THE DINING TABLE by, Gbanabom Hallowell
BACKGROUND OF THE POET
Gbanabom hallowel is from sierraleone but lives in freetown where he works as a journalist, he witnessed the ten years war that took place in his country, which arguably makes most of his poetic collections filled with imageries of war. Currently he is pursuing his M.A in writing at Vermont college of union and institute University USA. He is currently the director general of siereleone broadcasting service
ACCOUNT OF THE POEM
The poem is a protest(to make a strong objection) and a voice of revolution(the removal and replacement of a bad government) about the bad situation of things in Africa masterminded by poor governance and leadership.
The poet is been concerned by the poor condition of life that have destroyed the dreams and desires of younger generation, he talks about the emotional pains of the people and a state of hopelessness, so much that adults out of frustration are now tempering with what is meant for children, despite the unbearable situation the irresponsible and selfish leaders still embezzled the unlimited wealth of African nations.
POETIC DEVICES USED
Some of the poetic devices used in the poem includes;
IRONY: the poet used sentences that are purely opposite to the intended meaning to express his grieve, phrases like; "dinner tonight come with gun wounds" which means that dinner should be done with joy and oneness not sorrows and pains.
METAPHOR: the poet used some words to show direct comparison of another. Example guerillas stand for freedom fighters while crocodile represents the corrupt leaders.
SYMBOLISM: most of the poets words stands for something other than the literary meaning. Example Scorpion symbolises unbearable pain of agony,diamond symbolises dinner
THEME
The generally team team that is embedded in the poem is horror and brutality of war
Lyrics of the poem. [Source:google]
The Dining Table by Gbanabom Hallowell
Dinner tonight comes with
gun wounds. Our desert
tongues lick the vegetable
blood—the pepper
strong enough to push scorpions
up our heads. Guests
look into the oceans of bowls
as vegetables die on their tongues.
The table
that gathers us is an island where guerillas
walk the land while crocodiles
surf. Children from Alphabeta with empty palms dine
with us; switchblades in their eyes,
silence in their voices. When the playground
is emptied of children`s toys
who needs roadblocks? When the hour
to drink from the cup of life ticks,
cholera breaks its spell on cracked lips
Under the spilt
milk of the moon, I promise
to be a revolutionary, but my Nile, even
without tributaries comes lazy
upon its own Nile. On this
night reserved for lovers of fire, I’m
full with the catch of gun wounds, and my boots
have suddenly become too reluctant to walk me.