Johannesburg Poem by Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah

Johannesburg is a painting of night watch.
The night of peacock feathers of the sky,
framed as smouldering countryside,
every very tall smoking building
reflects a part of the cloudstreets
where silhouettes float
in street corners,
this is witching hour
of the tale of the body,
scratched through by the stylus.
When difficult birds to be known in the future
are perching high on the the penthouse
above the cliff
and a Scrooge
scrunches behind your scruple,
your aging process is marked
on every light falling
and civic pride is left behind
in the lofty rooms of old age.
With the pike stands guard,
you scrub
and scrub the Adam's apple
from more tunes of noise
and blinding Samson.
This is Johannesburg.
This is my new found love.
This is grand tour of gramophone record.
This is a work of craftsmanship and learning.
A place to name after the Dutch market.
A place where sleep is illness.
Let no Captain Frans Banning Cocq and his band
walk here across the canvas,
taking revenge on a cook who has slashed you.
But these dots of lights scattering below in the valley of my heart,
where you are peering out over the shoulder,
these merging colours in loose brush work
and leaving a darkened surrounding space,
your young women are highlighted in yellow from distance,
each figure appears to be a defined character.
In this long series of self-portraits
through a magnifying glass
you remain the night watch.
Johannesburg a lyricist in peacock feathers of wet night.