Tag Archives: African poets

Akua Nyameke

by Agyei Sarpong Kumankoma
The stream smiles . . .
Your reflection rides on her
Ripples like a goddess
In a crystal palanquin

You are the lyrics
Of the sunbird’s song
Calling the sun
To wash her rainbow garment
In the stream

This simmering applause
Filtered by bamboo leaves
Welcomes your arrival
Into the meditative calm

Akua Nyamekye-
I have been here hunting
Crabs since the palmwine tapper’s
Second visit to the triplet raffia

I am the clay statue
Who witness the limning
Of footprints of all
The village maidens on this bank

Maggots dance in their footprints
To the cheer songs of flies
Whilst a kaleidoscope of butterflies
Tend in yours, a flower garden

The silhouette fellow
Tiptoes with icy feet
Bearing a golden thurible
Covered in the hypnagogic smoke
Of your fragrance
To engrave your name
On the virgin moon

Agyei Sarpong Kumankoma is a  writer from Ghana. He is a product of St  James Seminary Senior High School in Sunyani, where he currently lives.

Lucid

by Seth Boss Kay

Luxury of time eludes.

Immortality is mirage;
A dream far-too-away from manifestation.

Integral to the totality
of all humanity is trans-personality.

Mortals incomparable to immortals in physical.
Yet the two worlds overlap,
Interacting with usually unnoticeable constancy.

The reality of the unseen,
As real as the actuality of the seen.

But never is forever;
All that is natural shall see mortality.

Fatwa/Vendetta?

by Michael Aseidu-Siaw

It’s Friday,
Almost time for the evening prayer.
Fix  your Cilices,
Tighten them around your thighs;
Wear your chastity belts
Or better still, tear them off!

We need them as weapons,
We need them as instruments
For we are attending a confession-
A reverend father
Is going to tell us
Why he fucked my 8-year-old nephew
In his butt.

Michael Aseidu-Siaw is a graduate of the University of Ghana.

The Whistler

by Daniel Kojo Appiah

With a purse full of a
mangled mixture of coins,
she limps leisurely to
several farm-sized gardens.

With her fevered lips pursed,
and hips slightly reversed,
limping a march of lifelessness
she walks in step with the threnody.

The profiteers, ever so elated
to spot their favourite buyer;
The one whom Hades slated
a client that never tires.

For death, thus refuses
to blow the whistle on
queer farmers of peace who
have only sown war.

Putting blunted sickles
to mutilated corpses,
nothing is left of the harvest
but caked blood on the leaves.

With her purse now emptied
buying some wares on credit,
she purses her lips once more
whistling away with human lives.

Editor’s notes
Daniel Kojo Appiah won the maiden Ghana Poetry Prize. He is a student of  Regent  University of Science and Technology. He blogs here.