Fall for the Book Festival-2009—My Friend, Gabeba Baderoon and I, Patricia Jabbeh Wesley Read at the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art on September 19, 2009 at 2 pm

Fall for the Book Festival Reading: Gabeba Baderoon and Patricia Jabbeh Wesley- Saturday, Sept. 19, 2009, at 2 pm. The reading takes place at the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art on 950 Independence Ave. You are invited, and please, bring all of your friends.

THE FESTIVAL

Fall for the Book Festival 2009 began on September 6, 2009 with preview events, and will continue throughout the DC, Virginia and Maryland areas this month. Many great readers will bring their works to literary audiences through readings, discussions, and other festivities in libraries, institutions and other locations throughout the Washington DC area. This year, the festival is significant to me because my friend, Gabeha Baderoon, a poet, originally from South Africa and I will be participating in the readings as featured authors. Our reading takes place during one of the many preview events of the Festival. I would like to take this time to invite you to come and hear us read from our books of poetry, and enjoy the diverse cultures of Africa through our works. Our work will also surprise you because when you come to the reading, you will see that we do not only write about the great continent of Africa, but we also write about our experiences as  Americans and immigrants from another world, living in a new world, exploring all of the images both of our homelands and our new found home of America.

GABEBA BADAROON– POET

Our Published Books:

Gabeba Baderoon, here presenting at a previous occasion, will be reading from her collections of poetry, including  “The Dream in the Next Body” “A Hundred Silences,” among others. I believe Gabeba will also read a poem or two from newer poetry. Gabeba is an Assistant Professor of Comparative Literature and Women’s Studies at Penn State University. She is particularly dear to me because she is my friend and colleague. Over the last two years since I first met her, Gabeba and I have collaborated on various projects, including presenting on a panel on African Women’s Literature at the African Literature Association, visiting one another’s African Literature classes at Penn State talking on issues to our scholarship, reading together at other poetry events, among others. This fall, she and I will be part of a discussion on a panel with the African author and friend of ours, Binyavanga Wainaina, when we will discuss the topic, “Who Owns African Literature.” In November, I will be visiting Gabeba’s Comparative to read from my new book, “The River is Rising,” for the benefit of her students who are currently reading the book. Gabeba and I usually compliment each other in our readings, if you ask me. This is because my own poems and poetry reading complement the silences in Gabeba’s images, the beauty of softness of her language and the vividness of feelings her work brings to the reader. Where my images can be brutal in its portrayal of war and ruin, Gabeba can bring the softness, and where my poetry may often burst out with humor, she can bring calm and seriousness. All of this is from my own observation, but you will have to speak to Gabeba yourself or hear us read to know. I have read all of her books not because she is my friend, but mainly because her voice as a writer originally from South Africa is a necessary voice in this contemporary day of poetry, and because I believe poets have a lot to learn from each other.

Patricia Jabbeh Wesley performing at the City of Asylum Poetry-Jazz Festival 2008

Our Published Books:

Here I am  above, reading at another occasion. My books above include, “The River is Rising,” “Becoming Ebony,” and “Before the Palm Could Bloom: Poems of Africa.” I will also read from a new manuscript. I am shamelessly inviting you and your friends to attend our reading on September 19,2009 because unless you come, Gabeba and I will have to collaborate again this time by reading to each other.  I don’t want to say anything about myself because when you attend the reading, you will get to know my poetry and about me. The one thing, I’d say is that I am also a professor at Penn State, but I teach Creative Writing and English mainly, specializing in poetry writing. When you explore the rest of my blogging, you will get to know me. We are both fortunate to be among 130 writers from across the US who will participate in this important occasion, and it will be our honor to come hear us at the Smithsonian. Sherman Alexie is the main reader, I think. Don’t take my word for it. Visit the Festival site at:

http://www.fallforthebook.org/participants.php

http://www.fallforthebook.org/2009_FFTB_program.pd

———————-POETRY FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT———————————————————-

The Sound of My Name

————-              By Gabeba Baderoon

To step into another language
direct the breath
swell the mouth with vowels
feel the jaw configure itself around the word
write another script on the tongue

Russian
A woman learning Russian describes
the new inclination of her head,
her chest, her hands,
the muscular changes in the tongue
the way sibilance tightens
the upper lip
like bee stings around the jaw
the movement of air over her throat
a subtle invasion
taking possession of her mouth

Arabic
I teach you to say the first letter of my name,
a sound between g and h,
for which there is no letter in English.

Breathe in,
take a sip of water,
make a flat oval of the lips,
breathe out.
Remember the sound of the exhalation.

Clear the throat.

Between the two is the start of my name.

The River Is Rising

————————Patricia Jabbeh Wesley

a song for Liberian women

The river is rising, and this is not a flood.
After years of drought, the ground, hardened

and caked in blood, in dry places, here we are, today.

River banks are swelling with the incoming tide,
coming in from the Atlantic just beyond the ridge

of rolling hills and rocks in Monrovia.

Finally, here we stand at the banks!
Finally, here we are, see how swiftly

the tide rushes in to fill the land with salt.

Fish and crabs and the huge clams and shrimps-
all the river’s creatures are coming in with the tide.

The river is rising, but this is not a flood.

Do not let your eye wander away from this scene.
Yes, all the bones below the Mesurado or the St. Paul

or Sinoe or the Loffa River will be brought up
to land so all the overwhelming questions
can once more overwhelm us.

But they are bringing in our lost sister
on a high stool, and there she stands, waving at those

who in refusing to die, simply refused to die.

This is not a song just for Ellen. This is a song for Mapue
and Tenneh and all the Ellens there are.

This is a song for Kema and Musu and Massa.

This is for Nyeneplue and Nyenoweh, for Kou and Glayee
and Korto, for the once solitary woman of war.

This is a song so Wani will also dance.

This is a song for that small girl child who came out
just this morning. They are still seeking a name

to call her- a river name, a name from the water
and from the fire too. That solitary mother in flight

will no longer birth her child by the roadside
where shells were her baby’s first bed.

Let the womb quiver!
Let church bells jingle!
Let hundreds of drums pound, Klan-klan-teh!
Let men bring out old trumpets
so the wind will take flight!

Let that small pepper bird on the tree branch cry
and sing no more the solitary song.

Let the Mesurado behind my home or what was my home
or still is or maybe, maybe, who cares?

The river is rising, but this is not a flood.

Let no man stand between us
and the river again!

A TRIBUTE TO AIR FRANCE 447 VICTIMS- A Horrible Tragedy: Please Find those Black Boxes

When a Plane Crashes in the Middle of the Ocean, We Are Left Helplessly Grieved—

Compostie of some of the victims. From top left: Neil Warrior, Jose Souza, Graham Gardner and Arthur Coakley. From bottom left: Aisling Butler, Jane Deasy and Eithne Walls Photo: MARK ST GEORGE / PA

May Their Souls Rest in Peace—

Two days ago, we awoke to very sad news that a French airliner, Air France 447 was missing en route to Paris from Brazil. Then not too long after that, news came in that the plane had possibly crashed in the middle of the Atlantic, that long flight between the continents. Now, it is clearer to us that those 228 passengers and crew, including eleven children have all perished. This is a sad day for everyone who loves human beings no matter where they come from.

Anne and Michael Harris, Americans living in Brazil, Perished.

Dr. Aisling Butler of Ireland, also flying on Air France

Grieving family members

There is a somber kind of hopelessness to realizing that your beautiful family or friends who took off on one of the most reliable means of travel in the world have joined a small number of crashed victims in the history of aviation. Everyone knows that flying is safer than driving, and yet each time I board an airplane, I am aware that something might happen, and I might not get off alive. What a scary thought, but let’s take a moment to think of the numerous family members, and friends who have lost so many good people.

When a plane crashes anywhere, and so much life is lost, everyone is at a loss for what to do. The living simply can stand around and mourn, try to make sense of the senselessness of the crash. Those responsible for investigating the crash examine all the theories, search for the Black Box in order to discover the last signs of trouble and communication prior to the crash. The painful thing about a plane crashing in the ocean is the feeling of the lack of closure. There are often no bodies to claim or bury, and forever, one might keep looking for closure.

Photo of young, Lucas Juca of Brazil who also went down with the plane.

Photos of grieving families at the airports both in Brazil and in Paris can be heart breaking for anyone. Families can only comfort one another.

Air France as an airliner is a familiar plane to me. Twice, I have flown my family members, including my late mother and my father-in-law on that airliner from Africa to the US. I too, have had to fly Air France and its Sister or cousin airline, Air Afrique.

But I am a skeptic about all of the instructions given to passengers during the take off. Maybe this is because I have flown way too many times or because I know about the inevitability of a crash, and that most plane crashes mean a death sentence for most passengers. So every time I hear these carefully and legally worded instructions, I wonder how fit the plane is, how sober the pilots are, whether or not they have the experience to fly the plane. I often wonder if they have had enough sleep, whether they are paid well for their difficult job, and whether the stewardesses are also trained for any kind of emergency.

Often, I simply bow and say a good prayer for myself, the pilots, the entire crew, fellow passengers, and turn my life over to God. I have stopped worrying, but I still have my wondering mind about the connection between the poor world economy and the running of safty

In my own grief for the victims of Air France crash, it is my hope that the families will find closure, will overcome their grief, will cherish the memory of their loved ones, and will move on into the future. I also hope that the families and friends will work hard to make the French and Brazalians find the Black Box.  I hope the French government will not call off the search for the Black Box. Let them not quit looking for it. The Black Box will help investigators determine whether the crash was natural, human error or a terrorist attack. Planes that are equiped to fly across the globe do not just vanish out in the thin air.  I hope the French will not be clumsy about quitting the search. We owe that much to the victims and their families.

Let us conclude this reflexive tribute on John Donne’s powerful poem:

Holy Sonnet X: Death Be Not Proud by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Say a prayer for these, will you? May their souls rest in perpetual peace and may their families be comforted.

AWP Conference 2009 In Chicago, Illinois, and I Am Thinking In Poetry: Read A Few Poems from Some of My Favorite Poets

The Associated Writing Program Conference in Chicago will bring writers from mostly the US and a few from outside the US together. Last year, thousands gathered in New York City to read, sign books, present papers about writing and network for new publishers and agents. Last year, I did book signing and read my poetry with three other writers, Pulitzer Prize winning poet,  Yusef Komunyakaa, the acclaimed, award-winning, poet, Quincy Troupe, and the internationally acclaimed young African novelist, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Quincy Troupe, one of my favorite poets and his wife Margaret became my good friends then. They are two of the most fun people I’ve met. This blog will pay tribute to some of my favorite writing friends or influnces. Enjoy.

QUINCY TROUPE

I took this photo during my visit to New York University where I was invited to read my poetry with two other writers on October 24, 2008. Here, Quincy was introducing me. But here is a clearer photo of him.

Quincy Troupe is the author of numerous books, including many books of poetry, and has won many awards. Some of his books of poetry include:
Miles and Me (George Gund Foundation Book in African American Studies)  Quincy Troupe (Paperback – May 30, 2002) and The Architecture of Language (Paperback – Oct 1, 2006). Quincy is the editor of Black Renaissance Noire, a literary magazine published out of New York University, and teaches at New York University. He and his wife Margaret are two of the most fun people I know. Below is one of Quincy’s poems taken from the webstie of Poets.org.

For Duke Ellington

— By Quincy Troupe

1.
that day began with a shower
of darkness, calling lightning rains
home to stone language
of thunderclaps, shattering, the high
blue, elegance, of space & time
where a broken-down, riderless, horse
with frayed wings
rode a sheer bone, sunbeam
road, down into the clouds

2.
spoke wheels of lightning jagged
around the hours, & spun high up
above those clouds, duke wheeled
his chariot of piano keys
his spirit, now, levitated from flesh
& hovering over the music of most high
spoke to the silence
of a griot-shaman-man
who knew the wisdom of God

3.
at high noon, the sun cracked
through the darkness, like a rifle shot
grew a beard of clouds on its livid, bald
face, hung down, noon, sky high
pivotal time of the flood-deep hours
as duke was pivotal, being a five in the nine
numbers of numerology
as his music was one of the crossroads
a cosmic mirror of rhythmic gri-gri

4.
so get on up & fly away duke, bebop
slant & fade on in, strut, dance swing, riff
& float & stroke those tickling, gri-gri keys
those satin ladies taking the A train  up
to harlem, those gri-gri keys
of birmingham, breakdown
sophisticated ladies, mood indigo
get on up & strut across, gri-gri
raise on up, your band’s waiting

5.
thunderclapping music, somersaulting
clouds, racing across the deep, blue wisdom
of God, listen, it is time for your intro, duke
into that other place, where the all-time great
band is waiting for your intro, duke
it is time for the Sacred Concert, duke
it is time to make the music of God, duke
we are listening for your intro, duke
so let the sacred music, begin

(taken from Poets.org.)

_____________________________________________________________

MARIE HOWE:

Marie Howe is one of my favorite poets, one who has influenced my own writing. I discovered her while I was in the Ph.D. Creative Writing Program at Western Michigan University. My professor then, Nancy Eimers, who herself is a great poet,  adopted Howe’s book, “What the Living Do,” and that semester changed a lot of style or my line structure. I love the book she is reading from on this photo. Her use of couplets introduced a new kind of couplets to me, couplets that were couplets even though the verse was as free as any contemporary poetry could be. My second is filled with couplets influenced by Marie’s style. One of my dreams is to meet her one day. I love not just her line structure, but her poetry, her intensity of feelings, her use of Christian images at times. Below is one of my favorite poems. Enjoy.

The Star Market

by Marie Howe January 14, 2008 (copyright: The New Yorker)

The people Jesus loved were shopping at the Star Market yesterday.
An old lead-colored man standing next to me at the checkout
breathed so heavily I had to step back a few steps.

Even after his bags were packed he still stood, breathing hard and
hawking into his hand. The feeble, the lame, I could hardly look at them:
shuffling through the aisles, they smelled of decay, as if the Star Market

had declared a day off for the able-bodied, and I had wandered in
with the rest of them—sour milk, bad meat—
looking for cereal and spring water.

Jesus must have been a saint, I said to myself, looking for my lost car
in the parking lot later, stumbling among the people who would have
been lowered into rooms by ropes, who would have crept

out of caves or crawled from the corners of public baths on their hands
and knees begging for mercy.

If I touch only the hem of his garment, one woman thought,
could I bear the look on his face when he wheels around?

_____________________________________________________________________

GABEBA BADEROON

Gabeba Baderoon (pronounced Habeba Baadaroon) is one of my favorite poets and friends. I discovered her or she discovered me more than two years ago when we both were attending MLA in Philadelphia. I had just arrived at the main conference hotel and was driving into the garage or being assisted by the valet. And since I was in a Penn State car, she, having just arrived herself with her husband, saw me and called me. At the moment, I did not know her, this my South African sister-poet-friend. From then on, she and I read together at University Park, where she teaches African literature. I invited her to my campus at Altoona, where she spoke to my students about South African Literature. She is the author of three books of poetry, including, “The Dream in the Next Body” and “A Hundred Silences.” She is an award winning poet from South Africa, a well traveled scholar and a dear sister. What I have learned as a poet also from Africa, from knowing Gabeba is how to know a hundred silences. She is one of those soft spoken people whose heart for the world is larger than anything you have ever seen. I have learned a lot from knowing Gabeba in a short time. My favorite memories of her to date is when she and I were at the African Literature Association conference, and I was complaining about my nasty hotel room, envying her in her beautiful hotel. She quickly offered me a place in her room, insisted that I moved in with her, and even though I did not take her up on her determined effort to be a true sister, I was quite moved by that. Of course, I stayed in my ugly hotel until I found a room in the better hotel two days later. Find Gabeba’s books and enjoy reading them. Enjoy the poem below.
_____________________________________________________________________

I Cannot Myself

______by Gabeba Baderoon

To come to this country,
my body must assemble itself

into photographs and signatures.
Among them they will search for me.

I must leave behind all uncertainties.
I cannot myself be a question.

_____________________________________________________________________________

CYNTHIA HOGUE

I discovered Cynthia Hogue’s poetry naturally because she and I were published by the same press. New Issues had just published her book, “Flux” came out in 2002, so she was obviously signing books at New Issue Press book table, and the late Herb Scott, who was at the time my mentor, introduced me to Cynthia. I had read the entire book, so imagine how happy I was to meet the poet herself. From then on, Cynthia has always been one of my biggest supporters in the world of poetry. Over the years, I have turned to her for that sister-poet relationship every poet needs. She is the author of five or more books of poetry. Her book, “The Incognito Body” is one of my favorites. I am looking forward to seeing her this year at AWP. Last year, we played the “someone is looking for you” game at AWP New York. I would go to a table, and someone would say, Cynthia is looking for you, and she would get the same world, and not for the thousands of others looking for one another, we may have found each other at that over-flowing New York City AWP. Enjoy the poem below. This is Cynthia for you with her sly power over words.

The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Tree

by Cynthia Hogue

It’s just like her to cry,
Oh, stop living in your head ,
Billy! It makes more sense

where the sun always shines
on dreams programmed for optimism.
Often the man wakes up laughing.

He’s lost his wife and calls
himself divorced, but each night
she says, Good night, my dear,

as if she still lived in the house
he bought for her. He hears her
in the live-oak through the open window,

telling him what to do. Everyone tells him
he’s better off. He thinks,
I’ve wasted my life! The man wishes

his wife would come back because
his beard has grown like Spanish moss.
Letters in his book swim through the room

like zebra fish. The salamander-
colored dog noses the screendoor.
The man knows somewhere there’s a reason

to go on. He wrote last week that he hoped
“to build a new life.” He sent the letter,
with his baby picture, to the Times-Picayune,

which put it in the personals. Someone
called to him from the magnolia tree,
which has bloomed into huge, disk-like flowers,

so many satellites waiting for signals.
Goldfinches flit at the tree’s foot.
He loses himself in the perfumed air.

His wife loved hummingbirds,
though the feeder has hardened
with old sugar.

_______________________________________________________________

JAMES SCHWARTZ

James Schwartz was born 2.19.78 and raised in the Old Order Amish community in SW MI. where he currently resides. He is the author of several poetry chapbooks including The Scarlet Band and Other Poems (2005). Schwartz’s poetry has been published by Poetry Life and Times, The Rainbow Gazzette, the Australian poetry / art journal OutSide the Lines, The Poets Haven, Babel: The multilingual, multicultural online journal and community of arts and ideas and The New Verse News.I discovered James or he discovered me as it always goes, when he sent me an e-mail after visiting my blog some weeks ago. The Internet is one of the ways in which poets and emerging poets merge today, and was I glad to receive a note from a young poet with Michigan connections, one whose voice I quickly took to. I love the ability of poetry to explore the inexplorable, to venture into ruined territory, into the places words aren’t supposed to visit. James has other beautiful poems on his own blog and site, and you might want to visit him at: http://jsgossip.blogspot.com or http://jamesschwartz.towerofbabel.com. Enjoy this young talent, and visit his blog.

Alpine Aire: A Sonnet

by James Schwartz

The poet searches for Love, Truth, Beauty.
In the garden of winter snowscapes.
These matters of the heart are new to me.
January aire, Christmas cityscapes.
Though I walk in the gardens of winter.
Heart entranced by eternal summer aire.
Though my iced path may collapse or splinter.
I walk on warm til I see your face fair.
I have found Truth in Beauty and in Love.
No winter storm could measure my passion.
The heights of love scale alpine peaks above.
Soaring dreams that no poet can ration.
The poet’s quest ends with hearth, heart and home.
His blazing being no longer alone.

JAMES

Breakfast Blend: A Sonnet

by James Schwartz

The Bard’s web log: Now Serving Breakfast Blend!
Civilians get wasted, Soldiers gaysted.
Devout clubbers lay servitude to trend.
No queer queries poetry untasted.
War and Religion rage on in the dawn.
The Soldier and Civilian part in the street.
The Soldier to wells from which courage is drawn.
Sailing the high seas of thought with his fleet.
Availing to avenge his desperate hour.
Racing the Devil with bells on his feet.
To the Bard’s bower, the Poet’s tower.
Drinking with comrades he chanced to meet.
To greet his lover’s lips, tousle his hair.
And hear his Poet’s step upon the stair.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2009- A New Year Prayer for All My Wonderful Readers/Viewers-

Happy New Year From Me to You
————————–Patricia Jabbeh Wesley

Happy New Year, I say, Happy New Year.
Let your days ahead be sprinkled with laughter
and with laughter,  peace.
May all you touch spring forth with freshness.
Find time to giggle and dance and jump
and watch the setting of the sun.
When you wake up, wonder out loud
about the sun’s rays, about the darkening
of the morning, about the fog over the hills,
about your babies down the hall,
about the neighbor and her dog. Wonder
at the stars, wonder and wonder why
you are so blessed and why is it you are
among those of the earth who have
more than their allotted air for breathing.
Wonder why the cat meows and why
the dog wags its tail.
Wonder and wonder why dew falls
at night and about the squirrel’s fleeting stare.
Make laughter come alive in your home.
And when you touch someone, let that touch
be real, and I mean, real, my sister.
Walk gently on soft ground, and when
you walk on a bare rock, step hard, this
life is precious. May your year follow only
through a clear path, and please, when you walk
Let it be with God, my love, let it be with God.

My Iyeeh used to say to me, “May you always walk in the light and all those who come upon you love you. May you know peace, my child, and may your days be filled with laughter. Let no darkness come upon you when you walk. Let the days ahead dance before you, and may you never know tears. Remember who you are no matter what, may God bring you so much blessing, you are forced to share it.”

Hope is the thing with feathers (254)   by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

From the inspired poem ‘ If ‘ – by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream and not make dreams your master;
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools

good times
by Lucille Clifton

my daddy has paid the rent
and the insurance man is gone
and the lights is back on
and my uncle brud has hit
for one dollar straight
and they is good times
good times
good times

my mama has made bread
and grampaw has come
and everybody is drunk
and dancing in the kitchen
and singing in the kitchen
of these is good times
good times
good times

oh children think about the
good times

Share Louis Armstrong’s “What A Wonderful World,” Please

Poets, Poetry Readings and the Adventures of Literary Connections

The Connection between poets and writers is unique. Here below, you will find me paying a visit to the University of Ghana campus near Accra to meet with the renowned Ghanaian poet, Kofi Anyidoho. Kofi Anyidoho is a poet from the Ewe tradition, a Professor of English for many many years. I wanted to sit with him and just learn from his wisdom as an African poet while I was teaching poetry writing with Pan African Literary Forum in Ghana this summer. So, here I was, being taken around the campus, visiting the officials of the campus with this well respected poet and Professor. There is much to learn from simply talking to Professor Anyidoho. Here are some photos for your eyes: I am here standing with Kofi at the English Department building at Legon.

Here I am standing before the English Dept. at Legon

Presenting my three books to Kofi for the English Dept. library

Sitting in the English Dept at Legon

This is Kofi here at his desk at Legon.

This is me reading the poem, “For Kwame Nkrumah,” from my third book of poems, The River is Rising.

The visit ended with my photographer, Enock Amankwah also getting a shot taken of him. He was my faithful photographer, tour guide, the Ghanaian best friend of my son, MT. Here is Enock posing to have the chance to also be seen with Kofi. Afterwards, Enock said that before this day, he had always only heard about the Professor and poet, but today he had set eyes upon the renowned Kofi. There was no one as patient with me as Enock when he worked with me in Accra.

Enock and Kofi

My friend, fellow writer, Faith Adiele, reading at the Pan African Literary Forum in Ghana. Faith is one of those rare people you meet and always know. Meeting Faith in Accra was one of those reunion activities for me. There were other writing friends too, like Pamela Fletcher who is one of my friends from long ago. Faith’s reading that night made us laugh and think about the way of life we call African culture.

And of course, another reading here in Monrovia, Liberia, at the Liberian government forum.

Poetry Readings are usually very interesting both for the invited poet and the institution, students, and audience who may often come from the community. My students over the past years have often come away from readings with all sorts of comments about the invited poet, often some of the comments not so encouraging. I do a lot of poetry readings across the country and now in other countries. Usually, I look at a reading as a sort of a performance, something the inviting institution is paying their hard cash for, however small or large, and I, the invited one must do my best to articulate my poetry so the audience can get a clearer perspective for what is important to me. I want my images to be clear in my reading, and I want people to walk away with a sense of what poetry is. Sometimes, I think I do a good job. Sometimes, hey, I can’t know. Below are a few photos of a few readings I have recently done. Sorry, I can’t load the numerous videos I have, but the photos will tell you how seriously the inviting groups often believe poetry reading is. And who can blame them?

This is me here practicing with the famous Oliver Lake Jazz Group, Mr. Lake standing there, and me looking like I was ready to die just from doing the same poems over and over to match the reading to the music.  We are practicing here one poet at the time with several other poets for the Pittsburgh City of Asylum’s Poetry Jazz Concert that was held one day later on Sept. 13.

After all that trouble, and all the poets had practiced well, here is the occasion. There were a couple thousand people at least in the audience of an enthusiastic crowd, a few voices of various poets, including Gerald Stern,  Lynn Emmanuel, Terrance Hayes, Nikola Madzirov, among others. A fantastic evening after all, and I drove back home the next morning, leaving behind Pittsburgh and all the memory as always. The Concert was a fund raiser to help settle two exiled poets in the US each year. My favorite poet among all of us was Gerald Stern, one of the finest poets who still has a sense of humor and a heart after decades of living the life of a poet. On the morning of concert day, I walked into the breakfast hall of our hotel where the Festival founder, Henry Reese had lodged us, and Gerald welcome me to his table with his wonderful humor and his warm heart. He is one of my most beloved poets, even past 80, he is still bubbly with poetry and a heart.

All of My Poetry/ English Professor Friends, Whites and Blacks Are Voting for Obama-WOW, Please Remember to VOTE!!!!

This is an historic election, no doubt. Everyone is at a standstill, waiting. All over the world, everyone is waiting. My friends around the world have told me they too are at a standstill for America. They love America and also wait like all of us.

What is most interesting to me is the circles of associations that we have formed around the election. Around me, many of my neighbors are for the opposition, but you have just to enter university territory or neighborhoods or college professors vitual world or poetry lanes, and you have Obama support everywhere to encourage you. My first duty as a supporter of Obama tomorrow is to drive forty minutes to State College to pick up my son, MT, who is registered in my township to vote. Besie, our eldest will be voting near her Penn State campus. After that, I will go to my campus to see if I am needed to drive students to the polls. I will work with all my strength to see Obama elected. I have given the few hours and few dollars I could. In my family, I am proud to say that my very intellectual two older children have their heads on their shoulders and are voting for Obama. My children want a better life for themselves and their children.

OBAMA LOGO—

My poetry friends are all up in arms with excitement and fear for the elections and Obama. But all will be well, I tell myself. Writers and artists and teachers and professionals at college campuses know the toll college education is taking on all of us and our children. They are on the field where art has been pulled out of schools, where poets can no longer get funding, where student drop-out is related to who makes policy of education, and we are counting the hours. One of my facebook friends, a very fine and renowned poet had her hours and minutes counted to the hour of voting. November 4, 2008 will be a day to keep in history. If Obama wins the position he is expected to win (if no one cheats this time), it will be a great day for most Americans and for all of us around the world.

DON’T BE AFRAID, EVERYONE- THE SAME GOD OTHERS BELIEVE IN IS PROTECTING OBAMA’S LIFE.

Listen to this poem: A Poem for Obama by Ainsley Burrows—-

POETS FOR A BETTER COUNTRY: Pittsburgh Poets Rally in A Big Poetry Reading for the Obama/Biden Campaign

poets for a better country:

Some of America’s finest poets, many I know personally and have much respect for will rally in Pittsburgh this weekend to voice their support for the Democratic ticket of Barack Obama and Joe Biden. If you live within the Pittsburgh area or if you can drive up to Pittsburgh, this should be a once in a lifetime experience you cannot afford to miss.

Here is what the announcement says:

We urge you to join with us in forging a national movement to transform political consciousness. Barack Obama has defined democracy as “a promise that says each of us has the freedom to make of our own lives what we will, but that we also have the obligation to treat each other with dignity and respect.”

HERE ARE THE POETS:

Greetings from the Ocean City of Accra, Ghana: The Pan African Literary Forum in Ghana is Going Well Out Here

At home just before I left for Ghana

The Pan African Literary Forum Study Abroad in Ghana is going well out here in Ghana, West Africa. We are just at the end of the first week of teaching and poetry festival.

Hello Everyone:

Have you been calling and not getting me? Some of you have no clue I’m away, but hey, let me tell you how much fun it is out here with photos. My “adopted” daughter who is actually my son’s friend, Ashanti caught me on e-mail the other day and started chatting. She wanted me to post some photos so she and others would know what was going on with me. I have been out here really working, doing research, and teaching students poetry at the Pan African Literary Forum’s Study Abroad in Accra, Ghana. There are a lot of wonderful writers and students of writing out here. The trip has included much laughter and tears too, so here below is what it is.

Here Below is Poet Laureate of South Africa, Keorapetse Kgositsile reading and giving the keynote address at the opening ceremony. I enjoyed meeting and exchanging books with him during the week.

I was the second of three readers at the opening ceremony, reading after the South African poet. The readings and opening ceremony took place at the WEB Dubois Center of New York University’s Ghana campus in Accra.

The third poet reading at the opening ceremony was Tyehimba Jess below at the mic.

Below are a cross section of photos from the opening ceremony on July 5, 2008

I am in the middle here of the heat, students from all over Africa, teaching poetry workshops, eating Ghanaian Banku, fufu, rice and tomato stew, and of course, all fufus must and must be eaten with hand, poetry readings, publishers lectures, more eating, taxi cab drivers who can’t find their way around their own city, more poetry readings and discussions, and now tomorrow, we will visit Cape Coast and see the Slave Castles. This has been a wonderful experience. The sun in Ghana is like no other sunshine, and does not come any close to my own country of Liberia, West Africa.

My friend, creative non-fiction writer, Faith Adiele and me talking at the opening ceremony

Below here is our last performer of the evening, Grandmaster Masese from Kenya. Masese is a very young and talented writer/musician.

Below is a cross section of the group at the opening ceremony. My camera help caught Laurie Calhoun explaining some concept about something apparently very important. I was glad to meet Laurie who is the Publications Editor of Transition Magazine at Harvard because I had worked with her preparing my poems for publication in Transition Magazine.:

In Search of Our Ancestral Past- The Pain of Visiting the Slave Dungeons at Elmina Slave Forts and the Cape Coast Slave Dungeons:

The Pan African Literary Forum’s students and Creative Writing teachers took a two and a half hour trip to the Slave Forts located at Elmina and Cape Coast. We rode in two buses in the hot Ghana sun, but our arrival at the Dungeons was met with emotion like no other I have known for a long time.

Standing Before a Dungeon brings only tears

This is just a brief blogging of the painful moment when one comes upon this huge structure where our ancestors were bound and chained, bundled up and beaten in preparation for the long transatlantic trip to slavery and to death. I broke down just like many others, shedding tears. Even the men were struck dump with silence at looking at the ingeniousness of torture.

A group of us Pan Africa Literary Forum participants standing before the Elmina Slave Fort. This is a solemn moment.

My Visit to the Buduburam Refugee camp:

The Buduburam Refugee Camp where Liberian refugees have been for the past nearly two decades is shutting down. I took a cab to the camp to speak with camp members, but particularly, because I still have a sister-in-law in the camp. Camp members live in little small mud houses erected like a shanty town, and have made a sort of a make-shift home for themselves. This was my first visit, and again, there was much emotion, the pain of watching so many who had lost the years, now packing to return on their own to Liberia. The trucks were high with furniture and personal belongings. My sister in-law was healthy, a mix emotion of happiness and sorrow just to see me, but it was a wonderful moment. One concern she has is the concern of all of the other refugees. They are being pushed out of the camp without any incentives to help them get back home or help them resettle in war-torn Liberia. But they are leaving anyway. Hopefully, most of the refugees will find home at home, jobs, schools, opportunities. Some have decided to remain in Ghana because there is nothing to return to in Liberia.

Tomorrow I Fly Away Back to Liberia

I am bracing myself for the next leg of my trip, back home to Liberia, a moment I have waited to see for so many years. The last time I was home was eight years ago, just for ten days to bury my mother who passed suddenly that year. But this was not a real return home to visit then. I saw everyone then in a cloud, in long lines before or after the funeral, during the traditional Mat times when my mother lay in state. Some of my siblings were far away in a refugee camp here or there and other family members were in hiding still. Tomorrow will be the first real return in nearly twenty years. I am bracing myself for this one. God is good to me. I will post more. My internet at the Afia Beach Club Hotel where we are staying is shutting down. But the ocean is just a few yards from my deck, and the sound of the rolling ocean reminds me I am almost home.

Super Mom or Not,— HAPPY, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY To All The Moms, To Women Without Children, and Women Who Take Care of Other People’s Children Out There!

Yesterday, I was thinking of Mother’s Day, and was reminded of my own deceased mother, Hne Datedor Mary Williams, of my deceased stepmother, Nnano Mary Morrias Jabbeh, of my Aunties, my father’s struggling sisters in Liberia, my mother’s sisters, who all died too early because of the struggles of women around the world, often, the house-keeper, provider, mother and childbearer, wife on whose shoulders all life must rest in an African household, the patient one who sits there as her husband cheats and cheats on her with other women, often, the one who is tossed aside for another woman in the the cities, and often, with nothing to live for, she dies earlier than other women around the world.

I was not thinking of myself as a mother, hardworking woman, who having lost everything continues to work hard and better myself and take care of my own children.

I was instead thinking of other women like many of my women friends still in Liberia, in the US, both African, African American, Asian, white American, friends who are women, with that culture of nurturing their children, their husbands, working hard to help bring in the meal, supporting their husbands for ages, and then afterwards, many of these are like their African counterparts, tossed aside.

I was not emotional at all about all the things that we are teary about on Mother’s Day. I was on the other hand, teary about a few of my friends, African women who in the last five years were tossed aside, after childbearing and nurturing, having given all their life to a husband they thought would take care of them in their old age, and after that, they called me to say that it was over. They had exhausted all attempts to save their marriage, and were allowing their husband to go ahead and divorce them.

This is where our mothering comes in. As a mother, I keep asking myself whether or not I am bringing up the old African son like our fathers or the new one who is able to transcend the old culture of relegating women to lower roles, to not caring about their wives after they grow old or am I bringing up sons that will know that it is not only the woman’s place to be the cook and housekeeper, to be the one looking after the children, and yet the one helping to bring in the household income. I want as a mother to bring up sons that can take the best from both the Western culture and the African.

We should aim to bring up new men. Many mothers are alone in their old age not because they cannot live with their husbands, but because of an older culture. I wrote a poem to one of my good friends during my time of reflection, a poem that I will send out to a journal and include in my fourth book. I do not feel it should be posted here, but the poem helped me put into words how Mother’s Day can bring mix feelings. Many of us are happy mothers because we were the lucky ones to have husbands who care a lot about us as women. But there are millions of women who are in tears on Mother’s Day because life was not fair to them or because another woman’s son destroyed their life.

Our mothers were hardworking and dedicated, and taught many of us their children how to be dedicated to family and to our children.

Last year I spent some time with my childhood friend, Marietta Freeman Johnson, and was amazed at how much our memories of our two mothers inspired in both of us. Our mothers, Auntie Mary, as she was called, and Auntie Vic were best friends when we were very young children in Monrovia. The night I stayed with Marietta on my way from Colombia, South America, stranded in Atlanta after one of my poetry reading trips, we talked for hours into the morning about what our mothers have left with us, their love of hard work, their commitment to their children, their struggles to overcome Monrovia’s difficult existence, their ever-enduring love even in moments when our fathers were not there for us.

But I remember my younger friends also. There are younger women who in their dedication to family and to God, have been great mothers, even examples to some of us who are a bit older. My friend, Lola Audu comes to mind. In my early years here in the US, Lola and I had younger children, and at that time, it was difficult to see where we would be in five, ten, fifteen years. A couple years ago, I was in Grand Rapids to read poetry as a guest of Calvin College’s Festival of Faith and Writing, and had the pleasure of being honored in Lola’s home when she threw a girls’ party for me. This was fifteen years after our first meeting, and our friendship began. At that get-together of Christian women friends of Lola was her mother, a woman who inspires love and dedication in the younger woman who simply will take a moment to get close to her.

That day, I was looking at Lola however, not at the older motherly woman, I call “Mama” since I already knew what she was as a mother. But I was delighted to see my friend, Lola, now a mother of a high schooler and a near teenager, a professional woman who owns her own realty and is the broker in her firm, a dedicated wife and an inspiration to all of those who know her. What was important to me that day was how Lola had grown not only as a professional woman, but also as a woman of God, a mother of her children, a dedicated wife, and a community person.

Every woman does not however have to be a woman like my friend Lola or like myself, whatever people think I am or and no woman has to be an angel of mercy. Every mother ought to be herself, to live within the grace that God has given her, to enjoy her life, and to continue to nurture their children to become good citizens. Those of us in the Diaspora, the new immigrants know where we have come from, how much the struggle is to become what we want to be, and knowing this should inspire us to be true mothers to our children, and most particularly, to our sons.

I will conclude this blog today on several poems by some of my favorite poets and with Prince Nico Mbarga’s beautiful song, the popular and eternal, “Sweet Mother.”

All of the poems are credited to the Famous Poems and Poets.Com

Mother’s Day Proclamation by Julia Ward Howe

Arise then…women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts!
Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly:
“We will not have questions answered by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage,
For caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country,
Will be too tender of those of another country

To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs.

“From the voice of a devastated Earth a voice goes up with
Our own. It says: “Disarm! Disarm!
The sword of murder is not the balance of justice.”
Blood does not wipe our dishonor,
Nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil
At the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home
For a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace…
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
But of God -
In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask
That a general congress of women without limit of nationality,
May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient
And the earliest period consistent with its objects,
To promote the alliance of the different nationalities,
The amicable settlement of international questions,
The great and general interests of peace.

if there are any heavens my mother will by E. E. Cummings

if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have

one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor

a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but

it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose

tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her

silent)

with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which

is a flower and not a face with

hands

which whisper

This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)

Nature — the Gentlest Mother is, by Emily Dickinson

Nature — the Gentlest Mother is,
Impatient of no Child –
The feeblest — or the waywardest –
Her Admonition mild –

In Forest — and the Hill –
By Traveller — be heard –
Restraining Rampant Squirrel –
Or too impetuous Bird –

How fair Her Conversation –
A Summer Afternoon –
Her Household — Her Assembly –
And when the Sun go down –

Her Voice among the Aisles
Incite the timid prayer
Of the minutest Cricket –
The most unworthy Flower –

When all the Children sleep –
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light Her lamps –
Then bending from the Sky –

With infinite Affection –
And infiniter Care –
Her Golden finger on Her lip –
Wills Silence — Everywhere –

In Memory Of My Mother by Patrick Kavanagh

I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station,

or happilyGoing to second Mass on a summer Sunday–
You meet me and you say:
‘Don’t forget to see about the cattle–’
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.

And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life–
And I see us meeting at the end of a town

On a fair day by accident, after
The bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.

O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us — eternally.

Nigeria – Tilda – Sweet Mother

In The Presence of A Mountain, One Must Bow: Meeting Muthoni Likimani- African Writer, Long Time Woman Fighter, Social Activitst, Women’s Role Model……What A Blessing!

Muthoni Likimani, the author of many books was approachable even after 80, and inspires humility in anyone who would take a moment to talk to her.

Meeting Muthoni

Frank Chipasula, another African poet and Editor of African Literature captures in this photo Muthoni attempting to stop me in my tracks, and then I discovered who she is.

When I met Muthoni Likimani last week, it was like coming up to a mountain just to realize how huge and how great the mountain is. I met the great Kenyan writer, activist and one of the most influential figures of Kenyan literary and political history, Muthoni Likimani at the African Literature Association (ALA) conference in MaComb, Illinois a week ago. The ALA conference was held at Western Illinois University from April 22-27. There were many African literary greats all over the place, but if you are like me, new to attending ALA conferences, you were lost to these great people unless you had a good friend like some of my good poetry and literary friends who took me by the hand to introduce me to everyone. My friend Gabeba Baderoon from South Africa was good at introducing me to so many great people. But when I met Muthoni, no one had to tell me who she was. I knew it by her walk, her smile, her eyes that seemed to say, “come here, little girl, let me meet you and bless you.” I simply walked up to her, and introduced myself. She was a magnet, a giant to be reckoned with, a true writer, someone who has already done what many of us aspire to. I do not know if others around us in the Union at WIU discovered the woman I was discovering for the first time.

Muthoni Likimani is more than 80 years old, but walked with strength and the power that she carries in her walk. She greeted me and discovered that I am Liberian. Then she struck a conversation with me about the famous Liberian musician and artist, Miata Fahnbullah, whom she referred to as her “daughter.” At that point, I was curious about this Kenyan author, and wanted to know more about her. I wanted at the moment to get all of the books she’s written and read them, to sit with her and ask her all the questions a younger woman can ask of an elder- the how to write for a generation of younger women, how to write in the Diaspora, how to stay alive, how to “fight without ceasing,” how to find out “what a man wants,” and all of the things this great woman writer and role model has written about.

Conferences are so interesting. One has just a small bit of time for sessions, for presenting, for meeting great people, for meeting not-so great people, for searching for food, looking for rides, for avoiding those who need to be avoided, and so forth. Once in a while, one meets someone who is a rare treasure. The ALA was such a conference, but there was nothing better than meeting Muthoni. I wanted to introduce her to my readers. There was that smile, that freedom of spirit, that love of the younger more inexperienced woman writer from Africa, for the new Diaspora woman from Africa. One never ever lives to learn enough. Each day brings new blessings. I felt really blessed. Meeting Muthoni was one of those moments when one felt like bowing down in reverence to the grace of an elder. There was much bowing and kneeling in reverence to elders at ALA, but meeting Muthoni Likimani was one deserving of knee bending.

Later on, after we had posed for photos, Frank took me to the book table where The Feminist Press had her one book, “What Does a Man Want” on display.

Here, again Frank Chipasula faithfully captures Muthoni here with me and Kassahun Checole of African World Press. Kasahun has faithfully published African writers from around the world for decades.

There were many other great moments and great things that happened at the conference. My friend, Maureen Ngozi Eke of Central Michigan University became President of the African Literature Association, and gave the most wonderful speech. I am still basking in that great speech. She made me proud of her. I was not elected as an Executive Committee member of ALA, a decision which I felt was a great one. I was a great loser, and loved losing. A great person nominated me, but I believe that I am not ready to take on any more responsibility anyway, especially, since I am still an Executive Committee member of MLA’s African Literature Division.

I met another very wonderful author and writer, translator and sister, Wangui Wa Goro. On Sunday, Wangui and I were among few who were still stuck in that little town of MaComb, and spent some time with young student members of the African Student Association at Western Illinois, chatting, mentoring, and advising them over lunch. We later on visited Safouri’s house to eat Jollof rice and talk before retiring at the Union where we were staying.

My appreciation for all of the photos above and below goes to Frank Chipasula who took everyone by surprise and captured many great moments at the conference. Enjoy the photos below:

Papa Suso of Gambia was again at ALA, performing, entertaining everyone and being his usual happy-go-lucky self. Here he is waiting with all of us for the ever-not-coming shuttle bus to arrive. His instrument, the Kora. I first met Papa Suso at ALA 2007 and then again in Medelin, Colombia, where he performed to thousands as we read poetry. Standing over us is Kevin, one of the great people I met at the conference.

This other shot is a good one since this shows us preparing to eat Chinese food. In a town like MaComb, we had few choices in the way of meals, and being African, we went for any thing with rice in it. Below is Mark de Brito of South Africa about to have lunch. I turn around just to hide my own meal from the camera- Ha. Mark was introduced to me by my South African friend, Gabeba.

Below are some of Muthoni Likimani’s titles. I have just ordered two of them.

They Shall Be Chastised (April 1991)

Passbook # F. .47927 Women and Mau Mau in Kenya (1986)

What Does a Man Want? 91974)

Fighting Without Ceasing (December, 2005)

Women of Kenya in the Decade of Development (1985)