When Poetry Calls at Midnight: A Review of Kumbaya

If you took a picture of me at my happiest, you’d see my cheeks ballooning out of my face. Time and setting always matter for joy, but trust me, when my joy comes, it comes loudly, regardless of the hour. And let's just say that in such moments you’d find me cosy, bubbling or heightened all over the place because that is where I’d rather be than to be at the loose ends of this world.

The night I found Kumbaya at 1:43 AM, I felt myself pushed right to the edge of that happiness. Nothing really mattered, not even sleep, I was completely immersed in the sincerity of its rhythm, the urgency of its tone and the voice that felt like a town crier bearing the news we refuse to tell or are too afraid to get close to.

Kumbaya is the latest offering from Mr Poetivist, a poet and activist who pays attention to the wounds of this world and touches them with care. In this new album, what he calls 'the elegy of distant relatives', he invites us to reimagine grief as a form of love. As he puts it more cogently, 'for to love is to grief, is to remember'. More importantly, there’s community in these poems; each one extends a hand to you, asking to hold you, urging you to speak or become that safe space you can pour and mend yourself.

The air that blew out of the very first poem brought a strange clarity, a reminder of the truths that silence often broods over in our world. I read Boakye D. Alpha’s review days later, and I understood exactly what he meant when he wrote that 'the poems in this album are bold in the way they exist.' When something is bold, it insists on being seen; it pushes its way through obstacles or glows like a light that refuses to part ways with the night.

That is what Kumbaya feels like: a place full of light that sits darkness down, communes with it, and leads it to see what it could be or could have been if it peeled back just a little of its skin.

Now let’s break it down, the poems:

the beginning of god ends here.

The album opens with the sound of a yawning river and birds chirping. It voices out a letter with a kind of boldness that a deeply religious person might bite his tongue saying. As I listened, I couldn’t help but see the biblical Job in this poem; here, desperation finally has a face. Yet beneath that desperation lies a quiet surrender, a breathing estate of hope still running underneath everything. It sets the tone for an album determined to speak the unspeakable.

dear brother

This poem is immersed in both memory and confession. There’s a frustration in the voice, an honest reaction to what grief often becomes. Even as the speaker questions the choice of a loved one who leaves by suicide, the poem still reaches for understanding, trying to lend that departure the dignity of love. It is tender even in its confusion.

remains of a coward

A meditation on the inheritance of death. Here, the album’s emotional stakes become both undeniable and painfully honest. The poem makes your heart tighten in anticipation of what grows out of the things we inherit after our loved ones leave us. It is a sharp, unflinching reckoning.

interlude to grief

The heart of the album appears here. The poem pulses quickly, without delay, as though grief itself has a heartbeat. It follows through with the acceptance of death, right down to the moment the shovel closes the grave. Brief but profound, it is the emotional hinge on which the album turns.

strangers blue

Every word takes you to an image of longing and a deeper understanding of grief. Even when mourning seems difficult, this poem suggests that love can be found in it too, that the dead and the living share one communion. Though we journey apart, we walk so close together.

selma my alabama

Have you ever been stuck staring at the tail of a train that just departed with your lover? This poem gives you words to say after the tail disappears. If you love so hard and you come across this poem, listen with care, otherwise, you might get tipsy the very second you pour it into yourself.

ruby, come by here

Completely unexpected, this track is the kind of surprise that raises your eyebrows. You’d want your own Ruby close by, because this track will make you pull anyone near for a dance that requires ears to get lost in heartbeats.

circa 98

This poem speaks like a confession from a bed, a last wish begging to come true. Even as it offers something beyond what has become the order of years past, it asks only that you listen and nod in understanding.

dɔ me a bra

“If you love me, come.” The poem embodies its meaning in the way it is read. It relays assurance of a shared love requiring duty, commitment and faith. It does not judge what has been done but consistently reinstates the vows of what began as love and what remains as such.

voicemail

The poem first sparks curiosity. You may turn to your phone to decipher which numbers were dialled, first to be taken to the place of closure and second into the ear of the afterlife for a chance to call to glory.

for you and i

This is the theatre of the album. It sits you down to negotiate with reality, mirroring the lives of distant relatives, piece by piece, confronting what remains at the core of how life continued after the departure of a loved one.

pour mend

This poem is a sight to behold. It kneels beside someone pushed to the edge of life, ready to give up. It motivates, understands, and offers brief assurance of what lies ahead if you take a step back rather than fall.

the epilogue

Here we close, with hugs and farewells. The poem is honest and generous. Though they may sound like the last words uttered, the goodbye in this poem stays with you longer than it leaves.

I must confess, the poems do not offer just one taste; every replay teaches something new. At the core, however, lies memory, the confession of how much love exists in grief and how to carry the remembrance of a beloved. More than my love for the tone in which this album is presented is the gentle breeze of its calm. I keep returning for the familiar peace it offers with my eyes closed.

If anything ever drowns you out of this world, Kumbaya will be a good place to survive the heavy waves of life, carrying clear echoes of this line from the album:
“I came into us with soil, hear it breathe, planted eternity into our moments, hear it breathe.”
“I came into us with soil, hear it breathe, planted eternity into our moments, hear it breathe.”
“I came into us with soil, hear it breathe, planted eternity into our moments, hear it breathe.”

LISTEN TO KUMBAYA HERE

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ABOUT WRITER:

Richard De-Graft Tawiah is a Ghanaian poet, spoken word artist, and personal essayist, whose work has appeared in CGWS, Nenta Journal, De Colonial Passage, Global Writers Project, and Pure Wata Zine, among others. His work explores environment, identity, and the social impact of broken homes.

He is a finalist for the 2025 Adinkra Poetry Prize, an alumnus of the 2023 Nadéli Creative Cafe Bootcamp, a two-time performer on Don’t Let This Become Public, and the author of ‘In My Diary Poetry’, a monthly newsletter on Substack.

When Poetry Calls at Midnight: A Review of Kumbaya

Now let’s break it down, the poems:

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