Tears for Biafra

I have been away for a while... working and sticking my head deep into a hole which was inspired by the events which my father wrote about in this poem... I found it, along with letters of rejection from the Saturday Review and New Yorker, in a file folder which also contained letters from one of my father's colleagues, begging to send his children to us and safety...
 

Tears for Biafra

George H. Axinn

Beneath the palms the children played

With gentle laughter danced and swayed

While women fined the evening fires

And told each other of life’s desires.

They bore home water in earthen flasks,

And carried on their homespun tasks
Whilst at palaver the men did sit
And with palm oil, the lamps were lit.
Then like a curse the machete fell
From North and West they heard they yell
And refugees told of a living Hell
As they swarmed back home to break the spell;
With stories of horror there to tell
And hopes that the maimed might soon be well.
 
A people cried… depressed… forlorn –
And out of those tears, Biafra was born!

The lame, the beaten; the great and small

Brothers and sisters were welcomed all.
Cassava was planted where never before
And yams were gathered to fill the store.
Their plea was freedom to live alone
In Peace and safety; to throw no stone…
The Igbo, Ibibio, Effik and Ijaw
Ogoja and Annong, and so many more.
The leaders, in Ghana, their fears did allay
And on Aburi would they stand and pray.
But the Federals refused to let them away
Brought rifles and mortars to pave the way
To death for mothers and children at play.

A people cried… depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.

 At first the battle went quite well

And both sides had their claims to tell
But then came guns and tanks and planes
To Lagos to enhance their gains
From London and Moscow and Cairo too
While poor Biafra had nothing new
As mortars fired and guns did blast
And no one lived as they swept past.
The world saw not how many died
Nor heard the sounds as children sighed,
Yet hungry dogs and vultures plied
The lanes alone – ‘twas genocide’.
All churches, schools, and markets wide
Were left in smoke, but not denied.

A people cried … depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.