"harmattan" poems
There's history in my hair please don't touch, handle with care.
It's the same as this perfect pigment,
this melanin I wear
Richly rooted in my blood
Whether dark or fair
Sun kissed and kinked in bliss
More love for my 'rough n tough Afro puff'
She shines like the Sahara sun
She smells like the salt of the Gold coast sea.
Theres a hint of the bittersweet seed of the cocoa tree.
Feels like the pillow that holds all your dreams with the dry Harmattan wind brushing against your cheek
She'll whisper secrets of the motherland.... If you get close enough
She holds like Mina
Curls with pride
Falls with grace and integrity.
Stubborn like the struggle of the ones before me.
Gravity defying masterpiece that's just a single piece of me, a reminder of my ancestry.
It's my glory, my covering
Don't take it lightly, don't misunderstand, I'm a work of art so please peep but just don't touch.
© Raphaela Israel Öbeñg
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 10:36 AM UTC
Harmattan!! Harmattan!!
My favourite season
Embrace of the crisp air
Sending chills through my body
Harmattan!! Harmattan!!
a little bruise
With so much pain
Such is my bodys fragility
Harmattan!! Harmattan
The mufflers, sweaters and gloves
All giving warmth
A universal feeling
Which makes us one
Harmattan!! Harmattan!!
The flu, cough and fever
Drowning my sickness
With pots of hot soup and tea
Though, you come with so much baggage
I love you always and forever.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
The lighting of streets' corners -
Even those corners that hitherto were dark and unwelcoming.
As the sunset bleeds
on the city's disappearing silhouette.
The shimmering traffic;
The blares of multiple cars as they try to rush home.
As windows smile brightly to passersby.
The return of Santa Claus!
The holiday seasons,
Winter to the snow laden,
Harmattan to the arid lands.
Chilly on all sides.
The warmth of the fireplace,
The joy of the days to come.
The jingles of merry bells.
The bright lights of Christmas trees.
A reminder that all of humanity can still be happy.
That there is still hope.
That we can share in each other's joy.
And always be there for each other.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
Symphonic
My fist was first five fingers
Flowing Favonian into the palm of my radiant mother
As cheeky as a sprite, soon I revelled in the
Crisp light of the fridge and all its chilled visitors,
A skin-deep draft last week, a raging harmattan yesterday,
Barren among the fruitless lands of Mesopotamia.
Crawling, my sergeants and I led the way through our childhood fantasies.
Ali Baba's fortress, the ruins of Babylon, and up to the lately perturbed Euphrates.
I dropped my automatic rifle,
hurriedly snatched it up in the unforgiving desolate,
just in time to
narrowly dodge the absent onslaught of enemy gunfire
Only to witness a serpentine strike and an explosive splash
Of metal violating my infantile hand, a hand that was trusted and was caressed
Now merely a bludgeon to satisfy the steel-clawed slash of the shrapnel
A buffer to the skin of my wide-eyed physiognomy.
Waking up in the loose sheets of a completely unremarkable beige bed,
With the deoxygenated breath of the novice surgeon liquidizing in my veins,
It was almost too much to handle (if you'll pardon my pun).
These days it is
The good hand with which I
Uncork, pour, and serve.
It's with the utilizable limb with which I
Ignite, shift, and steer.
It's with my brain that I
seethe
And it's with my stump
That I knock.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
He catches me in lovin--
*liking
him*
and it's always striking
how my body acts on whim.
He always looks the best
not wearing any clothes,
makes my ***** point west
with their ***** woes.
He makes me think in lovely
and dresses me in kisses:
purple,
black,
red and bruised up
kisses
(he never misses).
I have a necklace ringing
all around my skinny neck,
I wear his love
like a trophy,
do I look a-wreck?
I make him wreck my body
night after night after night
because I want his gaudy,
pale and beautiful might
to come down all at once
and bury me in flesh;
to fill my ears with grunts
and turn my soil threshed.
Thresh me, thresh me hard,
my beautiful man,
my body's prettier marred
with your harmattan
breezes blowing on my sands;
how I really,
really,
really
like
my
man
because he buries me in hugging
and hides me in his warmth;
he always has me shrugging
the yeses from up north
in the epicenter of all pleasure
rooted in my mind;
it's the greatest measure
of our loving time.
He spanks me 'til I moan,
I **** him 'til he's dry,
his touch turns me to stone and
his stroking makes me cry.
Though it may be sore
after a day or so
my heart is always hurting
from the constant flow
of his body's beautiful fluids,
white and clear and true;
who needs a beautiful blue
when I have my like,
my really,
really,
really
like;
it's better than number two.
(I really,
really,
really like you)
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 5:00 AM UTC
Achia,
That's the name of my town.
There's a path surrounded by yellowing bushes that go green in autumn,
Brown in the harmattan,
that joins Achia to Jato-aka town.
At the head of this path is a junction
You'll notice another path to your left here.
And that our own path is to the right of it
I call it our own because that's the only path followed by the villagers.
The other hasn't been in use in recent years
You can see the undergrowth,
Bent and unrepentant,
Daring you to trample on it and watch it regrow
Everytime we use the right, i always wonder
Where would you lead me to, Left?
Are you like many of our life's (in)decisions,
The unexplored choice?
The one that time will eventually erase?
So I've decided,
That the next time we get to that point
I'll take the road less favored
And see the quiet secrets that it has had to maintain over the years.
And i hope that that will make all the difference to it.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
The wind of change
the wind of Revolution,on our sails
soon it will sweep across all countries
all over my beloved continent
Stronger than the harmattan I hear it is
the cry has been heard
the wails are too loud
the battle lines drawn
young nigerians say no to tsars
and hell noooo to SARS
message is one #abolish SARS
a united no to oppression
fear not their portion
Beginning of the end
they are ready
ready to reclaim the soul of Africa
message is one from young Nigerians
we want to live,we want to be safe
Respect our existence
or expect our resistance !!!
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 4:59 AM UTC
CASHEW NUTS EATEN, BY AN OPEN FIRE
It's air in motion, the sound too soft to the ears and appealing to the senses.
The air so crisp, dust-filled and ice cold
The moon-lit skies, looking like the red night goblin was about to shower bars of chocolate and descend with his wrapped toys.
Some sweet jazz christmas music was playing in the background, Nat King Cole for sure.
From the old turntable came the music. Well mixed with the breeze thus presenting a never-before heard rendition of the song playing.
Once again the breeze blew heavily.
Trying to have its way with the open fire, burning some metres away from the large hut.
Earlier in the week, the cold North East wind had brought along some wild fire.
One happy family was sitting around the fire.
A man in turban and his wife with their handsome boy and cute little girl.
All dressed in warm woolly glittering sweaters and thick trousers.
They were all engrossed in what the father of the house was saying. And almost forgetting the wild fire had made them homeless. They had to settle for the large abandoned hut.
In between, they seemed to be chewing something.
Of course roasted nuts from cashew in a flat plate. All they had left to eat.
Father downing some fairly warm wine as he spoke.
He was telling them tales/legends of christmas and santa from all over the world.
Even the chewing horse relaxing next to the family, was enjoying the story-telling session.
Father closed his story book.
Together the whole family made and sang a remix of 'the christmas song' replacing the first line with 'Cashew nuts, eaten by an open fire'
Half way through the song.
They heard a loud bang close to their hut, something had landed in front of their hut.
It was a large box filled with swiss chocolate, other yummies, gifts for the whole family and most of all, a map telling them about a place of hope along the West.
On the right-hand side of the box was a large label with the words 'From Santa with love'.
The family, now relieved from the sudden heart-pounding sound and excited by the arrival of the gifts, cheerfully and gratefully started their song all over. This time it sounded like a 'reprise/outro' to an epic album.
This was the night before christmas and Harmattan just got serious.
Happy Christmas!
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 2:23 AM UTC
I must compare thy glowing eyes to the giant sphinx of pretty Egypt
Thy gorgeous lips to thy glitterings earrings of jade
Thy fine feet to thy golden pair of ears that beam a hundred variety of beauty
Thy skin of glass to the sweet dawn breezes of harmattan
Thy black hair to the magnificent face of late cleopatra
Thy face I must liken to the beautyful history of old Egypt
And thy love my birthright.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
In grandeur of eminence the Sun celebrates her power
In the thick forest of the darkest the Moon flourishes in her glory
The tidal wave is in tinder of a brand new glory, catching fire of a mad harmattan, refining gold and diamond in the expansive field of a glitzy pearl
And transcendence on our way it's roaring of the tidal wave, uprooting dark moons and burying scourging suns in infernal graves!
See our warriors surfing on the tidal wave of this season of victorious glory,
manifesting us to the world, declaring the glory of the Glory, shooting pearly flames in clouds of glory and power
As quotidian stinging tides are being uprooted in routing defeat with eerie eruption of volcano of joy and power in uncommon grandeur.
Oh! Alluring sun of glory
Oh! Alluring moon of majesty
Festooning our sky with power-stars
As rain of victory drowning us in splendor!
Oh! Tidal wave of beatific season, harvesting us barn-full glory at morning dawn of the victory crow!
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 3:17 AM UTC
My tears are dried up
like the rivers in
harmattan
They are sealed
in the inner sanctum
of my soul
Now, you must cry for me
for I've no more
tears left
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 5:37 AM UTC
HARMATTAN.
How often stealthy rats squirmed about the
Hallway.
Harmattan blew colder than the warm heat of
My sitting room hearth.
I miss those awkward squeaks these days,
And the creaking errieness of my door,
Felt like,harmattan was inviting some
Saturnine stranger to cook my needless oats.
Festac streets at night glowed with misty fog,
Giving the streetlights this sort of luminous
Strangeness.
The furling greenness of my compound
Bitterleaf now overgrown,seemed to be
Peeking at me every night.
The profound sounds of night crickets and
Twinkling lights of those fireflies aided
Silence much less.
As for the night sky,ever pale as unseen
But felt sadness that failed not to hallow her
Majesty - the white-bright moon.
Yet the star studded few lines and boundaries - tall cranes and giant masts
All lost their formidable heights in the Seemingly hazy,plain clouds of midnight stay.
It brought upon my lips benign boils and made my nostrils as dry tunnels.
My eyes were constantly worried with rubbing itches that turned them slightly red.
Although I am all alone to myself most passing days,
To nobody's surprise - the harmattan refuses
To efface still.
- Jahmenmuze.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
Harmattan is coming!
Harmattan is coming!
No more grassy lawns!
No more bushy paths!
Get your sweaters!
Get your warmers!
It's gonna be a cold, dry! spell!
It's gonna be a cold, dry! spell!
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
I cried these dirges brashly,
After these long nights
While my skin cracks;
Irrigating it with my dry tears
By the desperate harmattan;
My cries are a rustling of leaves under a sun
That never fades- washing my face in strict rays
Its attendance is long overstayed;
Resting on my absent mind
I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
Weeping proudly without a rush of blinking tears;
This everyday world isn’t my beloved home to own-
A shelter neglecting to cover my nakedness
I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
With a tiny cloth left damp, sodden and weary
By the stretched tears flowing down my bare *******
The world quickly suckles on my grief –
Biting, pulling, and scarring them by their buds
calling it all fair by its, “Budding remarks”
With the goalmouth of getting itself full up;
Never nursing the agony.
Oh, how my heart hurts!
Jul 4, 2024
Jul 4, 2024 at 2:22 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;[email protected])
the hand of the poet
like the ******* of a ******
they are sensitive to touch
as the poet's hand with
a pen in it on the caricateur
of the key board which has
helped to pass the world across
the turmoil of the maliceous hearts
to peace and love two battle grounds
in which political romance blooms
like a bush fire in the Achebean harmattan
wind blowing down and away all the chaffs of human ribaldry
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
I've known pain
I've known fear chilling than the harmattan air
Pain, fiercer and harsher than the whips of a thousand horsemen
My soul sank deep into the river of pain and fear
I sought refuge in the ***** of the younger dawns
I hid in their embrace and they comforted me
I dreamt of the rebirth of her garden in all its glory
I felt the healing miracle of the morning sun when Eva
bathed in her warmth; and I saw her inhabitants,
came alive with the songs of the birds, and fluttering flowers in the breeze
I've known pain;
Nameless, faceless fear
I sunk deep into their depths
And they hurt no more
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 2:36 AM UTC
The crunch
Of the leaves that
Carpet the earth
Beneath me
Is not music to
My ears. Yet,
The still light
Of a demure sun on
The scattered shades of brown
On gold, and gold on the wilting
Crisp reminder of a season
Just gone, is a
Beauty that should leave one
Amused.
Yet on this day,
When the sky holds
No clouds, and the air,
with the chill of death itself,
Takes every breath and gives one the colour of the dead.
I can not help but think
Of what
One very tiny spark might do to all
This...
Perhaps
Anguish, fear, destruction and maybe even despair, and then
Again
It might not even burn too far.
But I know that if such a flame should tame the wind, the heritage it might leave for us;
ashes, soot, charred wood,
Though the first of things to come,
Will be in time, the least of our thoughts.
Many new days shall come,
With new joys, fears and sadness
In humble mix.
But on this very tranquil day
I only imagined what a small flame could do to the last vestiges
Of a season past.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
Even when the sun shines,
Over the hills and climes,
The chill of the harmattan morning,
Cheers us on until the dawning.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
You're the best simile,
You're like the nile,
That jaunts elegantly through the . Valleys,
Into the great lakes,
And breaths life
To the horn and the basins,
For even your anger,
Is like the exuberant floods,
That leaves rich~silt,
In the hearts of the gullies,
Your resilence
Is like the seedling
That blossoms beautifully in the . Harmattan,
And shy away the dusty trade winds,
For your throne is patience,
And your feet rests on tolerance,
Out of your words is the light
That illuminates the mind and thoughts
Of kings,
Like the eagle,
You've flown high
And higher above the skies,
And your compatriots perches on trees
And leaves, . Mesmerized at your prowess,
Panting cowdardly impuissant to catch . up,
You're like the mystery victory
That has failed all replications,
Through out history,
You're the best simile,
A Poem Written by,
©Historian E.Lexano
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Red dust everywhere,
In the wake of every gear,
Now the rains are gone,
Time to have some hot, dry fun.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
In this my time of need,
I dream about
those Harmattan-breezed stories
you left unsaid on my skin,
for you were so dreaded by the thought
that your light may come alive from its slumber,
that I may reflect and echo you.
And I am whispering now,
repeating the song of your beating heart,
before you could also withdraw your touch,
and say: rather stay blind than to face with these all.
I unbound my hair...
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
We are on a journey to a known destination
But we've not found the way.
Drought, famine and violent breeze_
The season is still harmattan;
Dew and mist_ despite the passage of several days,
Months and years, we are still in the morning.
The unpleasant interlude_ his own time bought with brute_
The previous night was spent chasing away
Our exploiting messiah; but showed us not the way
Who only pointed to the promise land;
And mocks us now with hypocrisies.
Wet by the morning dew,
Chilled to the bone by the violent breeze of this season
And blinded by the mist patches;
The bodies are not able and the eyes can barely see.
Weve still not found the way,
How shallow and unbecoming, but we keep going!
Africa, in this jungle,
Must we employ the robber who destroyed our door to help repair it?
Why do we run around begging for sycophantic helps?
Why do we not pause and reflect:
Find means of getting some warmth and weathering these patches of fog?
Why dont we act wisely and intelligibly?
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC
I’m talking about the beautiful country of Burkina Faso
Formally known as the Republic of Upper Volta, the newcomer on the plateau
The new country with a charismatic and highly competent young leader
Capt. Ibrahim Traoré, everybody is talking about this intelligent brother
Who is well articulated in French, English and other languages
Brother Traoré embodies what all young men and women aspire to be:
Heroes of his or her Homeland, to help and rid themselves of the vestiges
Of inferiority, servitude and slavery. Yet, I’m still learning about this great country
I love Capt. Traoré’s eloquent speeches and gestures. I’m awesomely inspired
By his words and deeds. This brave brother means business. He’s not tired
To tell the truth, as we know, most leaders lie like frogs trying to speak
He tells it like it is and he indeed does good for Burkina Faso. He’s at his peak
This courageous military man can only go higher, to be exemplary
In Africa. He’s the model leader that Africa (the world) needs. He’s too busy
To travel to countries that have mastered the art of insulting and belittling
Young and modern leaders. The world needs new leaders ***** capable of singing
The righteous songs of freedom, liberty, justice, fairness and equality for all citizens
Brothers and sisters, I’m still learning about B. Faso, Mali, Niger and other regions
Or countries that are fighting for the pride and the future of their inhabitants
My best wishes go to countries that are helping us accomplish our missions
We are living in a world of abundance. No countries should be treated as inferior
Or poor. "Haiti is not a ******** country". Yet, they failed to mention the exploitations
The rapes, the lies, the abuses and the lootings of our resources and the decapitations
They surely know how to manipulate, to neutralize, to explore and to divide to conquer
Oops, I had to exteriorate a bit. I want to wish our many countries a fruitful future
They’ll succeed because these new, incorruptible leaders care about us and they’re better.
P.S. This poem is dedicated to the late Pres.Thomas Sankara, our Haitian, African,
Black American Heroes, Poets and all our Brothers and Sisters.
Copyright © May 2025 Hébert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
May 24, 2025
May 24, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC
On a sudden sobbing night
in west african harmattan,
Light wasn't smiling
in the thickness of naked darkness
but for a dying flame
sitting on a frail candle stick.
In the deep sea of life,
tiniest things spark hope
When beyond we see.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 4:16 AM UTC
dust pirouettes before the eyes of the sun,
sinking softly towards an ocean of its own.
heat’s forceful palms press against the sand,
disturbing the air’s careful disposition.
but he is not watching the rich colours melt overhead.
he pays no attention to the ripeness of the horizon.
he watches her,
a grace so light in her bones it feels strange to compare
to the weight sinking in his throat.
he tells her of the winds,
the way they re-carve a desert,
its dunes reborn.
he tells her of the aajej and the harmattan and how
it rolls and rolls,
producing showers so thick with sand
they were once mistaken for blood.
at night his fingers trace,
a vague map he once had memorised,
against the plains of her skin.
her veins cutting through her wrists like rivers,
each blemish a town unvisited,
and the hollow between her collarbones,
an oasis still unnamed.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 5:31 PM UTC