Emerging Ghanaian Poets You Should Pay Attention To in 2014

So  this list is the first part of  a project that I have been involved in for the past year or so. I  sought to interrogate the future of Ghanaian poetry. In many ways, my interest has been on new voices like myself. I have  been blown away by some, totally humbled and some have made question myself as an artist. So in this list, I assume I am just an observer who is loud-mouthed.  I deprive myself of any entitlement to artistry in this context so as to be fair and not be clouded by my prejudices. Here we go in no particular order:

1. William Saint George ( Jesse Jojo Johnson) : There are a few  poet-species left on earth who are devotees of verse. William’s  attention to detail of the verse is something that has held me spellbound for months. It’s clear that the Victorian poets did not die and if they did, they left a lasting impression on a boy in Ghana who based his arts in their artistry and has honed a voice that is increasingly becoming his. In my view, William is Ghana’s most valuable literary currency of the younger generation. I copied this from his blog :

I Walked One Morning On A Street

I walked one morning, on a street,

one early, golden morning,

the only crowds were silent trees

and all their leaves were falling,

 

I took my time to scan the view,

and drink the living air,

to spy the alternating hues

of nature’s pompous fare.

 

I listened to the sighing wind

and followed all her notes,

while whistling along her flute

a duet learned by rote

 

I crossed a little wooden bridge

that spanned a giggling brook

and as I stood atop its back

three laden branches shook

 

I looked up through the dangling boughs;

I swore t’was someone there,

when something sweet disturbed my ear,

a bird song in the air.

 

Oh heaven, how have I been blessed!

I thought a bit aloud,

a songbird in a yellow coat

hid in the leafy shroud

 

Oh come down bird, oh come down bird,

I called to it at last,

come let us sing a little song

I wrote a season past!

 

The bird, with nonchalance, sang on

ignoring all my pleas

the leaves, consenting, stood in place

and hid the bird from me

 

So mad at being thus ignored

I found a little rock,

and threw my missile at the bird

to leave it quite in shock.

 

At last, it heard, and so came down

and calmly said to me,

dear one who cannot sing or fly,

I pray now, leave me be!

 

And quickly as it came, it went

and hid itself again,

and undisturbed at once resumed

its innocent refrain

 

What did I do then, you must ask,

with pride of self undone,

I took my paper and my pen,

and this same poem begun.

 My only criticism of William will be his reach of potential readership despite his potential.

2. Daniel Kojo Appiah :  As the winner of the maiden Ghana Poetry Prize, my faint words will be an attempt at fatal injury.  Over these few months, I have him seen on a quest that defines him in short poetry and spontaneous inspiration. Seemingly, he questions the  status quo in many of  his poems. His inclination is a continuation of the humanistic approach in poetry. Even in his vagueness, he constructs reality with tact.

Staring at a Blue Wall

 

I sit on a chair
with wheels beneath.
Frozen I am in wonderous stare

I sit and stare
and can’t believe
Sorcery that mimics a fairy tale sky.

I sit unstirred,
this sky be strange;
clouds varied with symbols here

I sit and stare
I’m quite bereaved
This death has come, for now I see.

A death discussed
By computing knights.
This death I face this very time.

I asked it this,
and fearfully this:
“You, what kind of death are you?”

It never blinked,
closed its eyes, and said:
“You’ve only heard of who I am.”

I asked again,
it answered back:
“I am that blue screen of death.”

As part of my research for this piece, I Google-d his name. Apart from the announcement of the prize, he is virtually invisible on Google. That I think is an indictment on  such a fine talent.

3.  Amma Konadu :   I stumbled on her poetry a few months ago. I had this exciting feeling about hers.  She has a prose-like voice in poetry that engages in unique strength.

This Season

Seeing the half-naked

Kids

Dance-walking

Down the street

To the kiosk

 In that corner

To buy try-your-luck

Balloons

With their faces

White from

Their morning baths

Is what this season is about

Catching the boys

Toss knock-outs

Under Grandpa’s

Old rickety car

At dusk

With their mismatched

Slippers and

Oversized shirts balled up in the back

While they run for cover

Not knowing

Grandpa has seen them all

Is what this season is about

Turning on the TV

And hearing

A local choir

Sing Hallelujah Chorus

In discord

Dressed in old robes

Yet smiling through

Their almost

Sorry performance

And so you care not

That they

Sing it wrong

Because their aged faces

Are so jolly

Is what this season is about

The ringing out

Of Afehyia Pa

And the cheerful

Hope-filled

Afe-nkɔ-mmɛto-yɛn-biom

We hear all around us

Though the year

Had not been

One long sweet dream

Is what this season is about

So it is when we march up to

Where one road ends

And another

Unknown path

Begins

That we,

As one people

Stand and wait

Eager for the new

Saying in our hearts

May it be good

It is what this season’s about

4.  Fiifi Abaidoo: Here is somebody I connect with on a personal basis. I see in his voice a discovery (or rediscovery) of African poetry. He adorns himself in rich metaphor and diction which paints quite beautifully. He is one who reminds me of the early anthologies of African poetry I read.

I Speak To A Land

I summon all…

Come and listen to your message.
I am only a messenger from faraway…

Your land is cursed.
Fire consumes water!

You land is cursed.
The antelope hunts the hunter!

The leper does not shake hands with death
and goes a healed man…

People of Dakokrom,
bitter saliva scrapes
your king’s tongue, his belly is full with frogs from
Kyekyeku river, and his intestines are as stiff as a wawa tree
and heavy like Nkwatanan rocks.
He shall die and rot on his throne
to appease the gods your forefathers; he sold them to foreigners!

People of Dakokrom,
the priest of Mbem shrine committed incest
with his first child. He heeded to the call of her fleshy breasts,
and tore her beads at Sun-sleep.
He planted an abominable seed in her innocent land.
He gave her a potion to drink: a potion to wash away the forming fruit
of his labor. She died in three days amid the silent cries of the night.
He sowed her remains in the fertile soils of the land
and harvested a curse upon the land:

Your dying sons and daughters, livestock and crops…

People of Dakokrom,
I shall go to the river of ancestral spirits
to fetch the antidote for your cursed land

Let’s meet here in four market days…

             I pray you enjoy reading them as I do. I will continue building my list in the coming weeks. God bless you and I hope to see you again. 🙂