From Page to Stage AND Day 7 of APW

Ghanaian poet Kofi Anyidoho once told the Michigan State University Press that "poetry is no longer a textual art bound to the written/printed page. It is fully liberated from the distancing effect of print technology."


The profile goes on to say that -

His direct involvement with the production of poetry as 'full drama' began when the Ghana National Commission on Children, chaired by the well-known dramatist Efua Sutherland, invited me to plan and direct an appropriate literary- dramatic program for children from selected schools in Accra as part of a flag-raising ceremony at the O.A.U Monument in 1984 to mark O.A.U. Day in the Ghanaian capital. From then on, Anyidoho has gone on to produce and perfect a performance mode that is returning written African poetry to its dramatic oral roots.

Anyidoho belongs to the lot of prestigious African writers that includes such heavy hitters as Chinua Achebe and Wole Soyinka. But, it is his roots in the Ewe oral poetry tradition that allows him to take the literary art one step further. Anyidoho ability's to fully embrace the fluidity and expressiveness of performance poetry makes him the epitome of THE EVOLUTION OF PAPER:-)

That is why he is the seventh and final poet in our African Poets Week series.

I looked hard for a video to post, but alas...there were none. The below poem was the result of some hard core digging on the net and is a piece about the great divide that lies between the haves and the have-nots. It reminded me that we might not all have material wealth to give, but we all have something to offer.

Enjoy!! and check out this link for more Ghanaian poetry

My Song
BY Kofi Anyidoho

Here
on
this
Public
Square
I
Stand

I sell My Song for those with ears to buy
It is to a tree that a bull is tied
You do not bypass the palm’s branches
to tap its wine

The things I have to say

I say them now
I shall stand aside
from those who care
to clear their throat and
dress their shame in lies

When you meet a poorly-dressed neighbour
at a great durbar
you do not spit on the ground
and roll your eyes to the skies

The umbrella I bought
You stole from my rooms at dawn
Now I walk in the early morning rain

You point at me to our young maidens
And they join you in laughter

Think
My People
Think
Think well before you laugh at those who walk in the rain.

The gifts that bestows at birth
Some had some splendid things
What was mine?
I sing. They laugh.
Still I sell My Song
for those with ears to buy

My cloth is torn, I know
But I shall learn to wear it well

My voice is hoarse, I know
But I shall learn to wear it well.