Posted: January 5, 2013 in Uncategorized

You dawn my eyes with tears

And blot my thoughts with sighs

You roll my days into seasons

And arrest my ego like the clocking prick

You horn my emotions with pleasures

And jerk my wheel with happiness

You tease my days with the Bamba drums

And arouse my path to jazzing peace

You are Poetry

You are Awinsem,

Proverbial ambience of traditional aura

I am a Poet



You custom my beliefs with ink

And pot them under beds of bamboo

You image my shades and lost letters,

With the pen that drips and dip history

You awaken the early sun,

And flare on the local cock to crow,

K)k)k)k)k) kokrokooo.

You mount sensation onto Ama Obrapa,

By lumbering her ‘will’ and dozing eyes

through the slink and lush forest,

Just to fetch the still water of the lying rivers,

to wash the night away.

You are Poetry

You are Awinsem

Proverbial heritage of customary bonds

I am a Poet


You impregnate the foam of the palm tree

Into calabashes of herbal treat,

By stealing my ego into empty space.


You cause merry to my broken bones

And leave me drunk of wine,

and tales of our ancestors

‘till the dawn of splendor and dew,

Awaken my sleep, with vocal tenderness

You are Poetry

You are Awinsem

Proverbial Incantations of traditions and gods

I am a Poet


You map my face with lavender

And synchronize my image as the full moon

You brew my lips with clay

And cloth my artistry with Kente of Bonwire

You send Maame calling…

Paapa probing…

And portrait my undeniable deeds

To the whacking palms of Agya Pa

You are Poetry

You are Awinsem

Proverbial thoughts of manners and perceived reflection

I am a Poem


That Poem pride itself in Ahenema

Subject its ethics by calling the elderly Efo

That poem offers his seat to the grey

That poem is not Eve or Jezebel

That poem awaits the initiation of Bragoro or Dipo

And wears the crown, of O ye virtuous woman

That poem has values,

That poem has rhythms of Kpanlogo,

Music of kete, symbols of Gye nyame,

Talking drums of dondo,

and orators of stools.

That poem,

And just this poem is the bush, in which you hide,

that has eyes.

This poem has Religion,

Of Salvation.

So call me, the Poet


Copyright © 12-05-2012

Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah



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