tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post886924941812733138..comments2023-12-06T19:01:10.313+00:00Comments on One Ghana, One Voice: Ghanaian Poetry's Inspirations - An IntroductionRob Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06507320627534702508noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-23266275268419882322013-12-09T12:32:20.708+00:002013-12-09T12:32:20.708+00:00"Death is like a stubborn housefly
that keep..."Death is like a stubborn housefly <br />that keeps gnawing at our raw wounds <br />when the wounds are about to heal <br />it sinks again its hideous proboscis<br />yesterday it was Atta Mills, Achebe, Seamus <br />today it’s the turn of our beloved Kofi Awoonor....<br /><br />"who shall be the next?"<br /><br />It's Madiba himself. Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela. <br /><br />Our mourning cloaks are still hanging loosely on our necks...<br />streaks of dry tears marks on our sombre faces... <br /><br />This is our time to remember Madiba...<br /><br /><br />On facing the death penalty in 1964, Nelson Mandela said:<br /><br />"During my lifetime I have dedicated myself to this struggle of the African people. I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to see realised. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die."Delatrophyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05187687396058255540noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-31158381340979471852013-12-05T12:05:16.924+00:002013-12-05T12:05:16.924+00:00(Continuation)
The predictive lines of these two ...(Continuation)<br /><br />The predictive lines of these two different poems of Kofi Awoonor seem to be pointing at one obvious direction: his flow of thought while writing these poems were as a result of the continuous uninterrupted flow of thoughts and feelings through his mind – a phenomenon we termed “poet persona” in order to isolate it from the poet’s consciousness. <br /><br />How do we cage the poet persona? Is our attempt to cage the poet persona be likened to the futile attempt to hold a moonbeam in our hands? Who or what then is the poet persona? It is the poet’s sub-conscious mind, of course. Whether we like it or not, a poet persona takes a greater chunk of the poet’s consciousness. Did the late Kofi Awoonor somehow intuitively felt the manner and way he would die but lack the repertoire to register, pin-down its connectivity - the ability to communicate with another structure apart from poetry? Who then are the rest of the characters (poet personae) in Awoonor’s poem in reference to his copious use of “we” or “our?” Perhaps it might be referring to participants of the botched Storymoja Hay festival, a celebration of writing and storytelling, in the Kenyan capital last September which was also brought to an abrupt halt because of Kofi Awoonor’s sudden death, or it might be referring to the other victims of Westgate Mall shooting. <br /><br />“A sudden silence fell<br />as the crowd pushed and yelled<br />into the bright sharp morning of a shooting.”<br /><br />Excerpt from “This Earth, My Brother”<br />…………<br /><br />“We are the celebrants<br />whose fields were<br />overrun by rogues<br />and other bad men who<br />interrupted our dance<br />with obscene songs and bad gestures”<br />……………<br /><br />“But who says our time is up<br />that the box maker and the digger<br />are in conference<br />or that the preachers have aired their robes<br />and the choir and the drummer<br />are in rehearsal?”<br /><br />- Culled from “Promises of Hope: New and Selected Poems,” selected by Kofi Anyidoho, University of Nebraska Press and the African Poetry Book Fund, 2014.<br /><br /><br />Now, let's take a critical look at what is a poet persona.<br /><br />What is a poet persona?<br /><br />A persona, from the Latin for mask, is a character taken on by a poet to speak in a first-person poem. Anthony Thwaite's 'Monologue in the Valley of the Kings' uses the word 'I' but it refers, not to the poet, but to the Pharaoh, Thwaite's persona in this poem. Sometimes a persona may persist across several poems, such as Wendy Cope's alter ego Jason Strugnell. <br /><br />Dramatic monologues, as they must create a character, necessarily create a persona; however, as a poem using a persona need not tell a reader anything about the situation of the speaker, the narrative, or the person that the poem is spoken to, a persona-poem need not be a dramatic monologue.<br /><br />Some critics prefer to treat every 'I' as a persona. The biographical truth (or not) of, say, George Szirtes' 'Preston North End', would be considered irrelevant. Others allow a belief in poetry as personal testimony, which Samuel Menashe insists on in his introduction to 'Self-Employed'. <br /><br />http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/glossaryItem.do?id=8086Delatrophyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05187687396058255540noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-84520939749417917412013-12-05T11:56:47.671+00:002013-12-05T11:56:47.671+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.Delatrophyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05187687396058255540noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-83810388792758469002013-12-05T11:48:39.318+00:002013-12-05T11:48:39.318+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.Delatrophyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05187687396058255540noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-26068178002911918772013-12-05T11:41:15.057+00:002013-12-05T11:41:15.057+00:00Prince Mensah, thank you for sharing these poems. ...Prince Mensah, thank you for sharing these poems. I equally agree with you on how you feel about these poem whose words are so touching and mind boggling. Tears are still welling in my eyes after reading these poems reflectively. The words, tone and mood of the poems are clearly shrouded motifs of death, as if the late Professor Kofi Awoonor was actually predicting his own death. <br /><br />In my first OGOV interview in the Q/A section on January 23, 2010, I did mention what my personal definition of who a poet is: “A poet is a wordsmith with prophetic visions of pent-up emotions alloyed in the subliminal vaults that is made explicit on the grim tufts of reality.” <br /><br />Based on the antecedence of obsession with the theme of death and aftermath of the Westgate Mall Shooting incident, I guess Kofi Awoonor might have subconsciously or indirectly been foretelling his own death with subtle choice of words. This baffling incident makes me reflect deeply on how directly or indirectly a poet’s personal stream of consciousness (a literary style that presents a character's continuous random flow of thoughts as they arise) impact on his sub-conscious mind. Sub-consciousness in this regard is referred to as the mental activity not directly perceived by the consciousness, from which memories, feelings, or thoughts can influence behavior without realization of it. This sounds very creepy but it might just be the truth.<br /><br />(To be continued)Delatrophyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05187687396058255540noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-89190121150326748642013-12-03T21:21:46.130+00:002013-12-03T21:21:46.130+00:00Excerpt from “This Earth, My Brother”
…He will co...Excerpt from “This Earth, My Brother”<br /><br />…He will come out of the grave<br />His clothes thrown around him;<br />worms shall not have done their work.<br />His face shall beam the radiance of many suns<br />His gait the bearing of a victor,<br />On his forehead shall shine a thousand stars<br />he will kneel after the revelation<br />and die on this same earth.<br /><br />And I pray<br />That my hills shall be exalted<br />And he who washes me,<br />breathes me<br />shall die.<br />They led them across the vastness<br />As they walked they tottered<br />and rose again. They walked<br />across the grassland to the edge of the mound<br />and knelt down in silent prayer;<br />they rose again led to the mound,<br />they crouched<br />like worshippers of Muhammed.<br />Suddenly they rose again<br />stretching their hands to the crowd<br />in wasteful gestures of identity<br />Boos and shrieks greeted them<br />as they smiled and waved<br />as those on a big boat journey.<br />A sudden silence fell<br />as the crowd pushed and yelled<br />into the bright sharp morning of a shooting. …Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05633647444598381866noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-53361093765839402832013-12-03T21:15:29.322+00:002013-12-03T21:15:29.322+00:00I got this new poem of Kofi Awoonor in his soon to...I got this new poem of Kofi Awoonor in his soon to be published anthology, Promises of Hope: New and Selected Poems, from this site:<br />http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2013/09/22/read-one-of-kofi-awoonors-final-poems/<br /><br />African poet Kofi Awoonor (1935-2013) was among those slain in a terrorist attack on a mall in Nairobi, Kenya. The African Poetry Book Fund is set to publish Awoonor’s latest collection, “Promises of Hope: New and Selected Poems” in 2014. Here, by permission of the publisher, is one of Awoonor’s final poems.<br /><br /> <br /><br />ACROSS A NEW DAWN<br /><br /> <br /><br />Sometimes, we read the<br /><br />lines in the green leaf<br /><br />run our fingers over the<br /><br />smooth of the precious wood<br /><br />from our ancient trees;<br /><br /> <br /><br />Sometimes, even the sunset<br /><br />puzzles, as we look<br /><br />for the lines that propel the clouds,<br /><br />the colour scheme<br /><br />with the multiple designs<br /><br />that the first artist put together<br /><br /> <br /><br />There is dancing in the streets again<br /><br />the laughter of children rings<br /><br />through the house<br /><br />On the seaside, the ruins recent<br /><br />from the latest storms<br /><br />remind of ancestral wealth<br /><br />pillaged purloined pawned<br /><br />by an unthinking grandfather<br /><br />who lived the life of a lord<br /><br />and drove coming generations to<br /><br />despair and ruin<br /><br /> <br /><br />*<br /><br /> <br /><br />But who says our time is up<br /><br />that the box maker and the digger<br /><br />are in conference<br /><br />or that the preachers have aired their robes<br /><br />and the choir and the drummers<br /><br />are in rehearsal?<br /><br /> <br /><br />No; where the worm eats<br /><br />a grain grows.<br /><br />the consultant deities<br /><br />have measured the time<br /><br />with long winded<br /><br />arguments of eternity<br /><br /> <br /><br />And death, when he comes<br /><br />to the door with his own<br /><br />inimitable calling card<br /><br />shall find a homestead<br /><br />resurrected with laughter and dance<br /><br />and the festival of the meat<br /><br />of the young lamb and the red porridge<br /><br />of the new corn<br /><br /> <br /><br />*<br /><br /> <br /><br />We are the celebrants<br /><br />whose fields were<br /><br />overrun by rogues<br /><br />and other bad men who<br /><br />interrupted our dance<br /><br />with obscene songs and bad gestures<br /><br /> <br /><br />Someone said an ailing fish<br /><br />swam up our lagoon<br /><br />seeking a place to lay its load<br /><br />in consonance with the Original Plan<br /><br /> <br /><br />Master, if you can be the oarsman<br /><br />for our boat<br /><br />please do it, do it.<br /><br />I asked you before<br /><br />once upon a shore<br /><br />at home, where the<br /><br />seafront has narrowed<br /><br />to the brief space of childhood<br /><br /> <br /><br />We welcome the travelers<br /><br />come home on the new boat<br /><br />fresh from the upright tree<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br />From “Promises of Hope: New and Selected Poems,” selected by Kofi Anyidoho, University of Nebraska Press and the African Poetry Book Fund, 2014Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05633647444598381866noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-73462643276115943612013-09-24T18:11:14.618+00:002013-09-24T18:11:14.618+00:00Great work, Rob. Great work, Rob. Nana Agyemang Ofosuhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01806265147084205458noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-79530641662171165582013-09-20T20:33:33.031+00:002013-09-20T20:33:33.031+00:00That would be a hard guess. I can only imagine how...That would be a hard guess. I can only imagine how surprising this whole exercise will result, knowing that its creator couldn't even hit every throw for the bull's eye. It's like a game of dart. The distance may seem so close. <br /><br />Still guessing... Darko Antwihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01345172369072331718noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-85559389807647597252013-09-19T20:26:46.096+00:002013-09-19T20:26:46.096+00:00Thank you, Darko!
Do you have any guesses as to w...Thank you, Darko!<br /><br />Do you have any guesses as to what the answers to some of those questions might be? <br /><br />I can tell you that I guessed about half of them right, myself...Rob Taylorhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06507320627534702508noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555516329392912719.post-89596714020544635932013-09-19T20:20:03.444+00:002013-09-19T20:20:03.444+00:00Incredible forensic move! OGOV has the smartest se...Incredible forensic move! OGOV has the smartest sense of direction, that gathers the genetic foot and finger prints of the Ghanaian poet. It's going to be some useful stats for our records. Welldone, Rob and team. Darko Antwihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01345172369072331718noreply@blogger.com