When Poets Are Slaughtered (and Ignored)

On the seaside, the ruins recent

from the latest storms

remind of ancestral wealth

pillaged purloined pawned

by an unthinking grandfather

who lived the life of a lord

and drove coming generations to

despair and ruin  ~~~  excerpt from “Across a New Dawn”, a poem by Kofi Awoonor

A friend passed along the news that  the poet Kofi Awoonor was killed in the Nairobi mall terrorist attack.

I was not aware of this man’s work, but was incredibly moved by his words – they tell a human story that is so deep, and so sad.

The beauty – and relevance – of his language, message, and wisdom provide lessons and inspiration for our struggles – spiritual and material.

I get stuck and completely (searching for a word here) unwound and ashamed that senseless slaughter extinguished a light so bright, and a vision so prescience about our current catastrophes.

Here is Kofi’s poem, “Across a New Dawn” (my apologies if I have not formatted this correctly)

ACROSS A NEW DAWN
by Kofi Awoonor

Sometimes, we read the

lines in the green leaf

run our fingers over the

smooth of the precious wood

from our ancient trees;

Sometimes, even the sunset

puzzles, as we look

for the lines that propel the clouds,

the colour scheme

with the multiple designs

that the first artist put together

There is dancing in the streets again

the laughter of children rings

through the house

On the seaside, the ruins recent

from the latest storms

remind of ancestral wealth

pillaged purloined pawned

by an unthinking grandfather

who lived the life of a lord

and drove coming generations to

despair and ruin

*

But who says our time is up

that the box maker and the digger

are in conference

or that the preachers have aired their robes

and the choir and the drummers

are in rehearsal?

No; where the worm eats

a grain grows.

the consultant deities

have measured the time

with long winded

arguments of eternity

And death, when he comes

to the door with his own

inimitable calling card

shall find a homestead

resurrected with laughter and dance

and the festival of the meat

of the young lamb and the red porridge

of the new corn

*

We are the celebrants

whose fields were

overrun by rogues

and other bad men who

interrupted our dance

with obscene songs and bad gestures

Someone said an ailing fish

swam up our lagoon

seeking a place to lay its load

in consonance with the Original Plan

Master, if you can be the oarsman

for our boat

please do it, do it.

I asked you before

once upon a shore

at home, where the

seafront has narrowed

to the brief space of childhood

We welcome the travelers

come home on the new boat

fresh from the upright tree