January’s edition of Poetry Korna, Intentionality and the Knowledge of Self, gathers poems rooted in presence, awareness, and lived truth. This first edition invites readers to slow down, listen closely, and meet language shaped by honesty, care, and intention.

1. The Slum by Stormi

I grew up on the west side of Freetown
Where the echoing crashes of the waves are my lullaby
Where the salty smell of the beach fills my tiny lungs
Where walking around without clothes is the norm
Where my main problem is not Pollution
Where I worry about where the next meal will come from
Of course it’s from the sea, so my young limbs toil
to keep my frail body afloat
What else can I do, I know there’s no way out
It’s a do or die and I can’t die when I have a do, right?

My tiny old self joins to mend the broken nets
how I wish I could mend my broken self
broken from neglect, lack and trauma, but it’s not so easy
My days are hot on the sea with nothing to sooth me
but the gentle breeze and thoughts…………what thoughts??!
The ones of how the slum is all I know
and the fantasy of peace and quiet is just that; a fantas
So I row and paddle with aching hands and heart
Overfishing, ravaging the sea , yeah I should care about the ocean life but how can I?
It’s survival of the fittest and I am a survivor and a witness

A witness to how philanthropists neglect those whose own minds are their enemies,
Those who are held captive in the clutches of harmful substances,
but fund awujo, ladida, and campaign equality
Where is the equality when there’s not even a standard for those who are assumed to be favoured?
But that’s neither here nor there,
Yes you can take us out of the slum but you can’t take the slum out of us , the slum made us
The filthy water we basked in gave us such thick skin it can withstand anything
The muds and puddles that soaked our feet anointed it with Grace to stand tall when everything falls
The dirty clothes wear adorned us with shameless zeal and perseverance
The shabby houses we lived in secured us in our insecurities and deformities
The slum is not disgusting, It’s familiar and welcoming

It’s Home.

2. Jariah’s Daughter by Nema

I was nine when I first stood before books taller than me,
its words a forest I could not navigate.
I reached for stories my teachers never spoke of,
worlds that felt like stolen secrets,
foreign, unfamiliar,
yet alive in my hands.

I pronounced words with my mother’s tongue,
Mende slipping through the cracks of every syllable.
My accent was a wound I could not hide,
a song the world insisted was off-key.
The girls in my private school spoke like strangers,
their words clipped, their vowels stretched thin,
British echoes lingering in the air,
Their voices are monuments to colonization.
They laughed at my brokenness,
at the heritage heavy on my tongue.

I devoured my mother’s language in silence,
swallowed it whole with milk and cheese,
trying to erase the sound of home from my breath.
I hid from the name that made me Jaria’s daughter.

But the shame you handed me like a diamond necklace
became too heavy to carry.
I began to unlearn the guilt,
to peel away the layers of someone else’s history
wrapped too tightly around my throat.

I let my Fulani tongue return to me,
first in whispers, then in thunder.
I stopped twisting my words
to fit the shape of a foreign mouth.
Now, I speak with the fullness of my people—
a river that refuses to dry,
a melody that cannot be stolen.

When you hear me speak,
I want you to know my roots.
I want my voice to plant questions in your mind,
“Are you Fullah? Are you Mende? Are you Sierra Leonean?”
I want my words to carry the weight of my ancestors,
their prayers, their pain,
their dreams of a girl unashamed of her skin.

I will write in my mother’s tongue.
I will breathe in my mother’s tongue.
I will carry my heritage like a birthright.

You, girl in my English class,
you will not shame me anymore.
I am done swallowing my pride for your comfort.
I am done erasing my identity for your approval.
I will pronounce each word with the richness of Fulani,
each syllable dripping with my truth.
I will let my accent wrap itself around me
like a lappa, bright and unapologetic.

I am no longer afraid to be Jaria’s daughter.
No longer afraid to carry home in my voice.

3. Young, dumb, broke, with ambition by Barrie

This is don, dem call me don, ah born na d ghetto, Usai dream na illusion, hope na luxury, me pen lek sword, write words with vision, na so ah begin me revolution,
Big don, big don…

Wake na morning, get me kol res as breakfast, dress fr go uni, with me rubber shoe, backup with da morning smile, ah lek d hardup dae cry, money nor dae na the pocket, na hope make tailor man add ham pa trosis.
Ah kin lek for kotless bad, because ah wan cut me coat less.
Na panadol know the pain wae dae insai head, na me know how me foot dae burn insai this kreb, so ah pull lace, from wae ah small, ah learn for creep na gron, had intimacy with the floor, ah know Usai ah kmt, me na boy pikin, hum na trit lek poda poda wae tot heavy tin.

Oh, this wan grain boy pikin,

Ah nor born meet silver spoon, ah need for tot the whole day for make ah get heavy spoon, belleh full, head with heavy plans, lek wae tender crack, me dreams go make u shake with fear lek bullet sound.
That is how big my dreams are, na book dem say go make ah achieve this plan, so ah grap ham with 2 hand.

I was a lion born among sheep,
A tiger raised in the cattle’s den.
A bird soaring with dreams too deep
Yet they call me young, because of my flaws.
Dumb, because I chose my own world.
Broke, ‘cause my pockets stay torn.

But hear me out

If young means dreaming wild and big,
If dumb means I believe in my own path,
If broke means I carry hunger with hope…

Then call me all three.

I am young, dumb, and broke
But with ambition.

4. Pardon me for what I cannot beg for by Silver Secret

Let me be cursed, yet blessed by your incurring anger of slander.
I do not align with your faulty breath, nor with the rich man’s sweat.
Grind me on your blade of hypocrisy,
Free me from your anchor of integrity.
Let me escape the world’s sorceries,
Yet lock me in the prison of free will,
Where I may find a haven of tranquility.

Fight not my battles, nor weep for my struggles;
Shave my head with what you have not earned.
The tread of my might remains unstrangled;
If you believe you can underestimate it,
Then go ahead and evangelize your faults.

Marginalization is mere intimidation,
Punishing the wicked while rewarding the evil.
Anyone’s fault is a great salt,
Breaking the sea into intolerable lakes.
Guilty until proven innocent in the court of doubt,
A court of filtered faces and unheard shouts.
Until then, no judgment before facing Hell
With a guiltless frame.

I do not wish to lose Hell with the loyal timidity
Of fleeting fame.
I do not seek Heaven with a value
Based on the world’s best version of worship to the Creator.
I do not wish to woo any lady
With abusive words or rejection,
Nor do I want to be patient with false politeness.

To live in shallow shambles,
I want to truly be me,
Yet secretly remain who I am not.

5. Crushed, yet my year by Samuella

Sigh, a silent, rugged trace.
A journey’s guarded grace.
Weary, fighting shadows deep inside,
The loss of someone who is no longer by my side.
Crushed, when news arrived, marking a new fight.
A body’s silent battle waging day and night.
Drained, falling back into the the heavy gray,
Learning to love a heart that sometimes breaks away.

Burdened, with a self that feels at odds.
Bloating and hunger tangled in these flawed rods.
Tormented, by cravings I cannot resist,
Hormones swirling, throwing out their list.
Frustrating, with cycles that come late or stray,
Still trusting time will guide their way.

Defeated, skin bearing marks unseen,
A quiet struggle behind the screen.
Exhausted, tired beyond what words can tell,
Yet in this struggle, hope starts to swell.
Annoyed, by hair that shifts and swells,
But knowing I am more than these shells.
Through the storm, a quiet light shines near,
THIS IS MY YEAR!

6. A poet by Taurus

Act your age they said to me
Though I’m not sure what they meant
Because the only thing that baffled me was their audacity to dictate my life based on their myopic expectations

Drumming their failed ambitions in my head
With enough passion to derail me from checking my options
Instead of just sticking with tradition

Their perspective was the problem
My creativity was the solution
Yet they see my uniqueness as an open challenge to their perceived reality

So they paint pictures of my expected doom, predict my early demise
Treat me as an outcast,
They try to break me, yet my resolve stood the test.

Their rejection became my inspiration
Using the broken bridge as firewood
I am becoming exactly what they said I would fail at: a poet.

7. Woe is me by Liz D

When I first locked eyes with you,
I thought my sight was blessed
You, formed like an angel.
But woe is me.

When our lips first touched,
I drank deeply from your love,
Unaware I was sipping
From a dry, empty well.
Woe is me.

When we first explored our landscapes,
I thought it would last a lifetime
Your kisses curing every ache,
But instead, inflicting every inch of pain.
Woe is me.

Now I lie in bed,
Tears in my eyes,
Clutching only the memories
You left behind.
Woe is me.

8. by Rachel

I was happy
that love offered its death to me
laid it gently in my hands
like it trusted me to know what to do

I don’t know if I did it right
I don’t know if I was gentle enough
or too gentle
if murder is supposed to feel louder than this

Maybe I’m not good at it yet
maybe I still hesitate
still soften my grip
still smile instead of finish

But it died anyway
softly
in my care

he he he

9. I am the sun by Martin Ngebe

The earth spins around its axis,
Seconds grow into days,
Swallowing me and spitting me out,
Digesting me until I’m no more.

I watch the moon dance,
So carefree and beautiful.
She sings a melody I had forgotten.
She echoes a story
Through the frogs and crickets.

I adore her like the sea,
We sway in unison.
We blaze with worship
Like the wolves and dogs,
Chasing after the dark.

The universe sings an anthem.
I was lost in the bass,
Drowning in my sea,
Turning my power against me.

The sun rose.
Dry bones came alive.
My eyes opened.

The divine calls me to reclaim
My fire,
And drink from the streams
Of freedom and love.

To be a flower in the wild,
Knowing I wilt away in time,
But still stand firm,
Rooted in the earth,
Connected to my community
Of wildflowers, dirt, and life.

To be beautiful,
Even in the face of criticism.
To be a gentle breeze
That kisses the cheeks of my enemies.

To realize not all men are built for war;
That maybe some of us
Are gentle healers,
Colorful flowers meant to adorn
The earth
And bring peace to the broken heart
And the sick in spirit.

I look into the sun with tears
Streaming down my throat.
I hold the hands of my mother.

In her arms, I am a king.
In her eyes, I am the world.
And when she speaks,
I forget how cruel the world is.

All I think about
Is the beautiful voice
That made a crying baby
Fall asleep in 2004.

All I think about is how gentle mothers are,
How kind the earth is to her children,
How lucky I am to be alive.

These thoughts keep me afloat,
Saving me from snuffing my light,
Reminding me once again:
I am the sun.

After the night rages,
I will rise and shine.
My light will heal,
And my love will grow flowers in deserts.
And I will hold my heart
In my hands again.

10. If we were all modest by AJ The Poet

If we were all modest,
The world would speak softly,
Loud egos laid to rest,
And hearts would listen more.
Worth would live within,
Not stitched in gold or praise,
Success would walk humbly,
Leaving no dust behind.
Hands would lift, not point,
Eyes would see, not compare,
And greatness would arrive
Without announcing its name.
In modesty, we’d find
Not less of who we are,
But the grace of being whole.