Griot Poems | Examples

Silhouette of a Stranger

The bloody stranger stank of rank grass and
Animal grime and strutted unnoticed on
Our threshold on a long, misty night.

Lightning, unaccompanied by rain,
Exposed his grisly image,
Comprehended quickly by the village griot,
A humepenthe with seeing eyes, though blind,
Who could smell danger even from long-dug holes of
Doss-houses from distant caverns.

A common, vile dictator is abroad tonight!

Tale of the Griot

They kept a record of time,
They were history’s shelves,
They were memory pages,
An honour that ran through the family.

They sang songs of the land,
To them, the sand was more than the traveller’s pathway,
It spoke volumes of the human’s quest and final rest,
They understood how to commune with the spirits of benevolence and goodwill.

They said history is a canvas of dark and bright hues,
The dew of the search for the veiled,
They said that it’s a house whose doors lead to the tides of the heart,
They adore nature,
A nomenclature of wonders untold.

A beautiful old past,
Eroded by a change in clime,
Everyone is occupied by the new way,
The day speaks to saddled minds,
Held by the reins of life’s turbulence.


January 6, 2025.

They Eat Good Hot Dogs

They consume the hot dogs
Too
Like you
But they don’t eat the dogs
Never, never
They do not eat the cats
They do not eat the pets
Never, never.

Immigrants eat the wild hogs
That’s hot Griot
They don’t eat the rabbits
But they eat the spicy Tassot
And of course, they eat hot dogs.

Haitians eat and drink Soup Joumou
Which contains vegetables and of course carrots
Haitian food
Is very, very good
Immigrants consume good meats
Like you.

Stop being racist
Stop being supremacist
Your ancestors used to eat the dogs
Not immigrants, Not West Indians
Not Haitians
Immigrants eat fried wild hogs
Like zillion of Americans
Who love apple pies
Stop the lies, stop all lies.

Copyright © October 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous collections of poetry.

They Are Eating The Dogs

They are eating the dogs
They are eating the cats
They are eating the pets
They are eating the wild hogs.

In the early 20th “c”, Germans used to eat blockade mutton
That’s absolute truth. It’s a shame that this felon
Is desperate and going wild. The dude is a pathological liar
Who will do anything. He’s a tremendous cheater.

Immigrants do not eat the pets
Especially Haitians who love chickens
Tassot or griot meats, black rice and beans.

Haitians love Soup Joumou with lots of carrots
Haitians enjoy one of the best cuisines on the planet
Liar, liar, nobody is perfect. That’s correct.

Copyright © October 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous collections of poetry.

Free words 10-01

The breath came in
and then was gone
Just as the beautious visions resonated
with my dna then resolved
Each inspiration 
paired with expiration
wonderfully frames
the joy of living
the joy of loving
the day will come 
to honor this beautiful life 
with one beautiful death

Mr Magic

Manifestation of pain
inside walls of your gospel
Penned up truths that 
haunted your psyche but
you made the pen a weapon 
that prospered against all 
that troubled you
Troubled King with skeletons 
married poetry 
crowning her the help mate that
helped clean out the closet
The stories you tell your notebook
are more beneficial than any 
verse found in a Qu'ran
or Holy Bible
The sins you confess
the strength of your survival
are those that build bridges
leading the congregation to brotherhood
You created poetic peace and meeting place
for all to preach testimony
letting your brother know
that real mean do cry
Your honesty wrapped
in dialect is the potion
most men are afraid to ingest
but not you
you rode courage
like it were a galloping 
Trojan horse ready for war
Masculine Griot you are
because of the poetry
you pour from your soul
to fill you brother's cup
serving an adrenalated
voice for the man
who may be muted tragedy
afraid to speak and to
emerge from his dark place
Mr. Magic you help create the cure
for the next man's spiritual healing
Keep working your magic 
that breathes life through 
your spoken word 
©4-23-18

Griot Jali Jeli

Jali, jeli
African historian
You’re a storyteller;
Praise singer;griot

Griot, jali, jeli
You’re a storyteller;
Singing, telling your tales;
Words songs in harmony wails;
Poet or musician;
Oral repository tradition;
Seen often as leader;
Advisor to royal personages;
Kings and Queens

Jali, jeli
African historian
You’re a storyteller;
Praise singer;

Sometimes called a bard;
Lyrics and words taking charge;
Peoples of West Africa;
Captured into bondage;
People of the kingdom;
Chained placed in boats to be shipped to a new far land;

I am a Jali, jeli
African historian
You’re a storyteller;
Praise singer;

Griot, jali, jeli
Composer, Diplomat;
Historian, Interpreter,  musician;
Peace maker, praise singer;
I am
Poet,  spokesperson, Teacher, translator;
Witness, warrior
Griot, jali, jeli
I am, I am

Jali, jeli
African historian
You’re a storyteller;
Praise singer;


10/17/18
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2018

Her Voice Awaken the Moon

yon full-throat’d weaver –
she comes home, thither! 
again & again
oh, by the shores of my niger
& she comes, singing
like the griot of my old clan –
again & again
she vibrates her clan-famous tunes
with her eden’s golden voice
softly high & loudly calm 
by these niger chambers –
& the weaver sings, again!
with her retinue of songs
& her voice awaken the moon.

A C T U a L L Y

Derive pleasure from chiseled moves
Reckon the Creator grants fuel
Focus on otherworldly jewel
Live as wise Griot, calm as doves.

Wake up to life's amenities
Portion of good is as good as dew
Always hum a tune to stay amused
Do not entertain poverty.

Make love work for humanity
Respect the meaning of devotion
Observe beyond physical vision
Don't stray away from loyalty.

Unlike lime, honey heals brokenness 
Find positive ways to think and be
Master the art of neatness with glee
Commence each day knowing you're blessed.

*

R E G I N a L D

(In loving memory of my big brother, Reg)


Right within my den
Calligraphic letters you penned
Surfaced as reminder of the love we shared
I see picture perfect portraits
No negatives.

You do appear on wings of time
Like sun's penetrating light
In spaces, deep as the Caribbean Sea
Yes, you are reflected
In multiple hews, brilliant as you...
Blood of my blood;

Imagine fortified versions of you
I see courteous crews...
Beyond seven saintly specimens
Now your name is set abroad
As though Griot who ruled.

I remembered, you tamed my fears
And rose to pave smooth
One perilous path I walked to work
Yes, weary women in need of warmth, were
Cloaked in hand woven peace, given by you
Now, you're laminated photo...
Graphed upon walls of grateful minds.

I have seen you prodding time
Through lens of your mind
Tall as mahogany trees
That cools, and shelters multitudes
Now; who but time, will seal
This empty space 
I feel within my soul?
You'll never be you I once knew.

*

Mere Anarchy Is Let Loose

nnam, where's that tree
at the centre of the clan?
o, what happened to the people's iroko?
where're my people's hope?
the voice of my clan
the famous tongue that came
like the griot of my niger
and stood firm, astute, echoing
the drums of my masters
the ancestors, my ancients –
nnam, did you say
the sacred tree’s fallen?
what mysteries in our times
what miseries are coming
upon the once famed clan –
did oke nmadu, the great man
go with the drum of the clan?
aru eme-e, evil has come
mere anarchy’s let loose
upon the clan –
let the ancients 
remember their clan!

The Eternal Fog

Reba, you are big now, much too big to enjoy the fog
Sitting in different shapes of everything we fear
When trust was only those we know. There is no log
Of wood, or time the stories that I did share 
Was my own way of inventing happiness for me as well
I was your griot and you my princess who
Heard a poet told his pain like beads where fingers swell
What matters except that we loved, we two
And did not know after our tale the fog would still stay
And the light would break in it and bleed pale
Anemic rainbows, without promise in the ponds decay.
We have better things to laugh about today
I only wish the fog did not enthrall so, strong is the feeble sway.

Tell Us, You Say

Tell us, you say, in your profound complexity
Prophet, griot, artist, word maker
Why do you litter our hearts with song?
I do not write for the crowd in Dubai
For the poetaster and rhyme maker
I write for the discriminating eye
The unweaver of magic images, breaker
Of spells, and wonderment of the child.
It will read a poem and understand
The archtecture of history is better built
And when the books are all torn up
And tradition of lies is unveiled in the night
The masses will come candleness
And light a upon a page and find light.
I write to rage
In paradigmal shifts against the loss of things
Including the plucking of my own wings.
And sometimes in my rage I sing
And sweet the tongue to sing along
Thinking of freedom as we die ... without a song.

The Armour of Yang

So you too
Read and was self hypnotized
And thought I knew
The chiaroscurro
Was not the branches shadow
As you heard and went in and out of light
Ah poor self blinded griot
And dumb guilotine to which he stumbles
I wanted a revolution
They gave me a virtual riot.

I did not give my number
To the lady I met on the train
For how else do we avoid such a blunder
To prime the flesh
That the ego may not be satisfied again.
Virtual love affairs are not my kind
She was my wife from youth
Before time estranged us
Some polish in me
Could reflect no light in that presence
So much loss
Where light cannot shine.

The world will have its way
Its belief
For I am clay
And water is all our grief
O but I am astound, and still am
That any love 
In such a process brief
Could molest heart
By self distraction
And I am left
With all this unfulfilled demand
I have no voucher for.

So you too
Read the griot's metaphors
And thought you understood
Measuring words
With the depth of your heart.
Ever since I had this quantum gift
I too marvel
At those who marvelled at it,
And from the shadows
I could not see
There was a pilgrim there who cried.

Aftermath Again

My son, speaking like a true griot, 
A body of things rejected 
By the sinister profile of language 
Spoke one clear prophecy to the riot's 
Heart, before he from this world was ejected 
He named the bagage 
He carried unbowed in his lineage 
But did not name the bird 
With the cold and ominous plumage, 
Now I wonder if he heard 
That after his hope was long deferred 
He is waiting in sleep for a better world. 
I saw the feathers of the bird 
A vulture sifting the sky 
Over swelling carcases, it was all 
The hurrican had left. 
My son has left more bereft 
Than thousand debacles that this day palled, 
But I will read his last poem again 
Against the cancer of this pain.

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