National Poetry Day
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Why it's news when a
poet dies:
'Within the airwaves we carry
our hutted entrails; and we
pray;
shrieks abandoned by lonely
road-sides
as the gunmen’s boots tramp.
I lift up the chalice of
hyssop and tears
to touch the lips of the
thirsty
sky-wailing in a million
spires
of hate and death; we pray
bearing the single hope to
shine
burnishing in the destiny of
my race
that glinting sword of
salvation.
In time my orchestra plays my
music
from potted herbs of anemone
and nim
pour upon the festering
wounds of my race,
to wash forever my absorbent
radiance
as we search our granary for
new corn.'
From This Earth, My Brother by
Kofi Awoonor
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A varied, mature, layered and
exquisite third collection.
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A woman speaks her motherhood
to another
woman. I pass them everyday on
my way home
from the school run, holding
on to the adult moment
happening between them on the
pavement.
Beside her house there's
a tall dark tree
tucked behind the low wall of
her garden, and today
her smallest
daughter stood alone and enthralled
it in conversation.
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