The Death Of Poetry, Or The Page?

A lot of things are doing what poetry used to do. And are doing it better.

I got this from an article I’ll link to below. He argues, against his hopes, that poetry is dead. For many, it is. Or it has transformed into so many contorted shapes it is barely recognizable. You hear it in all the odd places, but rarely on the beloved page.

Writing, and consuming poetry on paper, is what’s almost dead. It has become a studio/stage thing, which while distasteful, is putting poetry into more mouths than the page can do in this age.

Poetry is relevant, but is the page?

link: http://poetryfoundationghana.org/index.php/featured/articles/item/634-poetry-ode-to-an-obsolete-art-form

Is This African Enough?

Hello Reader,

This is an impromptu post. I, just now (and forgive me, but I love to believe) have started a debate on twitter about fantasy writing and works of African origin.

This is in direct response to my poem- The Legend of Inve and Tantalla – which dwells heavily on European ideals and the like. Those who have read it are of the opinion that it fails because is not set in, and does not rely on African ideas, symbols, places and the like. I previously wanted to write a post on African Poetry, what makes a poem African, but had not the time to conduct some research. You can check out my previous posts on the issue.

Well, being the writer that I am, and fully aware of this hurdle of passing the African Test, of transcending my ethnicity with my work, I knew a time will come when I would be forced to throw up something “African”.

I often thought this will be a daunting challenge – because, and this is the sad part, I am not as used to my own ethnic folklore and mythos, as I am to those of Western European origin. Don’t blame me or my parents. Blame modernisation, and Christianity.

I could stoop low to defend my work, and site certain veiled African references I have put in the larger mythos. But I won’t. Instead, I publish here, a just completed piece which, if developed, could become my dream/nightmare of writing a Ghanaian epic.

Now, my good gentlement (and all who’re reading this), here’s my poem, as typed, unedited:

“Ananse

The coldness dwelt on forest green,
through all the world that could be seen
from high atop the mountain range
that withstood seasons without change.

Long time ago, when all was dark,
and gods had not yet left their mark.
Odomankomah, this world wrought
and ever since, we men have sought
the wisdom that drips in His wells:
whence Asaase Yaa draws Her spells
to paint the heavens with their blue
and grant the waters changing hue,
to carve the mounts on which we sit
and delve the deep forgotten pits.

That long has been the hope of men,
the fruits of wisdom and of ken.
To live with boundless food and coin,
Onyankopon’s high seat to join.

But what have men to do with gods
when they cannot make stone or sod?
What do they know of fate’s request,
and things done at fortunes behest?
Are they not feeble, blind and daft,
who excel not in fetish craft?
The river gods their kin enthrall,
by sickness smitten, lo! They fall.

All knowledge they must not possess
lest they be wise and seek redress
against our edicts, and enhance
their station when they get the chance.

Asaase Yaa will swallow them
and river gods will overwhelm
the rebel children if they rise
with knowledge against heaven’s skies.

Let us send them one of our own
to where their earthly pride has grown;
to tease and trick, to cheat and steal
but not our hidden ways reveal
until the long appointed time
when searching new and pleasant climes
those men from Portugal will sail:
where tongue is slurred, and skin is pale.

And so it was that in the hour
the trickster from high heaven’s tow’r
was left to spin a single thread
in descent to the earth, to spread
his most ingenious, deviant ways
amongst our kin, until that day.

So children of the chiefs and kings
about the fire, often sing
of one small spider, lean and wise,
his guiling ways and all his lies.”

I do not know much about our own poetry. I do not know our conventions in meter and such. The best I can do is to write in octosyllabic verses. I can’t tell if it is universal to humanity, or just a preferred choice by western European poets. Should form and meter be considered when deciding if a poem is African?

Is this a better way to go? Is this more African? Let me know your thoughts!

Sincerely,
Jesse.

Also, I hereby swear that all knowledge of Akan mythology contained herein is obtained from Wikipedia.

What Poetry In Ghana Needs

There’s a new thing in the air in Ghana. Thanks to our generous colonial masters for the foundation, and the present political and economic climate, we are witnessing a flourishing of the arts.

The traditional literary arts in Ghana particularly amuse me. From Uncle Ebo’s plays and the numerous ones being staged on campus here at KNUST, to the ALEWAs and P.O.E.T.S, we’re seeing a blossoming of art in the country.

Naturally, I will be very concerned about anything that takes the public’s consciousness. Especially when that thing matters so much to me. And that means poetry.

I had a talk with one brilliant young Ghanaian tech entrepreneur and professional photographer, Kwame Poncho.

It was in a short session with this literary group called SASA, so the talk was towards that direction. Two things struck me; during the introductions, the guy sitting by me was asked what he did [as his art]. “I rhyme” was his response. The other thing, which became apparent was, whenever poetry was mentioned, the stage was refered to, not the page.

Taking the zeitgeist as evidence, the stage has clearly triumphed in the hearts of Ghanaians. It saddens me, and I hate the fact, but I cannot do anything about it. I would go on and on about this debate, but I digress.

The worrying thing about the new organisations that are springing up in the literary world is the commercial aspect. It kind of feels very dirty, but it is there. And it’s working. And people are “hitting”. The chaos this excitement breeds gives rise to both noblemen and charlatans, wanna-bes, trash talkers and general bullshit-makers.

Obviously, I am not pleased with this, and I feel it waters down the nobility of the art in the country and the eyes of the world. It makes it a rag that is easily stepped on, trampled for gain and quick fame, and then discarded when the next big thing happens. That leads me to the titular question: What does poetry in Ghana need?

My simple answer: a non-profit organisation that will set the pace by presenting to the world the very best of Ghanaian poetry.

This simple function will have many effects on several people. Beginning with those who want to find out what all the buzz is about, this organization will put everything poetic into perspective. It will tell you who is doing what, where the person is doing it, and how the person is doing.

In this function, the organisation will touch on the uniqueness of the Ghanaian art, and highlight the efforts being made to improve it. It will have profiles of such groups as the Writer’s Project Ghana, the kind hearts at Goethe Institut, P.O.E.T.S, Alewa, Moonlight Cafe and such. It will provide a platform that will make these organisations and their activities known to the world.

Next, for those actually creating art in the country. The Internet is democratic, and we all can set up blogs. What will make this organisation relevant to them? By featuring the best poetry blogs in the country, it will give the already good guys even more reason to hone their skills to become good poets (or performers).

Besides selectively featuring such poets on the site, the organisation should award the most deserving through competitions open to all of them. Local content on the Internet is becoming a strong force to reckon with. Associating itself with organisations like BloggingGhana, and BarCamp or BlogCamp or whatever, will make it more relevant.

Through online journals and features in the leading newspapers, the organisation can make the poets in Ghana known.

Such an organisation must have enough clout to decide what is a good reflection of Ghanaian poetry, and what is rubbish. And a deserving poet can help raise awareness for the art form. Poetry doesn’t need mics & music, jokes and rap to stand up. It can, if the right thing is done.

For the old guns, and for the sake of our forefathers, the organisation can appease history by putting modern poetry into perspective. By highlighting the great forgotten poems of those Ghanaians of stellar reputation, the organisation will position itself as the primary source of the before, and present generation of poets. I once read a sweet love poem by Du Bois that convinced me of this forgotten treasure.

The organisation should not take it upon itself to teach people poetry. It cannot. It should not. It can stir open debates from bloggers and facilitate discussions. Intellectual discussions. It should not teach.

I write all this, and discuss the ideal organisation that will help poetry in Ghana, because it is one of my deepest passions. I love poetry. I love people who write poetry. I abhor people who exploit poetry, or who write bad verse.

I recognize, but have little to say about performers. They are poets, and such an organisation should not shun them. It should be seen as relevant to that large crowd, but must primarily focus on writing. Even the performer, one day, will sit and think and write for the page.

The organisation should not try to do all and be all. I believe a dedicated, focused organisation with the very simple goal of “(re)presenting the best of Ghanaian poetry” will be the greatest help poetry will have seen in this small West African nation.

May the best group win.

Sincerely,
Jesse.

The Witch Tree at Mubende: A Critical Look

Dear reader,

The witch tree
old and knobble
stood with years

scratched by a cross
abused
as cameras clicked
and learned tongues discoursed.

Naked it stood
in its age of mysteries
beauty and innocence
stood there too
side by side-
two witches
as I saw them
prismatic lenses prying
the old and the new-

To me she was then
the Mubende Witch Tree.

This poem by David Rubadiri is as straight forward as they come.

The title evokes a sense of mysticism when first read. This carries on throughout the piece, though the political/social undertones cannot be ignored.

The first sign of trouble comes in the second stanza. The ‘cross’ looks like a thingly veiled reference to Christianity as passed on to us by the west.

One easily sees the clicking cameras and learned tongues as symbols of modernity abusing the old witch tree. The irony of the poet’s sympathy with the “Witch Tree” is hard to understand. Witches in modern Africa as not liked.

Were this a Ghanaian poem, I would have drawn allusions to the problem of “Witch Camps” we see in the country. While this is apt, and can be infered from the first stanza, it is not satisfactory; we must go on to the next.

The next stanza is enigmatic, and throws the reader into s state of confusion. The introduction of the two witches standing “side by side” creates a ‘problem’. I get the feeling that a deeper knowledge of the writer’s motives and inspiration for this poem will reveal the essence of the two characters.

With their introduction, it is hard to place the “prismatic lenses prying the old and the new” into the right context. Are they antagonists, in league with the abusive tongues and cameras? Are they supporting the cause of the tree? That is unlikely, as their prying seems unwelcome.

The last question raises one more; what did the Tree really stand for, in the poem, and in David’s life? The last stanza brings the persona into the poem, and here he reveals (rather abruptly) that the naming of the tree was his idea. He also gives it a gender, transitioning from an ‘it’ to a ‘her’.

“To me she was then the Mubende Witch Tree.” Here, we then may conclude, probably erroneously (and in my thinking, to the poet’s secret joy) that the tree is what it is because of the witches that stand by her.

This brilliant short poem has lost all of its straight-forwardness.

The subtle play definitely is with purpose, but most of it is lost without proper context, and we are only left to dwell on our thoughts, on what “To us, she was.”

Critically thinking,

Jesse

African Poetry

Hello folks,

How’s the writing being? I’ve not had time, or inspiration, to post anything worthwhile on this site. My attention has been focused on some other monumental work I’m engaging in.

But this came to my mind just yesterday, when I wrote my most African poem yet. Don’t worry, I’ll share it with you.

The question that bugged me briefly was this: What is African poetry? What makes poetry African? Sure one day I’ll do some substantial research to answer this question, but just to tease your thoughts, here are some aspects we should think of:

Is poetry African when it is inspired by the continent’s history, heritage, present condition and/or hope? Is poetry African when it is written by Africans (I think not! Look at what those artistes are churning out)?

It’s a shame I can’t treat such an interesting topic in full here, but in my opinion, part of what makes a poem African is it’s reliance on themes taken from the continent to tell its message. I felt this most when I wrote the poem below:

The lucky ones
are still unborn.

Still they live
in Odomankoma’s womb,
and cast pearls
into the ocean
we call the starry sky.

They look down
into his pot,
and ask the old (wo)man

What is that black smoke
and that flashing flame?
Why do they cry
when they know
you do not hear?

Odomankoma,
wisest in all the heavens,
tells them:

That is hell,
with her new gods,
preaching fashion and make up.

Ananse has fooled them,
and taken all knowledge,
so they read a book
and think they are right.
They do not look,
they will not find,
but pray I do not send you there,
you lucky ones!
~~
This is a poem that doesn’t take a favourable look at the human condition on earth. It takes inspiration from Akan mythology, which has Odomankoma as the Godhead. I make the Godhead male/female, and elevate Kweku Ananse, the trickster on folklore to the level of Loki, as found in Norse mythology. It’s easy to see the references to organized religion. Why I enjoy the cynicism, I will never know.

Thanks for reading and keep writing good poetry.

Smug,

Jesse.

Also, this was an excuse to let you read my poem!

Dear John Ashbery

Dear reader,
In the past few weeks, I have been giving a lot of thought to my poetry. Having left my personal style, and totally lost my way several years ago, I’ve been on a quest to find a philosophy I truly believe in. Poe’s Beauty of poetry has been the one that has stuck with me as truly fundamental, and utterly necessary.

Poetic beauty flowers in the romantic ideal, and all that which seeks to emulate those greats.

It is with this mind that I considered John Ashbery. Yes, the guy so many of my contemporaries have heard nothing of, yet who is arguably the voice of modern poetry: in the US.

Naturally, his poems have this surreal appeal, without making much apparent sense to any one. However, one poem that struck me quite strongly (I only got it after reading an interpretation) is his “What is Poetry?”.
It seems to speak of his modernist ideal, and his disdain for the old, narrow minded style. This is his poem:

“The medieval town, with frieze
Of boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow
That came when we wanted it to snow?
Beautiful images? Trying to avoid

Ideas, as in this poem? But we
Go back to them as to a wife, leaving

The mistress we desire? Now they
Will have to believe it

As we believed it. In school
All the thought got combed out:

What was left was like a field.
Shut your eyes, and you can feel it for miles around.

Now open them on a thin vertical path.
It might give us–what?–some flowers soon?”

And this is my response to it, written in his rather addictive style:

“In response to John Ashbery’s What is Poetry

What shall we do when we tire of beauty?
The sun shines too hard
on our pale, translucent skin.
Let us dance in the moonlight,
or take cover under leaves.
Roaches and earthworms
make the greatest company.

Who’ll walk the red carpet in a black dress
and a silver tiara?
Who will we stare at? Who will we love
in our dreams?

Why should we bother? We can whore ourselves
to some hag in the corner,
because that’s what they want,
and that’s what they’ll get.
It is not right to condescend,
so let every man choose the pig to pair:
Why bother when the stakeholders are amused?

Believe every incomprehensible phrase.
There is art in it. All of it.
Only it leaves a sour aftertaste.”

 

I only really understood his piece after reading an interpretation. Here, I defend my stance of achieving beauty through verse, while keeping to traditional form. I’m a conservative poet, and I hope to remain so for a very long time.

Thanks, and keep reading good, challenging poetry.

Speed Poetry

Hi all,

This is something that came to my mind on my way to class this morning. have you ever thought of how quickly you can write a poem – any poem?

A couple of months ago (if not a full 12) I entered a little competition on Allpoetry.com. The aim of the contest was to

On time.

come up with a poem in less than a minute. A full poem, just like that, and post it unedited (save for grammatical errors, of course).

I did so, and got out a marvelous dark poem (a reflection of much of my thoughts at that time) that was really appreciated on another awesome poetry site.

I figured it was a great exercise  and will like to make some points clear on what such an activity should entail. When writing a speed poem (as I would call it for the rest of this post) do well not to write with the got-to-write-as-much-as-I-can mindset. What is required is a full poem, a complete thought. Of course, you can artfully leave it incomplete, but the point is to come up with a full poem in a very short time. preferably, you should have no thoughts in your mind. It best comes when your focus is on something other than poetry.

I also want to add my bit to the challenge: the time limit should be just 30 seconds. Let’s see what I can cook up. This will be the actual poem I am posting. I have no proof that I did it in under 30s, but just trust me* on this:

The whirlwind in the eye,
it blasts like a furnace,
dark and consuming:
the soul is the victim,
time is his master.
It grows larger.

And I am done! I hope this has got some poetic merit to it, but that is the point. You get a unique picture of the person’s mind, potentially uncensored, but more importantly, fun and honest.

I hope you all give this a shot one day, and remember to keep reading and writing good poetry**.

* There are some edits, very slight, that I want to make, but for my integrity’s sake, I’ll leave it.
** That depends on what you consider to be poetry. Personally, I feel such things like spoken word and “poetic prose” should lose the whole poetry label, as they are significantly different, but more on that later.

On further thought, this is what I would want the poem to finally end up like:

The whirlwind in the eye,
it roars like a furnace,
dark and consuming:
the soul is it’s victim,
and time it’s master.

It  grows larger.