I’ve been staring hard at the poetry scene from the outside for a while now. It is teeming tadpoles with staggering talent. There are divers hangouts in the City of Accra which are nothing loath (or even hankering) to have the studded poet-dom hold the limelight for fifteen sonorous, syllabic minutes apiece, binding listeners with lyrical spells. There is also a couple of artsy, foppish meets in private homes where attendees bring their own (or bare-face adopted) poetry.
But the live performers who are oozing with charisma! They memorise and let spray ten minutes of alpha beta magic. I just wonder why they have the street-rap swagger, self-praise themes and opposite-person bashing. And the words fall out ferocious and convulsive like they are slashing a villain standing unseen with menace before the poet.