Monday, January 26, 2009

Sardine Happiness

By Al-hassan

It was a Saturday morning

Big Boats from Apam visit Gomoa Fetteh

It was low tide, the see is calm

Exposed rocks green see weeds

It smells fresh and green

Young men in shorts carrying sardine boxes

Boys snatching sardine

Fishmongers busy bargaining for sardine

Pure water and orange sellers were all there

It was a joy to see happy faces chit-chat

My feet rooted in sand

I could not leave the harbour

Sardine “don’t bring” happiness to Gomoa Fetteh


Amewuga Ablordeppey

What Dom,

And from what Free;

What Ta,

And from what Cen:

Yeah Freedom Centre,

I’m glad I don’t pay to enter…

Here my ears are brightened,

Here my soul is flamed in wisdom,

People mind beautifully high,

I mix in and peacefully sigh…

Yeah Freedom Centre

Keep sculpturing this banter…

Hold high poetry’s torch,

Shine it all over very much,

My asanka says you’d call all,

That beyond and ever you’d stand tall,

Yeah Freedom Centre,

Thank God I’m a poetry repenter


Thursday, January 22, 2009

Mashed Yam

Papa Alata

Mashed yam and palm oil,

Soothing meal will it be,

Soothing meal down my throat,

World competitors it will conquer.

When I savour

Childhood delicacy

Of much adequacy

As motherly message

It gives at home

Down my throat

Mummy is an expert.  

The Lorry Station

Papa Alata

The little rising dust

Like brown water spray,

Of a fountain overburdened,

Junked up palm kernels noisy,

With torn – up tarpaulin tops

These wooden body Lorries,

Their blaring horns,

Like the unheeded mournful tones

Of a whale calling;

All in a confusion of burying humanity

That was the lorry station

Of the birds eye view.

Five Little Sisters

Papa Alata

Five little sisters

Each as a mistress

Live they in distress

Created by the seamstress,

Thinking under great stress

They go up with slow steps

Unattractive cut of dress,

Up the chapel with mindful steps

Sabotaged by the priestess

Their spirit in a great mess.

Love Me, God

Papa Alata

Love me Mummy’s God

Daddy’s Lord,

Everybody’s Call,

Of the Nazarene Cult

Love me ,God

Even when the gourd,

Is used for your lot

From the fetish call

Of the animist cult.

Love me, God

House Nigger

Betraying his fellows,                                                                                                                                                                     

Privileges does he win                                    

Of not working in the fields,

Betraying his fellows,

Elevated he does become

 Insuring the neo-colony

In Black Atlantic

Better skin colour,

A woman of the Master Class

House Niggers

Most have the Cream become

The best of sable Crowd,

Better slaves

And ethnic purity disgraced,

Even in these days,

Of going our own way.

When our own should hold sway;

Black Cush,

Seize the times.


Saturday, January 17, 2009

By Brother Biko

oh geez oh please

a week in office

some are saying hes slow

as if they dont know

that one misruled us for eleven years

and we gave him an extra eight

another came to tie us to hopelessness

and he had eight to waste the state

both cant be better than atta mills

unless he learns their special skills

we need a change we need a change

but some comments are so strange

for ghana to reach the top

some may really have to shut up

My Colour Never Gets Tired

By Brother Biko

being traumatized dehumanized despiritualized disconnected

yet my colour never gets tired

passed thru colonialism passed thru slavery

thru the hands of jesus mohammed to be damned eternally

yet my colour never gets tired

being beaten raped hired fired

yet my  colour never gets tired

passed thru wars hunger diseases

manmade catastrophies and crisis

yet my colour never gets tired

being pinched stretched bleached discoloured

yet my colour never gets tired

passed thru ruthless invaders brainless leaders

mind destroyers liars reverend pastors

yet my colour never gets tired

fraustrated humiliated segregated denigrated

yet my colour never gets tired

buried in the atlantic sea ripped from mothers belly

life is still ugly life is still bloody

yet my colour never gets tired

tied shackled manacled fettered

yet my colour never gets tired

my colour is still fighting to be free

and  my colour shall be free for the world to see

Colourless Curse

By Brother Biko

oh soweto

oh children

oh zimbabwe

not yet uhuru

theyve not changed

they wont change

we have to change things

chaining our feet

hanging our mind

tearing us apart to build themselves

satisfying their selfishness and greed

on our mind and our back

destroying our cultures

stealing our  myths

and giving it back to us

to make us look stupid

giving us a god to worship to  keep us in slave ship

diverting our attention to the skies

as they dig beneath our sole

for the gold that made europe and amerikkka

drowning us in angry oceans

casting us into prisons within prisons

for the crime of speaking about freedom

as they sleep with our wives

rape our mothers

snatch our husbands

kill our fathers

shattering our families into irretrievable pieces

battering our heads for refusing to be slaves

chopping off our hands over rubber

making us do the same to ourselves

for them to get their blings

demonizing us for reclaiming our farmlands

confusing us to the realities of this life

crushing our aspirations and giving us false hopes

unfair trade deals here and there

allying themselves to oppressive pro western regimes

providing tips to blind our foolish leaders

for them to keep the people in poverty

by bringing in idiotic problematic solutions

to aggravate white mess all these years

and yet the slavemasters talk about a curse on afrikans

what curse do we know of if not they on us

what curse is undoing afrikans

if not the same old colourless curse


Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Where Can I Be Heard?

By Vivian Golokumah

My Friend, my friend, my friend!

Where can I pour my thoughts?

Where can I pour my heart, where can I share

My worries and fears, where can speak my mind,

When there is none to hear me?

Where can I shed my tears when they can’t be seen?

Only in poetry can I be heard.

Monday, January 5, 2009

The Coming Storm In The Village

by P. A Oranmeyen

The wind comes blowing through the louvres,

To run over my skin,

Cool and soothing,

As I stand at the magazine stand.


Twinkling in the night sky outside,

Are the many stars,

Little eyes of the unknown do they look;

Eyes smiling,

Over the subdued city,

Underneath the huge overturned bowl,

That the night’s sky is.


The sound of traffic comes faint and singing,

But unusual silence envelopes the hall,

And I turned round;

Seven faces,

Thinking of home’s comfort,

And turning out the last reader,




And to me comes the night’s coolness,

 Doubly strengthened,

Caressing my arms and cooling my forehead.


The wind howls now,

Pieces of dirty paper,

Are in the streets flying;

Deserted streets,

Save the lonely souls hurrying,

To the comfort of home.


Cool wind now,

Speaking to me,

Of of childhood days;

Days of innocence,

When the very air,

Was great discovery,

And the paper kite,

The greatest invention.


Cool winds speaking,

Of the early life,

Mother’s warm breasts,

And the comforting laps,

The soothing palm in the thunderstorm,

And the ample arm,

Protection itself it was,

From lightning’s flash;

Her warmth,


The calming words,

For her frightened prince;

Her great prince,

That even cats could bully without trying,

Who ruled her heart,

And her motherly love held,

That great prince that was so,

For being her first living male.



The drizzle comes now,


Like alien snow in the darkness,

As I break,

From the dark and lonely streets.


Neon lights here,

Psychedelic and inviting,

Like unconcerned mutes,

They smile in the rain,

Doomed to the elements,

And happy in their work,

Bringing to me,

Thoughts of Mother,

Happy she is in her work at home.



That would slave for her children’s happiness,

Mother that would starve,

If feeding them meant going hungry,

To whom the greatest sorrow,

Is the frown of her children,

On her advice.


The rain grows stronger,

And with other victims,

Do I seek shelter from the lash,

Under the upper floors,

  The closed shops,

Listening ,

To the animated chatter here.


Woman behind a big pan,

Porridge seller;

The ladle dips,

And disappearing,

Brown bowl comes to view;

White inside receives,

The hot brown liquid,

With money bowl beside her,

Of water and coins,

And daughters behind giggling,

With two youngmen joking.


Street lights shining on the watery street,

Like a million fireflies,

Under a ruffled sea;

In keeping beat of movement,

With whistling,

Of a cinema house nearby,

And taxicabs crawling down the street,

Windows closed,

Like so many tortoises in the rain.


And I stood by the hurrying humanity,

Beside the porridge seller,


To the soothing sounds,


The singing ring of her voice,

The homely sound that called for customers,

Before the closed shops,

Business place of the Levantines;

While against a pillar I lean,


Of the night life and the rain,


The Beginning,

And of Mother

Saturday, January 3, 2009


By Jonathan Langdon

If you don’t know
You don’t know
The greatest puppets
Have the most to gain
Their padded stomach
Insulation against the plight
A quivering layer of dependency and drought

If you don’t know
You can’t know
All that shouting
The violent vociferous velocity
Of insults and exclamations
Is camouflage for
Ballots bought, ballots bound

If you don’t know
Should you care?
This belly politics
Is like a disease that blinds
With religious-like zeal
Swearing what is white is black
And what is black is white

If you don’t know
You should know
Politics, they say politricks
I say bellytricks, like insect-tics
They are parasites sitting heavy
Blotting out the possibilities
Of this misnomer we all
Haltingly call democracy