Poems 101-1

The Splash by Yusuf O.
Kassam The Weaver Bird by Kofi Awoonor

Under warm sunshine, The weaver bird built in our house
A pond of water rests, calm and serene. And laid its eggs on our only tree
The blue sky inhabits the middle of the pond, We did not want to send it away
And its sides reflect the greenery, We watched the building of the nest
Spotted with the yellow and the red, And supervised the egg-laying
The red and the violet. And the weaver returned in the guise of the owner
The water, the sky, the vegetation, Preaching salvation to us that owned the house
Hand in hand convey harmony and peace. They say it came from the west
Then comes the splash! Where the storms at sea had felled the gulls
And a tremendous stirring surges: And the fishers dried their nets by the lantern light
Reflections distort, Its sermon is the divination of ourselves
Giving way to a rushing flow of ripples, And our new horizons limit at its nest
Ripples concentric, But we cannot join the prayers and answers of the communicants.
Ripples innumerable, We look for new homes everyday,
All fleeing from the wound. For new altars we strive to re-build
Time elapses, The old shrines defiled from the weaver’s excrement.
Ripples fade,
Reflections regain their shape,
And once again emerges the pond
Smooth and tranquil.
But the stone!
The stone will always cling to the bottom.
1
Western Civilization by Agostinho Neto William Shakespeare
Sheets of tin nailed to posts Sonnet 55
driven in the ground Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
make up the house.
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
Some rags complete But you shall shine more bright in these contents
the intimate landscape.
Than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time.
The sun slanting through the cracks When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
welcomes the owner. And broils out the work of masonry,
After twelve hours of slave Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn
labour. The living record of your memory.
Breaking rock ‘Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity

shifting rock Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
breaking rock
Even in the eyes of all posterity
shifting rock
fair weather That wear this world out to the ending doom.
wet weather So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
breaking rock
shifting rock You live in this, and dwell in lover’s eyes.
Old age comes early

a mat on dark nights
is enough when he dies
Gratefully
of hunger.
2
Sonnet 29 Grass Will Grow by Jonathan Kariara
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, If you should take my child Lord
I all alone beweep my outcast state, Give my hands strength to dig his grave
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, Cover him with earth
And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Lord send a little rain
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, For grass will grow
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, If my house should burn down
With what I most enjoy contented least: So that the ashes sting the nostrils
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Making the eyes weep
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state Then Lord send a little rain
(Like to the lark at break of day arising For grass will grow
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings But Lord do not send me
That then I scorn to change my state with kings'. Madness
I ask for tears
Do not send me moon hard madness
The Idol by Laban Erapu To lodge snug in my skull
I would you sent me hordes of horses
Brown, proud and flawless, Galloping
Wordless and passionless, Crushing
You stand on the shelf, But do not break
On the pedestal I built for you – The yolk of the moon on me.
An idol in a Christian house.
Curved, polished and oiled,

Primed and perfect, Once Upon a Time by Gabriel Okara
You came to my life
A goddess to whom I offer
My first and my last prayer. Once upon a time, son,
they used to laugh with their hearts
and laugh with their eyes:
Serene and silent but now they only laugh with their teeth,
You stand on your pedestal, while their ice-block-cold eyes
Aloof and alone, search behind my shadow.
Too high above the tears I shed
For the love that was not,
Too far beyond the reach of arms There was a time indeed
That rise in mute prayer they used to shake hands with their hearts:
And beg to be released but that’s gone, son.
From the hold Now they shake hands without hearts
Of eyes too blind for tears while their left hands search
And a heart too stern my empty pockets.
For pity.
‘Feel at home!’ ‘Come again’:
they say, and when I come
again and feel
at home, once, twice,
3
there will be no thrice- We from the bush, my friend insists,
for then I find doors shut on me. Do not know how to ‘enjoy’:
When we come to the civilized city,
So I have learned many things, son. Like nuns, we stay away from the nightclubs
I have learned to wear many faces Where women belong to no men
like dresses – homeface, And men belong to no women
officeface, streetface, hostface, And these civilized people
cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles Quarrel and fight like hungry lions!
like a fixed portrait smile.
But my friend, why do men
And I have learned too With crippled legs, lifeless eyes,
to laugh with only my teeth Wooden legs, empty stomachs
and shake hands without my heart. Wander about the streets
I have also learned to say,’Goodbye’, Of this civilized world?
when I mean ‘Good-riddance’:
to say ‘Glad to meet you’, Teach me, my friend, the trick,
without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been So that my eyes may not
nice talking to you’, after being bored. See those whose houses have no walls
But emptiness all around;
But believe me, son. Show me the wax that you use
I want to be what I used to be To seal your ears
when I was like you. I want To stop hearing the cry of the hungry;
to unlearn all these muting things. Teach me the new wisdom
Most of all, I want to relearn Which tells men
how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror To talk about money and not love,
shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare fangs! When they meet women;
So show me, son, Tell your God to convert

how to laugh; show me how Me to the faith of the indifferent,
I used to laugh and smile The faith of those
once upon a time when I was like you. Who will never listen until
They are shaken with blows.
I speak for the bush;

You speak for the civilized –
Will you hear me?
I Speak for the Bush by Everett Shitanda
When my friend sees me
He swells and pants like a frog
Because I talk the wisdom of the bush!
He says we from the bush
Do not understand civilized ways
For we tell our women
To keep the hem of their dresses
Below the knee.
4
Claustrophobia by J.A.O. Teyie What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
To be penned in a dark grim corner, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
cut off from the countryside,
the symphony of weaverbirds,
and the sweet serenades of the Ninga,
seductively perched on the swaying flametrees,
To long for the soft murmurings

of the love-sick winds,
wafting through the tawny cornfields,
and the bongo music of grasshoppers,
long-jumping across the Nyika
That is my greatest fear.
The fear of being bolted and penned in enclosures

like cocks and hens when peas and beans
are in bloom,
To long for the splendour of gliding fireflies,
guarding me from night runners,
the throbbing fire dance,
and the pain-soothing fireside tales.
The fear, brother, of barbed wires
and dogs, walls and padlocks,
of losing one’s friends and relatives,
of being a plaything, a toy in the claws,
of birds of prey.
That friend, is my greatest phobia.
If We Must Die by Claude McKay
If we must die, let it not be like hogs

Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!

Poems 101-1

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Poems 101-1

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The Splash by Yusuf O.

Kassam The Weaver Bird by Kofi Awoonor

Ripples innumerable, We look for new homes everyday,

Breaking rock ‘Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity

Old age comes early

Curved, polished and oiled,

So show me, son, Tell your God to convert

I speak for the bush;

To long for the soft murmurings

The fear of being bolted and penned in enclosures

If We Must Die by Claude McKay

If we must die, let it not be like hogs

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