Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
African Poets are Vital to the Culture
Many people with blood ties to Africa are seeking a reconnection like never before. African poets are a
necessary component in the reconnection. They are the keepers of various aspects of the culture
through the medium of poetry. African poets can offer a very concise look at different aspects of African
culture, struggle and resilience. Just as African-American poets are in a sense the keeper of the struggles
and culture of the American born Black the African poet offers the same insight from many cultures.
Their work allows the reader to feel closer to a part of themselves that has been cut off due to as
descendants of those that were stolen from their lands. Because the African poets come from various
countries on the continent, they offer a diverse understanding of African with various vantage points.
It would be a great asset in the journey to understand where one is from to embrace the African poet.
They may not be able to expound on the black experience in American, but that's not what is needed.
African-Americans need to be able to understand and see Africa through the eyes of the African poet.
This would give some insight into the plight of Africans from various nations and allow the reader to
relate through shared experience. Despite the difference in experiences poetry can show us the
common ground we share in some aspects of culture, various kinds of oppression, and the resilience to
press forward.
African poets are keepers of a past and present that is needed in the African diaspora. This continent is
the origin for so many, and the missing link in understanding oneself, and people as a whole. Their
poetry tells the reader of a history they long to know, and in that history another aspect of strength is
gained.
Answer
I broke at last
the terror-fringed fascination
that bound my ancient gaze
to those crowding faces
of plunder and seized my
remnant life in a miracle
of decision between white-
collar hands and shook it
like a cheap watch in
my ear and threw it down
beside me on the earth floor
and rose to my feet. I
made of their shoulders
and heads bobbing up and down
a new ladder and leaned
it on their sweating flanks
and ascended till midair
my hands so new to harshness
could grapple the roughness of a prickly
day and quench the source
that fed turbulence to their
feet. I made a dramatic
descent that day landing
backways into crouching shadows
into potsherds of broken trance. I
flung open long-disused windows
and doors and saw my hut
new-sept by rainbow brooms
of sunlight become my home again
on whose trysting floor waited
my proud vibrant life.
Chant:
It was the hornbill that spoke it.
In the nothing, becoming nothing,
begetting nothing; this is everything.
The world is old, the world is new
How does the darkness hide?
In the nothing, becoming nothing,
begetting nothing; this is everything.
The world is old, the world is new
The sun is no bigger than a crab.
In the nothing, becoming nothing,
begetting nothing; this is everything.
The world is old, the world is new
Hot soup is devoured from the edges.
In the nothing, becoming nothing,
begetting nothing; this is everything.
The world is old, the world is new
The blood sign is red; burning like fire.
In the nothing, becoming nothing,
begetting nothing; this is everything.
The world is old, the world is new
It has no name; silence is its name.
In the nothing, becoming nothing,
begetting nothing; this is everything.
The world is old, the world is new.
Written the following African Descent Poets; Chinua Achebe & Chris Abani
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