Tag Archives: emerging 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.

Losers And Abusers

               by Kwaku Krobea Asante

They say, ”to hunt the red antelope in the sacred forest is a taboo”
So, they prefer feeding on the motionless snail
They say, ‘’the diligent fisherman will one day latch on to the golden sea goddess’’, but who?
They kiss the banks of the river and return to mend their unbroken nets at canoe’s tail

Under the straggling Onyina tree, they playfully gulp from a broken calabash
All day, they sit staring their broken faces at inverted mirrors
Counting nights and moons, they hope for when the rooster will offer a hatch
Failed! They say, ”we are evidences of Odomankoma’s errors”
Our fathers did not bequeath to us fortunes of gold dusts
What will our wandering soles offer?
Our ancestors failed to bestow on us treasure pots transferred from the past
How then do we mend our tattered coffer?

Tuesdays are forbidden to go into the weeds
Fridays are sacred for the gods by default
Wednesdays are not fertile to bury the seeds
Saturdays, their bankless tears will sail the departed soul to his vault
Sundays they sit in the palanquins of idleness basking among kinsmen
Yet they dream in the fantasies of day-break; bards singing their appellations in Sikakrom
They are, but nature’s abusers
They are, but life’s losers

Editor’s Notes
Kwaku Krobea Asante  is a graduate of University of Ghana.  This poem made it to the longlist of the inaugural Ghana Poetry Prize.  He writes regularly on his blog.

In My Time

By Oyin Oludipe

Walls are thicker in my time

I fear the birth of twitching veins

To dare the severing sublime

Of heart from body to lone wings

In my time the air is gone

In place of blood to course the stench

That plows the senile mind than none

As rock-bred singers storm the drench

Here has learnt to bribe the heart

Guilt is wearied in crucible

Of time’s trampling seconds and that

Scourge of memories they cripple

Skies stare alone in my time

Squirming to reincarnate death

To the calling cold-hearted clime

Vultures roost, herald to the dearth

In my time mind crawls the vault

Where limbs scale the girth to partake

Of ballets foul, motions of spite

That shall plumb the soul deep to break

Yet, these seeds are reined of dusts

I fear the earth is choked on filth

The years reform their plaguing wraiths

Beneath the grime, that time so stealth