By Geosi Gyasi
Wednesday, July 2, 2014.
Day-Night! At the spur of lilliputian voices!
Whistling nexus between countrymen and
refugees, they come to party.
Their strange voices awaken
To each and every one a day to recall
this epoch-making assembly.
In the King’s palace
Feathers washed and rewashed
Cleansing of the multitudinous years of
After dawn, before the cock crows
The chief linguist sent to places far
Drums and flutes sound: sounding poems
In their camp, a poem of thanksgiving
A tintinnabulation of bells in the
Whilst the cock crows, crows and crows.
From the beginning,
I am a funeral; ready to be
deposited into the abdomen
Of mother earth. A bunch of
luminaries encircle my lifeless
body, my bony skull already
make history. Paper and ink mixed
as blood bank, and flow swiftly as
words of poetry, rhyming from line to
News about me flow like flood of
reminiscing about the days of Noah. I
alone, yet not lonely. Many have gone
before me, sadly, more recent the
of the storyteller Maya Angelou.
O, you death, you’re a sinner? I reach
to the Alpha and Omega, the beginning
end; and find consolation in Him. The
of death unknown to me –
darkness forever? I leave with tears in
eyes of many: sobbing, whimpering.
When shall you cease to exist? My arms
my writing hobbled. I become
like a seat of wood. Still.
with statue-like poetry. In my uterus
fetus poem – Death?
Death? Who shall carry on?
Where are the brain surgeons?
Who shall test my blood samples? And
fish out my unfinished handiwork? I look
soil dag out for me, six feet, and the
multitude. Yet gesture with a wave of
in the air. I see in vague, though, as
to this new world of darkness; thronged
but old-guard writers. Dead. Gone. One
explicitly to my devoted readers. Wipe
warm your kerchiefs. Keep hope alive. I shall soon
return with a posthumous book of
By Geosi Gyasi
At the rim of the tunnel
Flowing labyrinth of waste cancer:
Polythene, plastic, rubber, clothes,
Papers, metals, wood, even water -
Hustling deep into a fissure
Only at a snail’s pace, until it locks
At the lip of the tunnel; pleading,
Let me flow,
Let me go.
Time flies, like a passing day
Waiting for tomorrow to arrive
But that day never comes
And the noxious redolence from the
Travel our villages and even beyond:
To towns and cities.
Our children suffocate by night
While our fathers and grandparents
Vomit by day.
The sky is gloomy,
sky is miasmic.
An emergency looms in the corner
Years build-up of mountainous growth
Like a forest of muddled grasses
Yet we’re charged inflated taxes
Which travels swiftly into --
the crevices of undeserved pockets.
I wish I could take on the doctor’s
And submit you and you into the
Emergency room, and castigate you there
Dent of hope
Forty something years of
Existence; still searching!
I’ve been ferreting
Quite unduly maddening
What I have not; so still searching!
Memories never robs off
it’s jacket, off me; what’s
the world come to?
Nothing is working
Working is nothing
All these years of hanging
– the god in the forest.
All foolishness is mine:
Of several years of wastage;
Of several years in the wilderness;
Hoodwinked to execute
Hunger rites, bloodshed:
Of chubby goats, flabby
Chickens; perfervid belief.
I am still searching!
Geosi Gyasi is a Ghanaian writer and poet. Gyasi’s writing credits
include several poems published in online magazines like Kalahari Review,
Africanwriter NigeriansTalk. Gyasi blogs at GeosiReads.