Issue 12
Fall 2002
Peter Addo
P E Adotey Addo was announced as a promising poet and a story teller in a 1957 symposium of Ghanaian writing called Voices of Ghana. He has traveled and experienced much since his poem about the founding father of Pan Africanism was published in that publication. Most of his carreer had been as a College teacher of Relin and Science . He is a poet, a rtstory writer, a folklorist, a theologian, and a biologist. His works have been published by The Daily Graphic, in Accra, Ghana,West Africa; The Ghanaian Times, Accra, Ghana, West Africa; The Scope, Purdue University, West Lafayette, Indiana; The Palmetto Leader, Columbia, South Carolina; The Charlotte Poetry Review, Charlotte, North Carolina; The North Carolina Christian Advocate, Greensboro, North Carolina, The Greensboro Daily news and Record to mention just a few . The greatest influence on Osofo as he puts it were the encouraging words of the Founder of the Republic of Ghana, Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, after the publication of his poem on the first anniversary of the Independence of Ghana in 1958. He has authored one anthology of Poems, Talking Drums,1999, and two collections of folktales, Ghana Folktales, 1968 and How the Spider Became Bald, 1993, and his numerous writings have appeared in several countries and languages. On a more personal note, Addo is a retied United Methodist Minister and College Chaplain and now devotes all of his time visiting schools and colleges for readings and talks. He lives with his family in Greensboro , North Carolina.
This Place Called Home
Sometimes my memory corrodes my mind
But there are parts I know it cannot change.
Sometimes I may deny past the hour of dawn
And like a migrating beast they fly away.
Why is it so difficult to forget?
Perhaps these are just partial images passing through.
Where I once lived someone lives there now
But I have to be strong to fight these images
To keep fragments of my childhood place.
So soon so little will be left
And I shall be alone.
But shall I ever find myself alone
Wondering if it had ever been
This place, this life
The memory makes it difficult to forget.
But like a pail of salt water left in the sun
It evaporates and melts away
Only to leave a white powder
That tastes foul to the tongue.
This place, this life, Kukuhill
Rekindled Memories Of Home
Maybe it’s about not wanting to let go.
These floods of memories
About places and times and such.
And without a delete bottom
They are for ever being rekindled.
Perhaps these tortured memories are an assurance
Of those places and people and times and such
Had indeed existed and not misleading.
These rekindled memories.
But there is no comfort in them
Without the smiles that touch my soul
To welcome me home.
Memories of Dawn at KukuhillInside the gate the smell of strong tea in the air
With burnt toast and real butter
Outside the gate, strong cinnamon and nutmeg.
But I preferred the neighbors who
Cooked rice, plantain and pepper sauce
And the other that made me nauseous at times,
Fried curry rice and herbs.
But I could stand the garlic
And onions from the other side
As I wondered how many bags of onion could smell that strong.
The dawn came each morning and the sun was never late
Transporting these scents through the neighborhood.
Now I wonder if there is anyone left to admire the dawn
And smell the scents floating in the air.
The only equalizer on KuKuhill was the dawn.
The dawn is still spectacular on Kukuhill
Even if time and change have robbed it of its audience.
Nature makes up for everything
With the perfect moon and such
And for the Hilltop at KuKuhill
The dawns were spectacular
With the dew drops on the grass
Reflecting like crystals from the sun rising in the East
And those insects who have ventured into the light
Now lying helpless on the ground,
Struggling to recapture their lost flight
Before the crows and other birds
Make a feast of them,
Before the sun fully shows itself
The dawn was still spectacular on KuKuhill.