Migrants and the Breeze
Upon the shore by Goree Island,
The Green Cape's western coast
Senghor's spirit of poetry
Perfumes the evening smoke
The night vibrates to duelling drums
Youthful fingers point to the north
To trace a path for emigrants
By bearings that the slaveboats took
The breeze is a playful character
Dancing a funana with the trees
Teasing, arousing the rushing waves
That grasp for home on the narrow shore
Great masks guard the coastline from invaders
Insisting on history that Africa owns
The Wolof spirit exceeds the present
Beachwalkers hold the future close.
Boats of refugees are impounded
By the naval forces of Senegal
Halted in search of the Canary Islands
Impelled from home by poverty or war...
... this message from the western coast
Arrives too late for young lives lost
But as these words and people pass,
And all of us were migrants once
We know the human heart will seek
The dignities of wealth, degrees
Elusive as the breeze that plays
Where shore and sea are bound to meet
And never know to rest.
poem by Frank Bana
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Cargoes of Childhood
The world was young in mystery
The Winnebah breezes blew in song
No child would bring cargo to Tema Harbour
Or steer her ship by that violent shore
And once the green Dalmatian coast
The bandit Macedonian hills
Were the boundary lines of my poetry
Horizons of my careless dreams
But adhesive stamps from the Gold Coast
Malagasy, Bechuanaland
Stuck to my fingers, my first satchel
And each succeeding travel bag
The kings of Siam and Samarkand
And caravans that knew their names
Caught my ears, riding underground
To school by the dark, unyielding Thames.
poem by Frank Bana
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Goree Island
Goree Island!
And, of the speech from the Slave House;
For the records are very clear! !
And like the Africans being shipped to America in the 16th to the 19th Centuries,
But, where is the secret hid out of the Gold? !
To all flying insects and to all the things that moves on the ground,
And to stimulate creativity with the discreet of tears;
But, my people were sold out into slavery.
More slaves were sent to Brazil from Africa!
And like the storm at sea with the muse of the days gone by;
But, every person today shall give as he or she is capable of doing so.
Oh life, i am now swallowed by this great fish! !
But the aroma of this hole is in the secret yard of the red valley;
And like the Africans shipped out to America in the slavery days.
The works of the slaves and the muse of their love,
But the fiddle is now with the saddle!
And like the emotions of romance and the passions of love,
But, in Goree island i will always remember the days of slavery.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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From Gordon’s bay harbour
From Gordon’s bay harbour
we took a boat
along the coast
of False Bay
and your fingers
knotted through mine
while we sailed
into the ocean.
The launch went up and down
the waves of a calm sea
although a light breeze
was blowing, throwing
drops of spray
into our faces.
Your cheeks were glowing
and your eyes
had the look of adventure
and anticipation
and we took several photographs
of the scenic mountains,
the beaches and shore.
We stopped sailing
at a island of rock
protruding from the waves
that was covered with seals,
which they called Cape sea lions.
The stench of seal dung
and rotting fish
hang heavy in the air
and the boat was rolling to and fro
as well as up and down
and you and some
of the other passengers
got really seasick
and very nauseous.
I took some more photos
trying to ignore the stench
and photographed seals,
waves braking over the rocks,
and everything
but the sea around us.
Those seals had their eyes open
unlike us
for predators like sharks
and shrieking as a saw
going through a board
while more got on those rocks
and sharks started to circle
that island and the boat
and we also felt
like something in the food chain
and were relieved
when the boat’s engine
started again
at the first try.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Old North Sydney
They're shifting old North Sydney—
Perhaps ’tis just as well—
They’re carting off the houses
Where the old folks used to dwell.
Where only ghosts inhabit
They lay the old shops low;
But the Spirit of North Sydney,
It vanished long ago.
The Spirit of North Sydney,
The good old time and style,
It camped, maybe, at Crow’s Nest,
But only for a while.
It left about the season,
Or at the time, perhaps,
When old Inspector Cotter
Transferred his jokes and traps.
A brand new crowd is thronging
The brand new streets aglow
Where the Spirit of North Sydney
Would gossip long ago.
They will not know to-morrow—
Tho’ ’twere but yesterday—
Exactly how McMahon’s Point
And its ferry used to lay.
The good old friendly spirit
Its sorrows would unfold,
When householders were neighbours
And shop-keeping was old;
But now we’re busy strangers,
Our feelings we restrain—
The Spirit of North Sydney
Shall never come again!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Kony, Bloody Fingers!
Drums beat, smoke rises,
Encroaching is your hardened souls
of blood, souls of darkness.
Young, old and sick, they try to run, to freedom
and safety, for your men will, turn them
to bloody mass of flesh and skeletons.
The people, your people, your subjects?
To be subjects, in graves, hmnn, they still follow you!
In whose spirit do you fight?
Whose liberation do you want?
Your fingers are wet, your bloody fingers,
Wipe them, your soul they continue to maul.
Hear children cry, hear women wail,
Your web of bloody fingers,
Ebbing life out, and flowing in diseases of hatred.
Let Uganda be! Papa your fingers are choking you.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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The Coast Of Barbary
My lad is on the water and far away from me,
And I pray God be good to him wherever he may be,
Up the sea and down the sea,
And along the coast of Barbary.
Oh, night and day ships come in, the ships both great and small,
But never one among them brings a word of him at all,
From Port o' Spain and Trinidad, from Rio or Funchal,
And along the coast of Barbary.
If I must think he comes no more across yon seas forlorn,
If I must think there is no tide may bring him night or morn,
I'd curse the light that I look on, and the day that I was born,
And the cruel coast of Barbary.
But well I know that soon or late he'll come back blithe and brown,
When the fire's a good thing to see, and the dark drawing down,
From many a wild and stormy sea, and many a foreign town,
And along the coast of Barbary.
With a green silk handkerchief and a parrot red and green,
And shells and bits o' things to show from the places where he's been,
Up the sea and down the sea,
And along the coast of Barbary.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Black African
African I'm
screaming for my colour
shining like gold
but diamond
when the sun arrived
God begged me
just for the black colour
to create a sacred night
beautiful but a man
black and shine
explorers called me spirit
thus all i wear
goes with me
ever around the bank
the coast smile
for my beauty
thus amendment of Africa
as smiling coast of Africa
ever evening arrived
my colour to dim
My colour unopposed
that broke the sun
to bring night
Blacks the champions.
poem by alfusainey Sonko
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My Poetry
My poetry is not part of western poetry;
The two touch, circumference against circumference,
But never quite coincide...
I have a passion for the world of western poetry.
poem by KotaroTakamura
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Proud Love
Send out some smoke signals.
Beat the drums out loud.
Shout to the crowds that can hear it
that the love I feel is proud.
Don't smother all the smoke
Don't quiet the drums to a thud.
For all the nothingness in my life
would slowly drain my blood.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Poetry Is
poetry is what the soul wants
poetry is infinite sound that taunts
poetry is strength of ones spirit
poetry is the powerful truth within it
poetry is love and hate
poetry is what makes you stop wait and appreciate
poetry is something you should die for
poetry is what makes you dropp to the floor
poetry is put up randomly
poetry is, well, simply poetry
poem by Daniel Romero
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I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
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Festival of the Spirits
There is a freshness in the air
That kindles that part of the mind
At the back that rejunvenates our whole body
There is that extra sensory perception of the mind
That could tell things without seeing them like
The celebrations of spirits out in the
Mountains, that contagious uplifting
Of spirits that smolders the whole
Island which makes one feel elated
To be in such unseen wonder;
The heartstirring beatings of celestial drums,
The fairy dances, the gathering of beings
Which serenade an auspcious enchantment
All over the island that one could feel a sense
Of euphoria a whole evening.
It's gone the next day leaving one awed
Of the mystifying elation that has come visiting
The night before when one feels one has
Been invited to party with spirits and fairies.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Song of the Torres Strait Islands
Bold Torres, the sailor, came and went,
with his swarthy, storm-worn band,
he saw Saavedra's Isle to north-
to south a loom of land.
He left unknowing his name would live
through ages with big fate,
as the first to stem with broad-bowed ship
the wash of the Northern Strait.
Round the western coast the Dutch ships crept,
seeking the hidden way;
some left their bones on that bare, west coast,
and the others sailed away.
Turned back, turned back, by reef and shoal,
twin guards of the narrow gate-
the path of the sun from the eastern seas-
they were mocked by the Northern Strait.
Year in, year out, the monsoons swept
o'er the isles of the coral shore,
The savage tossed in his frail canoe,
but the white man came no more.
No sail in sight at the flash of dawn!
No sail at the gloaming late!
Silent and still was the lonley pass-
Unsought was the Northern Strait.
A rattle of arms and a roll of drums,
and the meteor flag flies free,
as an English voice proclaims King George
Lord of the tropic sea.
The parrots scream as the volleys flash;
the gulls their haunts vacate;
and the 'south-east' fills the 'Endeavours' sails
as she heads through the Northern Strait.
And ever since then has our watch been kept
o'er the ships in the narrow way,
where the smoking funnels flare by night,
and the house-flags flaunt by day.
Ever the same strong south-east blows,
and ever we watch and wait,
the wardens we, in Australia's name,
the guard of the Northern Strait.
poem by Ernest Favenc
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Soul So Alone (2011)
Oh well...
The day I was unearthed for poetry;
my unfamiliar heart rate had rang,
and was swept away by innocence...
The day that I advertised my poetry;
my unfamiliar heart rate harangued,
and was eager for love's suspense...
The day that 'we shared' our poetry;
my unfamiliar heart rate had sang,
and commenced gentle lovingness...
So then...
That night we celebrated our poetry;
my soul illuminated, as to enchant,
and ignited passion; drawing heads...
That night we had tested our poetry;
my soul composed love to interact,
and once more removal of threads...
That night 'the love' recited poetry;
my soul untangled as you cracked,
and unraveled the scaled insolence...
It happened...
The morn arrived to breathe poetry;
my spirit grasped the earth to relax,
and feel alive, yet stagnant...lifeless...
The morn arrived trialing for poetry;
my spirit recants a differed contact,
and perils of love and measurement...
The morn arrived addled by poetry;
my spirit's dignity flowed in content,
and yet whisper deaths next attempt...
poem by David Joel Rodriguez
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Down Their Awful Hall
You are my secret prejudice
I haven’t yet found a way to give up:
I don’t believe you actually love the
Human race,
But you sup right beneath the football
Coliseum;
It would be better if you more appreciated
Baseball,
But your hair is so perfectly auburn.
Listen to the way it swings,
Back and forth like an unhurried sea.
Even in your coffin it should swing that way.
You are like the titillating prize at the bottom
Of a crackerjack box,
The very thing I used to drive to Miami with
My father for deep after midnight,
To get my fingers sticky,
To populate my soul,
To watch the winos basking against the fire drums;
But the prizes are getting cheaper,
And night after night it gets so cold;
I know you have never really loved me,
But how can any woman really love me,
Especially the sea, or my venal muse;
When it is only the interlude between seventh period and
Halftime,
Though the traffic never abates;
It comes like rain, or like my fingers,
The way they would like to fall through your fingers;
But they don’t know you at all,
And now they pause to smoke and listen
As your echoes fade down their awful hall.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Songs Of Poetry
Poetry is the wave
drenching the sea-shore!
Sea-gull hovering overhead!
Poetry is lilack
Poetry is lily
Poetry is rose
Poetry is cherry!
Poetry tears down the cheek
liquidated in joy!
liquidated in grief!
Poetry consoles the soul!
As glass of sherry!
Poetry draws the out-line
....the cosmos forms!
Poetry paints the blue
....the sky performs!
Poetry waves the desire
...love sings along!
Poetry paves the way
....makes us strong!
Poetry dreams and cry
....erases wrong!
poem by Suvra Bhattacharya
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Home-Thoughts, From The Sea
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and gray;
``Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?''---say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
poem by Robert Browning
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The Black Wolf (The Song of Merlin)
The black wolf howls
as dusk prowls among the shadows.
Freed from the stones of ancient altars
his haunting song drifts above the willows.
As light retreats, the wolf entreats
the spirit of the moon to come forth
and shed her beams upon the dreams
of night’s primeval sleep.
Close to the flames of my evening fire
I sit entranced by the choir of spectral hosts,
as other voices repeat the sound
that shakes the ground like thunder;
and yet, in spite of the holocaust,
I sense some purpose I once lost to my vanity.
Hope swells within my soul
that like the wolf I might find
the muse of lyric poetry.
Here in the forest beneath the sky
I dream of the fires
my mother set in the apple groves.
From dusk to dawn with lilting voice
she told the ancient stories.
She spoke in time of the hearth of heaven
and of the starry circle dance.
She sang to the earth; she sang to the trees.
She sang to the night with love.
Nature’s soul possessed the smoke
that was my mother’s misty cape;
and now the wolf in my mother’s tongue
sings the same celestial song.
Copyright © 1993 John M. Marshall
poem by John M. Marshall
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The Dust Of Africa
The dust of Africa,
Born into the mist of a dusty atmosphere;
What does the future hold for us?
Oh Africa! Oh Africa! ! Oh Africa! ! !
The misty mix of a Black Continent;
From the desert up there to the south,
The wind blows the natural air to all mankind.
On this earth,
We Africans are mixed with a dusty air!
The dust of Africa,
Have you seen it in Libya, Tunisia, Egypt and Morocco?
The dust of Africa,
What about Algeria, Western Sahara and Mauritania?
The dust of Africa,
Do visit Mali, Niger, Chad, Sudan, Eritrea and Ethiopia;
Also, down south to Namibia!
The misty mix of a Black Continent;
Oh Africa! The dust of Africa! !
To the outstretched sandy dust of the desert,
This could be sold for money.
What about the West Coast of Africa?
From Senegal, Gambia, Guinea Bissau, Guinea and Sierra Leone;
From Liberia, Ivory Coast, Burkina Faso, Ghana and Togo;
From Benin to Nigeria with the same problem of the dust,
The dusty wind changes the colour in our rooms too.
Live in Africa to experience this act,
Shop in Africa to know the facts;
From Cameroon, Central African Republic and Congo Brazzaville;
From The Democratic Republic of Congo, Kenya and Uganda;
From Tanzania, Angola, Zambia, Zimbabwe and Mozambique;
From Botswana, Lesotho, Swaziland, Somalia and South Africa;
Our eyes and our clothes do ell it all in Madagascar also.
What about Cape Verde Island, Comoros Island and Mauritius?
What about Seychelles, Equatorial Guinea, Sao Tome and Principe?
Dusty wind, dusty wind, the dusty wind of Africa!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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