A collection of contemporary poetry by Edward Kwame Yankson
FREETOWN
Dear Freetown
The earthquake of my birth
Sleepless nights scar’d me to unknown lands
The Inspector-General of Police chatted with robbers
Who dined at my house
With irons that kill
The advent dinner I was told
Spared no believer
Bloody wine served
With fleshy communion
For a midnight baptism
Attended by John the Baptist
But St. Lucifer
A City illuminated; as neon lights blind me
Deafened with melodious tunes of Tiger machines
Through Congo cross, lightning speed
Recorded only by the blues
For the dust bin book of records
Announced with apologies
In the new budget
EBUN
I lov’d you twice
Without my number on your dice
To cast my lot for the price,
I lately paid.
Through windows and through curtains I spied
Craving for your busy face
Ebun, goddess of love and beauty
Under the sun, I oft’ kneel
To pray for thy smile
On a sunny day shine
Chastity is thy virtue,
Honesty is thy pride,
Humility is thy joy.
Ebun, my dream.
WAR
My sister
Went to fetch water for the evening meal
Bullets riddled her dress and her bucket cried
Alsatians smelt her blood to make sure she died
Nobody told me it was war
Peeping through the walls
Of my “panbody” house
Khaki boys in tattered tax payer’s calico
Sang songs of praises
For their leader Kweigor
My sister died
She wrote dirges that I sang
Every morning
My voice ran through
The barrels of machine guns
Until I was told by the birds
That it was a war
HOPE
The sun smiled
At dawn to give me joy
For another day born
The cacophony of intermittent siren blasts
Drove my children to school
Penniless and bowels empty
Clapping for the “blessed” sons of the land
Darkness waved to my memory lost
Moon whispered Hope in my ears
As I received the Blessed Sacrament
In the church of salvation
I saw heaven
KAILAHUN
Our hands fertilize the womb of earth
Singing songs of pride
In spite of the desolate villages of torn Kailahun
Our hope preserved in roots of cocoa trees
From the mines of Koidu, Mokanji,
To the factories of Wellington, Dworzack farm
Coins will be reborn under our bright steps
‘cause from the Bible our wisdom inspires.
LAMENT
Listen comrades of this struggling generation
Heed the clamour of a brother
In a rodent cage
Where rebellions go unrewarded
They killed Vamba in Freetown
As they killed Musu in Bomaru
And Kpana in Pujehun
The wounds of their broken bodies
Inject hope in my bosom
For fear fetches sorrow
Therefore I fear not
Every morn, I wake up
Hypnotized with the shadows of a rainbow
Waiting to talk to me
I feel his tongue on my dreams
Wake up! Wake up! He shouts
Echos of sobs ran past my ears.
Think about tomorrow,
Yesterday belongs to the dead
Lament not.
JANUARY 6
Bullets woke me up at 5 in the cold Harmattan dawn
With the reminiscent rumble of guts
Diving for safety between kitchens and toilets in February last year
My eyes shadowed with insurgent rifles
Battled the flashy lights
Of West Side boys.
Victory chants religiously sung
Bullets played organs for the congregation
Choristers in pool of blood
Chanted dirges for drugged pastors
The amputated Choir Master
Directed rhythms from the rear
For the early communion
It is January 6
Gutters littered with decomposed bodies
You must decide today, tomorrow,
Bear responsibility, refine ideas
Read books on escape strategy
Imams read the bible,
Pastors read the Quoran
Blessings received from Satan
Connaught littered with classless bodies
Whose funeral were organized by vultures
Drew tears from my sister’s eye
In the land of the Whiteman
From afar, two Ministers lay in bloody camouflage
The chaffinch wept on January 6.
MAY 25
The church bell rang
Through the bazooka’s bang
On a bright and beautiful Sunday
Worshippers under their beds converge
To pray for divine grace
The joy of Sunday
Shone on every soldier’s face
It was proclamation of a novel deity
From the black tank
Where youths converge to smoke wee
And rule the country through smoke
Children became parents
Directing the aged kids
With the barrels of their guns
And made them athletes
Racing for unknown medals
To unknown destinations
At the May 25 Olympic Horror day run
LEADERSHIP
I served the government
With a holy heart
Full of lively dreams
Like a journey to heaven’s path
Thorny though it is
Others have crossed the wildest path
With horrible experiences to tell
About greedy heads
To bureaus assigned
I learnt to drive
On these rough paths
Without hitting rocks
Of granite made
Red carpets lay wait
For my suits salute
As I take the driving seat
Of the government served
INDEPENDENCE
A bright and beautiful day
Cushioned by a gentle breeze
Blowing from the ocean’s wing
Streets glitter with coloured lanterns
Passing by the historic cotton tree
To tell his age
44 years of peace and turmoil
44 years of hope and despair
In the pool of independence
Floating dreams pervade
The exalted green, white and blue
On the pole of peace
From the palm tree
Inspiration of peace derived
And selfishness denied
Out of good sense
To cancel the devil’s dinner
Held under the sun
On my father’s 30th birthday
RAIN
We waited for 186 days
Under the arms of Wusum hills
To keep us alive
From the rude sun
Around the Peninsular
Kids play with anxiety
Windows closed
To get the warmth
Of “bormeh” in the rains
Incensed for sanity
In the East of Freetown
Minds linger why the rains
Are so humble to mosquitoes
That distress dreamy ears
In the dark abode
POVERTY
Oh! Poverty
Who created you?
From whose womb do you emerge?
In whose house were you nurtured?
What daughter of eve reared you?
And what age are you now?
You the people’s oppressor
Bringer of ill fortune, malnutrition, starvation
Street beggars, street hawkers, street Orchins you create
And by day multiply
To fight your woes
Oh! Poverty, Oh! Poverty
Your presence erodes education, good health…
Oh! Poverty
You break homes
You break age old relationships
Oh! Poverty I hate to see you
THE ARTIST
He is nothing
But a mortal being with flesh and bones
Carrying the burdens of mankind
In his heart
To make things better
Like a candle upon a hill he stood
For all to see
And traverse the path
That leads to illumination
See him talk on stage
Watch him dance in the street
Listen him talk over the radio
All this he does to
Illuminate the minds of mankind
See him grieve when
Society goes wrong
Watch him laugh
When things go right
For he is always ready to help
Bring it back to normalcy
Like a flag bearer
He stands against ills of society
Ready and ever vigilant
To condemn and criticize
But quickly provide solutions
To problems that beset society.
WOMEN
Women fly like kite
While love in time grows
Within deceptive eyes.
Sincerity in their hearts ferment
For those they cherish most
Listen them speak
But watch their lips shake
For on their lips the truth lies.
Reservoir of fortune they possess
For God made them so
Mirror of man’s weaknesses and follies
The barometer of man’s growth
Choose them out of good judgment
For a befitting funeral
AN ELEGY TO LEONE STARS
How lonely lies our darling
That was full of exuberance
Like a widow she has become
Though great among equals she was
To Germany 2006 a dream unfulfilled.
She that was a heroine now a beggar
Bitterly she weeps with non to comfort her
Sympathy gone to replace love for European soccer
All her fans now her enemies
A withered face she bears
Tired of watching colleagues
Play for fortune
Weakness sweeps her muscles
For lack of practice
Our cherished apple of national unity
Be not dejected
For days of joy ahead to come
When laughter shall be your breakfast
At the next world Cup finals.
THE CUP
Varieties of lotion share
With an elbowed hold
Joyous occasions and sadness share
Amid the serenity of all seasons
Children sing lullabies
Over your head
Adults talk politics
Over your head
In the evening of all seasons
You are at times hot,
And sometimes cold
But most times hot
And most times cold
You father all ages,
Suckle all toddlers,
And teach them how to talk when hungry.
THE PRESIDENT
The President knows me
The President knows you
The President knows when I am hungry
The President knows when you are hungry
The President knows when fuel is scarce
The President knows when rice is scarce
The President knows who the sycophants are
When he wants to be bad
The President knows everything
But knows nothing
‘cause he does not know his enemies.
THE PROSTITUTE
An unfortunate creation
A street walker
Her father a drunkard
And liar
Her mother a debtor.
Do not blame her,
Poor prostitute
In the slums of Kroobay
She was brought up
By a single parent
Though many a stepfather
She sees
Kissing her mother
On the cane bench
Or the community field
Unfortunate prostitute
Sleeps in guest houses,
Hotels, brothels to make room for her nocturnal fathers
Called Uncles in Krio parlance
© All rights reserved EDWARD KWAME YANKSON
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