searched all over
Even the rainbow that leads to the gold
In hope of finding those special colors
For my canvas to hold

I know this painting would turn out right
If I had those colors to start
Special colors full of emotions
From which I could paint from my heart
I’m not really a painter
Just a person with an empty palette of dreams
Someone searching for the color of love
And searching forever as it seems

There’s a masterpiece in my heart
Which my canvas will soon acquire
And with every brush stroke that I’d make
It soon would be ready to admire
Where is that special color
That I need so very much
To add to my palette
And give my painting its one final touch

This vision I have in my mind
Is really a painting of you
There’s no need for rainbows
Only feelings that I know are true
I believe with all my heart
That love is any color you want it to be
For a masterpiece painted with love
Can be very special, for you and for me.

Blog link: https://amankumar001.wordpress.com/

If you would like to have your work published in The Poetry Bar send your poem, a few words about yourself and the link to your blog and Instagram account (if you have one) to the e-mail poetrybar1@gmail.com 

The Oxford University

Hello. Good day, good sirs.

How do you do.

I have with me my resumé,

A poem I’ll perform for you,

I’ve also brought my ukulele,

A stress ball and a hip flask, too.

(Just in case). In case of what?

A case of what? I’m glad you ask.

A case that’s very clinical indeed:

I’ve read the whole of War and Peace;

[exchanging looks]

I also know what alliteration is.

[an awed gasp]

Impressive, yes, I am aware

I am the candidate you seek.

Depression’s mild, panic attacks rare –

PTSD, but just a dot.

(War and Peace did take its toll)

I write prose, poetry and plays –

Your inspiration?

Well, just the classics – Brontë, Orwell,

Had a recent E. L. James phase.

The trilogy?

Yessir, all shades of grey in this bleak world.

What did you think?

A masterpiece of modern literature that both marvelled and disturbed.

I see.

[upon much contemplation]

Although you certainly have… an eccentricity, 

We feel that your application 

As… unique and bold as it is, 

Does not quite live up to the expectation

Of a student apt enough to bear the pressure of our course. 

And above all – 

Allow me to correct the errors of your discourse.

Excuse me?

Mister-Sir-Professor, you are about to suffer a loss of great extent –

We disagree. 

For goodness’ sake, you bearded snob –

Just listen and you shall see:

Please leave the room.

“Good day, good sirs – ”



Am a notorious womanizer currently residing at Oxford university named Carter. Joking, I have no life and I’ve been rejected because apparently I wasn’t ‘flexible enough in thought’ which I’m still very bitter about and use as poem inspiration amongst sex, my imaginary career in womanizing and soppy things.



If you would like to have your work published in The Poetry Bar send your poem, a few words about yourself and the link to your blog and Instagram account (if you have one) to the e-mail poetrybar1@gmail.com 

Poem #122

Oh, the stories we tell ourselves to make
us feel okay, to alleviate the blame.
But under the surface, deep down in the spot
from which your strengths bleed you know
it wasn’t them who didn’t do enough for you.
It was you who didn’t love yourself.
They weren’t trying to knock you down,
you just didn’t know which ladder to climb.
It wasn’t them that made you not good enough
it was your own insecurities that ate you up inside.

And now it’s not them stopping you from moving
past the dead point. It’s your fear of facing
yourself and your mistakes. It was always you.
It’s still you. It will always be you.

3 Haikus


   Thoughts indisposed,
imagination faltered, love!
what did you do to me?

Death Obsessed

Give me a sip from Lethe,
don’t I dare disturb the world.

Thoughts of You

The winter shivers,
the evening breeze,
and thoughts of you.


I am Muhammad Shahab. I like to read and write poetry. I am a literature student and an aspiring writer. My interests lie in Language and Literature and feel free if I could be of any help in these fields.You can read my blogs at Shahabistan.wordpress.com

If you would like to have your work published in The Poetry Bar send your poem, a few words about yourself and the link to your blog and Instagram account (if you have one) to the e-mail poetrybar1@gmail.com 

Life in Eldoret City

If you a fish lover,
A walkaway,
From business district,
Kwa Samaki is the place,
Enjoy fish with ugali,
‘Laked’ delicacy,
Every retail outlet,
Food joint,
Sell Mursik,
Cloud 9 play good music,
Ravine road enter the highway,
At Poa Place,
That recreational palace,
Cultural centre,
Swimming centre,
To the north,
Sits Munyaka,
Walking or driving,
You climb upward,
Past the railway line,
Kipchoge stadium,
Alpax college,
School of higher learning,
Past European cemetery,
To places far away,
Like Iten,
Place near like University of Eldoret,
And California,
At middle city,
Loud music play at shops,
There’s no order,
Bus stops,
All over the highway,
And footpaths,
Side by side,
Walk lovebirds,
Near the town hall,
The city clock,
Tick tock,
To eternity,
While masses walk fast,
Champions run fast,
Streets kids play,
While the city askaris,
Chase their parents,
Helter skelter,
To the south,
Kisumu ndogo,
And the famous Langas,
That’s past the Eldoret National Polytechnic,
Off there you can swim,
At Starbucks,
Or sing and dance your heart out at Marriott,
Uptown hosts a thousands souls,
Drainage is faulty,
And sewerage is linking,
Paths smell nasty,
But she,dances the street kid,
While KVDA reigned in the heights,
For sometime,
The skyscraper past the Cathedral stand tall,
And bold,
It watches all over,
The National Library is a walkaway,
From City Hall,
And Zion mall,
City is quiet on Sunday,

I’m Kiptoo Obadiah a Kenyan from Eldoret City,Uasin Gishu County. I’m passionate with poetry,writing and travelling.

I started writing and spoken word way back in high school but didn’t succeed. My poems are informed by life experiences, travel experiences, fantasy and beauty if life and nature.

My Poetry blog https://theobipoetry98992407.wordpress.com

If you would like to have your work published in The Poetry Bar send your poem, a few words about yourself and the link to your blog and Instagram account (if you have one) to the e-mail poetrybar1@gmail.com