In our landmark 10th edition of A Long Talk, Liberian poet Jeremy Teddy Karn is in conversation with Ghanaian poet Henneh Kyereh Kwaku. This conversation begins with an depth look on each writer and their relation to craft, the dialogue then moves on to topics of writer wellness, the positive impact of the African Poetry Book Fund and other monumental landmarks in their writing and academic careers. Join us for a conversation between two poets expressing their thoughts on the journey towards self actualization.
Sihle Ntuli: Sanibonani!
What a pleasure it is for me to have you both on this edition of Long Talk.
I’ve collaborated with both of you in the past and having known both of your journeys I truly appreciate how far both of you have come; it really has been so incredible to witness from afar. I’d like for us to talk about the journey and what is happening currently in each of your individual worlds, perhaps we can delve even deeper on the similarities and differences of your experiences. For starters, how is your relationship now between your poetry and the outside world?
Jeremy Teddy Karn: Sihle, thank you for having me here. I am exhilarated to have this conversation. Congratulations on your new book. I am excited for you.
That is an interesting question. I don’t think I have a proper answer for your question. There are so many things right now happening in the world, and I have been thinking a lot about what I want to do with my poetry— I want my work to reflect more on pressing things and people I often isolate myself from— to speak up and alleviate things that are being unnoticed by the world. I don’t want my voice to be the only thing occurring in my work. I want to include others— by doing so, I can align my poetry with the world. I hope that makes sense.
However, while still on that topic, I have also been thinking about the importance of rest. What does it mean to us as artists? And you, Kwaku, recently talked about it when we last spoke. It is an interesting topic for me, as someone who rarely makes time to rest, I have found myself overwhelmed with things, and it sometimes affects my writing. From your own experience, at what point or moment did you realize that this is a necessary thing for you to do, even when you have deadlines?
Henneh Kwaku Kyereh: Congratulations again, Sihle, on the new book. And thank you for bringing us into this conversation. I read some works a couple of days ago at an event, and it reminded me of how much my work interacts with the past, present, and maybe future. There is a lot of documentation, reflection/reflexivity, and also hope for change. I keep telling myself lately that I come from a long lineage of orators/storytellers/poets who believed that the word is powerful enough to cause change, however minute that might be. So I am delusional to an extent — believing that poetry could become whatever it wants to be in this world. But I am not making this up, I am learning from those who came before us. I am learning from the Akyeame in the palace and their praise songs, or a mother singing to their babies, or a war chant, or refrains from religious chants, psalms, proverbs, lovers singing undertone to each other in the corner of a house, or the people criticizing other people or the chiefs during Apoo. These are some of the things that have shaped my outlook on life, the world, and also poetry.
To your question, Jeremy, I consider rest as a significant aspect of the creative process. To exaggerate this, you cannot write if you’re not alive. I used to tell myself that I have limited time on earth, and as such, I should make sure all of that time is productive. But I am trying now to unlearn that. I am trying to factor in more periods of rest, inactivity, or other activities unrelated to the “work” in my schedule. It is not a perfect practice, but I am committed to keeping trying.
Jeremy: Thank you, Kwaku. I agree with you. I am still struggling to navigate between rest, work, and writing. I also want to stay alive for my family, my woman, and my friends.
Most of the time, when people asked me what led me to have an interest in writing poetry, I used to tell them that I wanted to use my writing to share what I struggled with by concealing it through poems. The fact that poets seldom ever address mental health issues outside of poetry is ridiculous. For example, the majority of confessional poets, including Anne Sexton, Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath, John Berryman, and others, only let us in on their mental health issues through their poems. I agree that they used their poetry as a form of therapy to conceal their struggles rather than express them orally.
And recently, you mentioned that writing used to be a form of therapy for you, and most writers would agree with me, but now it is not. It has a different purpose. How is that so? It’s something I’m curious about.
Henneh: I was in conversation with a very respected poet recently, and the idea of poetry being anything else other than poetry came up, and they were of the view that poetry is poetry and nothing more. I disagree. Respectfully, of course. This poet is over four and a half decades older than I am. I recognize that my disagreement could stem from my lack of life experiences. But as a social scientist, I am also aware of the ways poetry has been used for various reasons, including health. And as I mentioned earlier, I believe poetry can become whatever it chooses to be. On the question of what I mean by poetry — especially the writing of poems — no longer being therapeutic for me, it is a simplistic view. However, I find that as I started thinking of poetry and writing as a career, it demands more of me. Now I worry about the craft of the poem, I worry about publishing — which, when I’m writing for therapeutic purposes, I don’t have to worry about.
Jeremy: Thank you. I’d like us to discuss the MFA experience. My chapbook was published a year after yours, Revolution of the Scavengers, was selected by Kwame Dawes and Chris Abani and published by the African Poetry Book. I read it in 2023 when I arrived in Iowa City. I think it is a fantastic collection. Does having a published chapbook set you on a better path for your MFA? Is it something that validates you to go for the MFA experience? I am asking because I had a conversation with a friend recently who is looking to apply for an MFA this year, and he is nervous that his work is not good enough to get attention from an MFA program. He thinks he has to get something big, like a prize or a chapbook, before he feels good enough for an MFA. What do you think from your own experience?
Henneh: I think having some work published sets anyone up for a better path for an MFA – committees know that their investment in you is worthwhile, you show them that you’re actively pursuing the work of a writer (and maybe it also says you’re not just a hobbyist and there’s nothing wrong with that but I assume committees are more interested in some kind of career writer.) Revolution of the Scavengers means a lot to me as it affirmed that what I was doing was important work. I keep coming back to it, but even now, I am seeing insights I missed when I first wrote the book. The book being selected by Prof Daws was very important to me. Recently, I told an older poet that Prof Dawes selecting and publishing my work means a lot to me because whenever I am in doubt about myself, I can trust his judgement — he can’t be wrong about the book. I often go back to read his introduction to the book. He understood what I was attempting. I went into the MFA with that confidence. That borrowed confidence. It helped a lot. Now, to the friend who is uncertain about applying for an MFA, I don’t think they need a book or a “big” award; however, they need to show the committee what they’re doing and what they have done— they need to let them know that the investment is worth it. Tell me about your experience. What did publishing your chapbook, Miryam Magdalit, mean to you? The other thing I have been wanting to ask, and before that I think I need to say this again, that you’re an amazing storyteller and a brilliant poet, but, how does it feel to be the founder and editor of Pepper Coast Mag and how is that process, that work, different or even similar to how you approach your (own) writing?
Jeremy: Borrowed confidence, but it is something that was earned. You also touched on something vital about both publishing your chapbook and your MFA journey at Chapman University. I do admire how you expressed that the publishing of your chapbook builds a foundation of belief in your work, in your voice, in your literary trajectory for the MFA. And sometimes that belief needs to come from outside ourselves before we can hold it within. The fact that you achieved it from Prof. Dawes, when he said yes to your chapbook, I know it was surreal for you— a moment of lineage, almost a passing of torchlight for other Ghanaian poets.
Thank you also for your kind words, Henneh. Now, to your questions—I think publishing Miryam Magdalit meant everything to me. I am grateful to Prof. Dawes and the African Poetry Book Fund for believing in what I was trying to say or do with my craft. Having my chapbook published by them was like unleashing a quiet discomfort into the world— a confession that reveals itself. The chapbook emerged from a period of spiritual questioning, silence, and grappling with the roles of women I grew up around in the early post-war Logan Town (My childhood environment).
It still feels strange, and I lean into discomfort whenever I go back to the chapbook. It is quite confessional for me. But seeing it published by the African Poetry Book Fund affirmed my obsession with improving my craft and fueling my hunger for more— that the things I couldn’t quite express in plain speech had a place in the poetic realm.
Pepper Coast Mag has been running for over three years, and I am grateful to our contributors and members of our editorial board. Being the co-founder alongside Ayouba Toure and receiving great help from co-editor Jakky Obi-Bangkong, it has been humbling, even a little overwhelming at times. It’s different from writing in that the focus is wholly outward-facing. My writing comes from a need to metabolize my experiences and my identity as a Liberian and a poet who questions everything, and also wants to be a teller of truths, while being an editor of Pepper Coast Mag requires a different kind of me— the one who listens and is careful— by reading with generosity, and also to see patterns—what people are writing toward, what voices are in conversation, and which ones are being silenced. But the deepest similarity of the two is that both writing and editing are acts of belief. Belief that something matters. That someone, somewhere, will feel a little more alive reading it. Being an editor has helped me see the scaffolding beneath the poems, the choices behind the silences, the risks worth taking. It’s also taught me that no writer arrives fully formed, and that what we often need is not perfection, but permission.
I would love to hear more about what you’re working on now. Are you writing something new?
Henneh: I think the APBF has done a remarkable job in Africa when it comes to poetry. And I look forward to what else they will do in the future. I think what I look forward to the most now is how they might collaborate with African poets and publishers on the continent to actually create a publishing infrastructure based in Africa. I understand this is a difficult task, considering various factors including funding and even the political nature of publishing. But this will make a huge difference. I’m sure Pepper Coast Mag could do with some financial support, and also be interested in having print issues. Again, I’m thankful for the work APBF is doing on the continent. Recently, I told Pamilerin and Jakky that I am very happy that Jedidiah Mugarura won the Sillerman Prize— because it exposes the rest of us to his work, but importantly, there’s a ripple effect where suddenly we will begin to notice newer poets from Uganda. On what I’m working on right now, there are multiple things I’m working on, some of which I can’t talk about yet until I fully understand the vision of the project but what I can say is that one of the projects engages with music a lot and the other one engages with history and medicine, which goes back to my work in Public Health and Health Communication. What are you working on? But importantly, what are you looking forward to? What excites you these days? And what are you reading?
Jeremy: I hope that one day Pepper Coast Mag will be able to partner with the African Poetry Book Fund. We’re looking forward to spreading poetry throughout Liberia and encouraging others to take writing more seriously. At the moment, we don’t yet have the resources to do that, but it remains an essential dream for our institution.
I was excited to learn that Jedidiah Mugarura from Uganda won the 2025 Sillerman Prize. It’s such a good thing for African poetry. It felt unexpected, but I’m pleased that he won. African poetry needed a new voice from somewhere other than the frequent places it has always come from.
I’m looking forward to seeing more emerging voices, especially from countries that are too often left out of the conversation when it comes to contemporary African Poetry. I would be glad to see poets from Liberia making the list in the coming years.
I’m also excited to hear about your new project, and I hope you’ll share more details about it in a future conversation.
Lately, I’ve been writing political poems—but with an existential voice. Most of them are in conversation with what’s currently happening in my country. I can’t call it a new project yet, because I’m still trying to understand what it wants to become.
Right now, my main focus is on getting my thesis manuscript published as my debut collection. It’s a deeply personal manuscript for me, and I’m hopeful about hearing good news on it soon. I’ve been immersed in the works of writers from the Negritude Movement. Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks and Césaire’s Notebook of a Return to the Native Land left a lasting impression. I was also introduced to Michael S. Harper after hearing Prof. Dawes read one of his poems on a podcast— how I wish I had discovered him earlier. Last night, I finished reading Sarah Olds’ The Unswept Room. It is an amazing collection.
Henneh: I am excited to hear about all the work you’re doing and the new political poems you’re writing. I have also been reading about political poetry a lot lately, and I would love to hear more about the not-yet-a-project political poems you’re writing. That’s a really good list. Fanon’s Black Skin, White Mask is on my list as well. I have been joking with myself that I have been reading more about poetry since now, as I pursue health communication, than when I was getting my MFA. And partly because, as I implied earlier, I see poetry in everything and everywhere — and I close my eyes sometimes, but it is still there. So, even in my health communication/public health work, I still can’t ignore the poetry all around us. I currently have in my tote bag Afropessimism by Frank B. Wilderson III, Black and Female by Tsitsi Dangarembga, The Combahee River Collective Statement, and The Source of Self-Regard by Toni Morrison. But this list changes every day, sort of. I am excited about how the sun shows up in Orange, it reminds me of home, it reminds me of Hohoe. I am also excited about seeing my love’s text in the morning.
Jeremy: The political poems I’m currently writing remind me of home. I miss home, and I’m doing all I can to keep loving it from afar. I have been thinking about what my poetry can and cannot do. It is leading me to resist the political ugliness being imposed by corrupt politicians in my country. I feel it is my duty to witness, to document, to resist with language.
I like what you said about not being able to ignore poetry, even in public health—that’s powerful. I haven’t read Afropessimism or The Source of Self-Regard, but I’ll add them to my next reading list. I also like how you carry those voices with you—that feels like part of your poetics, too. There’s something delicate about the way we carry home: in colors, in text messages, and books found in your tote bag. And yes—those morning texts from your lover— that’s a kind of daily poem, too, isn’t it?
How do you navigate your life as both a poet and a public health practitioner? I imagine it’s a lot to hold. I’d love to hear more about your process—how you manage, how the two callings speak to each other.
Henneh: Witnessing is our collective responsibility. Poet or not, it is our responsibility to bear witness — to the good things and the ugly. I want to understand from your perspective what loving “home” from afar means. What thorns make you want to stay away? And what pulls you in? I may change my mind someday about this, as I have already done in the past, but in this moment, I don’t think being a poet and being a public health (communication) scholar are different. I am really bound by love — and that love is what makes me do the work I do in both fields — and that love is for my people. So I am doing the same work of love and care, but in two fields. Love for my people is the actual life, the true calling, and Public Health (Communication) and Poetry are some of the ways I carry it out.
Jeremy: Thank you for this, Henneh. What I understand is that poetry and public health are just different languages being bound by your love for them. You asked what loving “home” from afar means to me. Well, I’m still trying to understand it. I think being away from it sharpens the ache and the affection at once. The thorns, for me, are often political — the violence, the betrayal by those in power, the silencing — and at times, even the fear of returning to something that might no longer recognize the current me. But what pulls me in is Memory. Family. Monrovia’s Language. My woman. My people.
