Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

Fame

Enlarge poem

In platitudes of thought sequences
Matched against the futilities of desire,
Burn, burn hard like a wheeling fire
Of storms stubborn and more relentless
In their onslaughts, usurping pastoral meekness;

What comes often in this flaming cycle:
A rise, then the steady stream of hope,
Then a sudden quake…
Fall into the impending trough.
Cataclysmic in all it’s destined fatalities,
And the weight of thought and nostalgic fears,
And weariness, at the cost of rising again…
(Why not lie, why not sleep a while)
Why not wish that all may be as it is thought to be;
Being is not a virtue learned by wishful hope;
Relentless the storm that tears down a dream or two;
Haste, haste before behind that draws into the dearth
Of a broken heart, and a lost cause,
Swinging, hewing air and despondent,
Darkness swirling in mists that are churning.

Lay down your sword, pick up your hoe
(For work shall set you free!)
In this concentration camp of carnal living
And poeclectic cacophonies.

Jesse Jojo Johnson

Featured Poem:

The Melancholic Monologue - Who am I?

Enlarge poem

Where do I stand?
Amongst the rising wheat
In the fields,
To whom do I belong?
Where do I stand?
The night is home
To myriad burning lights,
Each as sufficient as the next,
Yet all are subservient
To the lone, lunar monarch
In our ever so skewed perspective.
Am I but one of them,
Fixed perpetually
In a brilliant jeweled blanket?
Not more beautiful?
Not more bright and burning?
Where do I stand?
Once upon a time
The center of my own universe,
Fact now forces me to a little corner
Of an ever grander multiversity
Of talents unique and outstanding.
Me:
Just one speck in a see of six billion
And ever growing beyond its bounds.
What am I? How special am I?
It is not enough to believe
That each of us is special;
You, and I, and they, and they, and they…
It carries on infinitely,
Like a mindless milling automat.
Am I a mindless milling automat?
Am I a soul? Am I another being
Contained within another being?
There is no proof of that.

What am I? Who am I?
A spare part of Gaia’s
Sweaty, gurgling mass;
Replacable in the instant I fail?
Worn without pity,
And lost without compunction?
I am not her brain.
I am not her mind.
I am not even a gear
That moves some important part.
If she were a novel,
I would only be a side note;
Easily mistyped.
Often overlooked.
I am not a character’s first name,
Not its last.
And my life is short lived;
Transient at best.
I am blind from within
Myself, I do not see.
Though the world be full of steps,
I do not see where now I stand.
What am I? Where am I?
When am I?
And who is “I”?
A mistake.
A black smudge across a white sheet
Even has a place: I am without.
Out classed and out numbered
And beaten by the rest.
I am nothing in nothing.
I was never. I am not.

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (0)
  • Pride (0)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (0)
  • Inspiration (0)
  • Reflection (0)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (1)
  • Hope (0)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Comments

Your email address will not be published.

Biography

Jesse writes under the pseudonym William Saint George. He is  a Computer Science major at Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology with an avid interest in the arts and global issues, history, and diplomacy. He is also am an amateur photographer and a blogger.

Jesse Jojo Johnson

Biography

Jesse writes under the pseudonym William Saint George. He is  a Computer Science major at Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology with an avid interest in the arts and global issues, history, and diplomacy. He is also am an amateur photographer and a blogger.

Fame

Enlarge poem

In platitudes of thought sequences
Matched against the futilities of desire,
Burn, burn hard like a wheeling fire
Of storms stubborn and more relentless
In their onslaughts, usurping pastoral meekness;

What comes often in this flaming cycle:
A rise, then the steady stream of hope,
Then a sudden quake…
Fall into the impending trough.
Cataclysmic in all it’s destined fatalities,
And the weight of thought and nostalgic fears,
And weariness, at the cost of rising again…
(Why not lie, why not sleep a while)
Why not wish that all may be as it is thought to be;
Being is not a virtue learned by wishful hope;
Relentless the storm that tears down a dream or two;
Haste, haste before behind that draws into the dearth
Of a broken heart, and a lost cause,
Swinging, hewing air and despondent,
Darkness swirling in mists that are churning.

Lay down your sword, pick up your hoe
(For work shall set you free!)
In this concentration camp of carnal living
And poeclectic cacophonies.

Featured Poem:

The Melancholic Monologue - Who am I?

Enlarge poem

Where do I stand?
Amongst the rising wheat
In the fields,
To whom do I belong?
Where do I stand?
The night is home
To myriad burning lights,
Each as sufficient as the next,
Yet all are subservient
To the lone, lunar monarch
In our ever so skewed perspective.
Am I but one of them,
Fixed perpetually
In a brilliant jeweled blanket?
Not more beautiful?
Not more bright and burning?
Where do I stand?
Once upon a time
The center of my own universe,
Fact now forces me to a little corner
Of an ever grander multiversity
Of talents unique and outstanding.
Me:
Just one speck in a see of six billion
And ever growing beyond its bounds.
What am I? How special am I?
It is not enough to believe
That each of us is special;
You, and I, and they, and they, and they…
It carries on infinitely,
Like a mindless milling automat.
Am I a mindless milling automat?
Am I a soul? Am I another being
Contained within another being?
There is no proof of that.

What am I? Who am I?
A spare part of Gaia’s
Sweaty, gurgling mass;
Replacable in the instant I fail?
Worn without pity,
And lost without compunction?
I am not her brain.
I am not her mind.
I am not even a gear
That moves some important part.
If she were a novel,
I would only be a side note;
Easily mistyped.
Often overlooked.
I am not a character’s first name,
Not its last.
And my life is short lived;
Transient at best.
I am blind from within
Myself, I do not see.
Though the world be full of steps,
I do not see where now I stand.
What am I? Where am I?
When am I?
And who is “I”?
A mistake.
A black smudge across a white sheet
Even has a place: I am without.
Out classed and out numbered
And beaten by the rest.
I am nothing in nothing.
I was never. I am not.

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (0)
  • Pride (0)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (0)
  • Inspiration (0)
  • Reflection (0)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (1)
  • Hope (0)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Fame

Enlarge poem

In platitudes of thought sequences
Matched against the futilities of desire,
Burn, burn hard like a wheeling fire
Of storms stubborn and more relentless
In their onslaughts, usurping pastoral meekness;

What comes often in this flaming cycle:
A rise, then the steady stream of hope,
Then a sudden quake…
Fall into the impending trough.
Cataclysmic in all it’s destined fatalities,
And the weight of thought and nostalgic fears,
And weariness, at the cost of rising again…
(Why not lie, why not sleep a while)
Why not wish that all may be as it is thought to be;
Being is not a virtue learned by wishful hope;
Relentless the storm that tears down a dream or two;
Haste, haste before behind that draws into the dearth
Of a broken heart, and a lost cause,
Swinging, hewing air and despondent,
Darkness swirling in mists that are churning.

Lay down your sword, pick up your hoe
(For work shall set you free!)
In this concentration camp of carnal living
And poeclectic cacophonies.

Comments

Your email address will not be published.