Patricia Jabbeh Wesley-Female Liberian Poet

Subject: Patricia Jabbeh Wesley-Female Liberian Poet Tue Jul 29, 2008 6:37 pm

Please check out some of her books.. i hear she is in Liberia currently...

i especially love the one called: Becoming Ebony

_________________
For how can love attain true appreciation
if it has never weathered tribulation?
~MHK

Patricia Jabbeh Wesley was born in Tugbakeh, Maryland County, Liberia, and grew up in Monrovia. She is the author of Before the Palm Could Bloom: Poems of Africa, which retells her experiences in the Liberian civil war. Her work has appeared in The Cortland Review, Crab Orchard Review, Midday Moon, and New Orleans Review. She lives with her husband and children in Kalamazoo, Michigan, where she teaches creative writing and African Literature at Western Michigan University.

_________________
For how can love attain true appreciation
if it has never weathered tribulation?
~MHK

Last edited by candygirl on Tue Jul 29, 2008 6:47 pm; edited 3 times in total

I Now Wander

I raised ducks, pigs, dogs, barking watchdogs.
Wild chickens loose, dancing, flapping old wings.

Red and white American roosters, meant to be sheltered
and fed with vitamins until they grow dumb;

in our yard I set them loose among African breeds
that pecked at them until they, too, grew wild and free.

I planted papayas, fat belly papayas, elongated papayas,
tiny papayas, hanging. I planted pineapples, mangoes,

long juicy sugar canes, wild coco-yams. From our bedroom
window I saw plantain and bananas bloom, again and again,

take on flesh and ripeness. And then the war came, and the rebels
slaughtered my pigs, my strong roosters, my hens,

my heavy, squawking ducks. Now I wander among strangers,
looking for new ducks, new hens, new coco-yams, new wars.

_________________
For how can love attain true appreciation
if it has never weathered tribulation?
~MHK

Last edited by candygirl on Tue Jul 29, 2008 6:46 pm; edited 1 time in total

[b]Winter Street[/b]

Outside, the street stands still.
Is it the silence of the cold
or is it us?

When winter comes we turn
willing prisoners
behind closed doors.

If I holler for Gee, across the road,
no one will know
this is how a mother calls her child home.

In Monrovia, the street talks
back to us, and back and
forth, with all the passing voices;

the neighborhood is alive; and
even at night, silence
is a stranger still.

As the storm goes by,
I like the howling in the wind that drowns
the silence on this winter street.

Sometimes it takes my children
in the house to give away
what is truly me.

_________________
For how can love attain true appreciation
if it has never weathered tribulation?
~MHK

[img][/img]

_________________
For how can love attain true appreciation
if it has never weathered tribulation?
~MHK

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