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Best Poems Written by Jamuel Yaw Asare

Below are the all-time best Jamuel Yaw Asare poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Ecstasy

ECSTASY

 O morning breeze of West and South Asia

 Let my soul sip sherbet
 From your breasts like lily of the Incas 

 Nightingale of the night,
 The aroma of your voice,
 So sweet and soothing as the Messiah's breath
 Is the seven goddesses of Hellenistic World's melody

 And your sable tresses , 
 Full of Flowers of Taif
 Whose fragrance,
 Is the royal perfume of the Pharaohs
 Lull my inner sorrows to repose

 Mi orgullo and drighten of my soul ,
 In the sea of grief - I crave for solace from you - please do not forsake me !

 Here's a keffiyeh - here's a thobe or kandura
 Wear them!
Your curvy body I yearn to see 

 Into your heart's prison, 
 I am girded - Please keep me from the world of separation

 With your love,
 Neither world nor family is needed
 For to your soul I am entangled in saecula saeculorum.

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The Empty Scrolls of Time -A lament for the Unlearned -The boy who regrets not valuing education

The Empty Scrolls of Time: A lament for the Unlearned
(The boy who regrets not valuing education)
~Jamuel Yaw Asare 

Kofi’s eyes once gleamed with mischief and wonder, but now they dimly reflect the what-ifs and if-onlys that haunt him. He wanders through days like a traveler lost in a desert, searching for an oasis that vanished long ago.

He remembers the school gates, once a threshold to a world of discovery, now a reminder of opportunities forsaken. The classrooms, once a canvas for dreams, now a blank page he cannot fill.

Regret whispers in his ear, a relentless breeze that rustles the leaves of his mind. ‘What if I had learned to read the world beyond the streets? What if I had solved the puzzles of mathematics and unlocked the secrets of science?’

Kofi’s heart aches with the longing to turn back time, to sit in those classrooms, to ask questions, to learn, to grow. But the clock ticks on, merciless and unforgiving.

Now, he roams the streets, a wanderer in a world that moves forward without him. His footsteps echo with the silence of missed chances, a reminder that knowledge is the only currency that truly matters.

Kofi’s story becomes a cautionary tale, a whispered warning to those who would squander the gift of education. For in the end, it is not the years we live that matter, but the life we live in those years.

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Jaildom

Abruptly, a princess assailed my heart with love’s javelin
 I relinquish -  a willing slave, I come before you
 O Azrael, angel of death carrying a scythe 
 And carrying souls to the afterlife

 Here’s my breath, here’s my soul
 Take them – sleep of the just let my soul bear!
 Spare my dear love’s life!
 Pierce her not with the arrow of melancholiness !
 For a thousand souls I shall extinguish if her soul is assailed

 Foes upbraid me with the love I have for you
 They say:
 Why have you decided to endure the taint of jaildom?
 Can’t you see?

 Both your soul and life is guided by her will
 Free yourself you son of a schmuck!

 O headless man, why have you lost the creator’s – sense-restoration cup?
 Wake up and show what you have found in love of sorrow and ignorance!
 Failure stares at you!

 But I tell them:
 Is there any sense in lapidating one who is smitten with a lady?
 My soul has found a dwelling in her heart where love is in its place
 And her face, a spectrum of serenity and light
 My soul is at ease when I smell her amber scented locks

 Can a man ever avoid such mithridate?


 An hour spent with my love is a pilgrimage of  honour and prestige!
 So nemesis of our love,
 Allow my soul into love’s servitude!

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Boweth Not Thoth When Thoth Thy Need Not

O Scribes of Thebes, take the noose, burn fiercely the words of Aleister Crowley.                   
For all the wisdom of the hieroglyphic signs lies in union with only one cosmorat-the creator of the tongue of the sun-god Ra and counterpart of Seshat and spouse to Ma'at.   
And If a man is double-dealing and his utterance is false, do not trust his utterances, do not heed his tales of woe_ !             
 In the beginning of creation were hermeneutics, astronomy, geography and medicine
When Thoth was taught the signs of the sacred tablet .      

How dare Egypt! How dare Hesert, Abydos, Rekhui, Per-Ab, Urit, Pselket, Hat, Sep, Ta-ur, Bah,Antcha-Mutet ,Talmsis, Ta-kens and Amen-heri-ab Shrines!                                         

Tell you the truth you scholars and believers who dwelleth in these darkest places of Thoth: In Judgment of Monsoon, your souls shall be extirpated from the surface of the Terra Firma.

 Men who bow in homage to the face of Adam and mankind,
 There's a spectrum of atom, sun, four elements, five saints, dimensions six. Go seek His attributes! But explanations cannot compass him.

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The Forgotten Bards: Song of the Classical Minstrels

Forever extinct seems the age of classical poetry,
With all its cheers from caves, cottages, marble domes and temples,

When now a country honors not classical bards:
O Hugh MacDiarmid, Petrarch, Ono No Komachi, Thomas Chatterton, Robert Browning, James Macpherson, Christina Rossetti, Theophile Gautier, Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin,
 
Beside their essence and dignity, little gifts grow dim,
While their Fame and Prestige fight for the attention of Utmost Veneration 

O Scotland, Italy, Japan, England, France and Russia,
Why pursue these struggling pioneers,
 Trailblazers who blazed the path for others yet to be;
And dug through thankless years 
And found the temples they never saw
With sordid cares?
And deny their precious works applause?

O from Classics was birthed Contemporary Art 
She, Contemporary Art like Eve, formed from the rib of Adam- Classics 
Just like Cervantes, a contemporary of Shakespeare, a man of the Classics 

But thou tell the young men :
Now is the age of Modernity
Now bloated Contemporary Art rules Classics in Galleries and Theatres 
Read not the works of those Classical Minstrels,
They are bards, like the Painters, who strove in vain,
O glorious Doom, to share even their Art’s disgrace 
Nor wrote just a line to please the vulgar man

Ah, can gold ever survive without its ore?

 O you countries who bring a wreath for martyrs 
Above their graves elated threnodies flow,
And tell their tales to thy sons and daughters:
These brave ones fought and bled 
So our country may live!

While the graves of these poor bards are carelessly looked
And thrown upon them dust and spit,

I promise thou that some time the golden glory of Classical Arts shall shine once more for men
Far in the future, like Walter Malone, I see Classical City reared to Art;
I see its cloud-encircled turrets blaze,
As splendid as the sunset’s burning heart.

And if thou still see these past bards not as kings and queens of poetry,
Surrounded by the pomp of spears and shields ,
But patient peasants, suffering scorn and wrong,
To labor in their people ,
Then hear what Walter Malone said:
“And if a lowly minstrel dries one tear,
Or soothes one humble human heart in pain,
Be sure his homely verse to God is dear,
And not one stanza has been sung in vain.

So when they give their humble words of praise,
Their simple lines and favor in His sight,
And when He loves to hear their little lays,
Rebuke not, for His spirit sayeth, “Write.”


By Jamuel Yaw Asare

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Ode to all African Dreamers of the Written Word

In the vast and verdant landscape of African literature, a constellation of luminous stars once shone bright, their radiant light illuminating the complexities of a continent’s soul.
 
 O Achebe, Awoonor, Mongo Beti, Ama Ata Aidoo, Peggy Oppong, Dennis Brutus, Kwesi Brew, etc.!
 So these Chroniclers of the Human Experience and Visionaries of the Written Page whose words were wildfires that blazed across the savannas of imagination, leaving an indelible mark on the canvas of human experience have ended their lives’ symphony, the final note of mortality echoing through eternity?
 Ah! Their pens were mighty rivers, overflowing  with the richness of their heritage, quenching the thirst of a people’s history, and nourishing the soil of their collective memory. They were indeed the guardians of the ancient traditions, the keepers of the flame of knowledge, and the weavers of the tapestry of their people’s stories .
 Their writing was a symphony of voices, a chorus of ancestors , a paean to the resilience of the human spirit. They sang like minstrels of the struggles and triumphs of a people, their words , a bridge connecting the past to the present, a testament to the power of the written word to transcend time and mortality.
 Though their physical presence may be gone, their literary legacies remain, a rich and fertile soil where the seeds of their ideas continue to germinate, and the flowers of their imagination forever bloom. Their words are the threads that weave together the fabric of their people’s experiences, a tapestry of hope and resilience that will forever be the hallmark of their genius!
 In the silence of their passing, their writing speaks louder than ever, a defiant cry against the erasure of memory, a celebration of the beauty and diversity of African experiences. Their words are the flames that light the way for those who come after, a beacon of hope in the darkness of forgetfulness, a reminder that the stories of a people are the threads that bind them together, and the glue that holds their history in place.
 May their words forever be the stuff that dreams are made of, the fuel that ignites the passion of a people, and the fire that burns bright in the hearts of generations to come.
For in their writing, we find the essence of their humanity, the distillation of their experiences, and the reflection of their souls. 
 They may be gone but their words will forever be the testament to their genius, and the tribute to their enduring legacy.

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The Dirge

O Maya, 'Tis important to return from your invisible journey for I, right now, like a corpse dangling on the ground, wish to die in spring, beneath the cherry blossoms, while the springtime Moon is full.
If you, O mistress of my heart has passed away
And after you, eager to serve, go I
 I now waver between life and death
I wish to put my neck to an unsheathed sword whose cut is but a breath of wind

Why wish death for your soul?
Are not your lashes rows of arrows set to conquer any obstacle?  When you wished to turn your brows into smoke, into nothingness, Did I not  beg you to refrain?

Can't you see that your absence has made me like a rotten  log half-buried in the ground? And my life which has not flowered, hungs on the melody of death and has sunk beneath the shadow of death? In the face of faded love, where's thy strength?

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Far-off Call : The Cry of the Writer’s Ink to an Anonymous Reader

O some day to come, it may be that time will bury my memory deep as the hidden sleep of those who lie in some forgotten churchyard;
 but my judgment is that the future holds for me a fadeless crown of amaranth and gold.

 O thou Anonymous Reader, when I, a bard whose graces are plenteous, and has a memory like the British Museum Library, and its material arranged as orderly,

 When I, a bard, whose words sunset burst upon them with a variety of forms and colors like those the Divine Artist throws upon the evening sky : they are matchless words on birds and flowers and trees,
 “Indeed no poet has given us more Nature poetry than he. In it all, one who reads is astonished at his wealth of simile and metaphors, at the music of his lines and the cooling freshness that delights on every page.” says the Scribes of Thebes, the men of the Scrolls of the Elders, the cavemen and Shamans.

 When, I, a bard whose lyrics awakens the response in a common man’s breast, and makes him feel stronger for the day’s work and superior to the day’s faults and failures,

 Strives in vain, to share my Art’s disgrace
 And then I die like the unknown hero in silent rank beside my passion at the birth of dawn, 
Without a wreath of laurel for a nation’s thanks,

 You O Anonymous Reader, might have a careless glance upon my works!

 So then, my dear reader, listen to my far-off call:

 For thy sake I sit in the garden of books mating pen and paper with muse just so I could create a piece in our own image by weaving letters into words and words into figurative languages.

 And now here it is, the broken thing, the created piece, happily waiting to be read but breathes in nostalgia like a patient peasant, suffering scorn and wrong, to labor in his people.

 Why, O Anonymous Reader, do you make critics wonder why the skillful lowly bards write and write when no one seems to read,
 When Fame and Success still refuse veneration,
 And when the world gives  but a wreath of weed?

 O pity for thy writers show! When will thou appreciate the work of the ink?
 So I may sleep a sleep remorse cannot affright ?




~Jamuel Yaw Asare

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The Erotic Call

The sky wears the colour of the beautiful sea / the wind whirls with storm dangling on the nuke of gravity /As I kneel beneath the dusky tresses of the night clouds / unwinding the cluster of the Queen’s cantrips like a slave in a museum of memories after a war / astir the trills of some nameless voice: what sweetens romance if the moon with its iridescence refuses to dance on your blistering tongue with gleeful orchestra?/ So I blow some romantic lyrics through the silent night breeze on the palm of a peaceful star : “your presence- the clouds to strike a pose for a shoot / In the rooms of your mouth/ is the music to which I will forever dance / Many years I pined and raved like a slave in the dusky world of disguised love sucking an unusual dusky moonlight like a bairn imbibing his maiden freedom /Never did I come upon a love so true / O blindless hermit who craves to rainbow into a white dove at the peering of the moon to decorate my inner space/ please come / come in the right hour / and in the right way /Let your shadow fall on my cocoa brown skin /budding the most beautiful parts of me / After all can’t a boy survive in the trachea of beauty? / Appear you jug full of honey where I, a little ant has found grace” /  So she cometh through the open sea/ through the salty tides /clothed  in tartaryn smoke / in invisible fragrance / And sank in my fibre of breath whispering within my libido: unite and bind.

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O Maiden Fair

O maiden fair whose elegant space that  I, a little ant has found grace
It’s true that the breath of the devil resurrects Death
               But your beauty can raise both Death and the devil to light
              See your skin, as warm as a beige that glows under the merciless sun
              And backdrops all the layers of gold you have dangling from your arms
             O your eyes, feline and utterly luminous
             As if they project their own ray beams

           Fine woman of svelte neck, straight back and sturdy hips, 
          I secretly watch you – and patiently await my turn of acquaintance
         To feel the peace of your calm temperament 
         And visualize up close the form of your 
         Lovely essence. 
      Speak to me, speak with me, why do you succumb to sorrow for the world that we despise?
Your tears leave me with a wounded heart. Come, cleave my breast and see