I hid my love in my blood


I hid my love in my blood

i hid my love in a stream
of satless blood.
there she goes
unseen in the clads of breath.
there she sit in the leaves
of million airs.
she is a file of darkness,
a page of shade
flamed in existential beauty.
the night birds are home now,
their songs undiluted
in nectar in dew of wet eyes.
day breaks and she sprouts
out of a butterfly’s heart.
midnight dies and she sweeps
her soul across the inocence
of the early sun.
i hid my love in my blood
not for the touch of the winds!
I hid my love in my blood
not for the steals of the subdued tongue!
but for her petal laughter
that should she die, she might be
resummoned once more
into her left scar in my flesh
with every drop of my blood.





(For Dennis Appiah Larbi-Ampofo, Team Dennis)
–In commemoration of World Poetry Day–


mamavi, our feet have felt pains
in the umbrellas of deceitful tongues
that lied and ate hot pepper
to flinch our eyes —

our memories were alive . .
our memories are dead . .

these memories written
in the pages of our shaped lips
forgive, perhaps we might have forgotten
yes, we might have forgotten
why the frog sweat each noon
yet, the lizard that ate sacks of pepper
still dances with his head
in the farm of ‘mesewa moko’

dela, when you meet appiah
tell him, o’ tell him, tell larbi
that the tsetsefly is a small wing insect
yet, the elephant learnt a lesson
in the last story told by ‘abrewanana’

and while we pride our clothes
in the solitude of the night,
let our memories not forget
that in the joy of the rat
the smoke is never an appease


our gate has been opened
by a strange hand
but brothers, do not panic
do not panic
for he that looks for heads
must not forget
he has one pivoting on his neck

mamavi, the road to the forest has turned hands
it has stirred the chambers
of our hearts
as darkness blisses liss

naa, tell konekt
that the sea has not bleached
its colour
and so has the chameleon
that nods to the rays of the sun. . .


ampofo, brother
permit me to rinse my mouth
with grilled maize
as this journey seen
from the pot of old
beams on the sleepless foams
of the celebrant palm wine . . .

and allow me to appease
you, asuming: o’ earthly goddess;
for i
speak not
of mortal gains in the
socket of empty barrels
for that they say
makes the most
noise . . .


The Tree And Man


The Tree And Man


There are trees
And there are trees.
Some have spirits, they live longer
Fighting the fist of death
Gasping in the rains
And holding the ruins of the harmattan . . .
Some have souls, they are sentimental
They cry during every summer
They cherish their broken hearts
Never nursing the pains
From stubborn satanic misconceptions . . .

Every rope of man
Is a trap
for the neck.
We see life and the haunt begins
We dream death and the love regerminates . . .
All things are animate
The rock
The untarred road
The dust wired net
The lost shoe
The rain beating sign post
Are parables that shall unite this memory
When the tale is told once more . . .


A Song For A Beloved


A Song For A Beloved

Two days today,
was the waking of your memories.
the million memories you kept
inside the feel of our minds.

we saluted!
we embraced!
Yet the fast legs of tears
would not let our eyes settle.

It was just yesterday
we recalled you in our huts.
the weather was hostile
the moon was mournful
even our shadows
which roamed about in mute,
nearly deserted our spirits.

Your smeared memories of suddendom,
we couldn’t hold!
we couldn’t bear!

when you hear the winds
take her broom of sanity
in the godly morn,
look no where, stare no land
for amongst the dust
shall linger the twirling songs of us
pacifying the hands
that sent you packing.


Prayer Of A Boy By The Roadside


Prayer Of A Boy By The Roadside. 

his lung wrote home
while his face wrote solitude.

here was a soul, lost
amongst boundless feathers
falling off a lone bird’s tail.

his eyes greyed the half-seated moon
and you could read
memories holding themselves
to the feel of an aged-past.

the tuckiness of history
panting down his scored skin,
sent peaceless pieces of pains
which whispered through the exhaust
of wooden vehicular fumes
that fast passed him in gossip.

behind his reddish-dusty hairless head,
a chapter of his prayer wrote:
do not circumcise me..
do not break me..
do not curse me..
for i hold within me
uncured illnesses of a broken home.

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah
All Rights Reserved, 2016
image credit: national geographic tv




every night bleeds oracles
of You. You
an endless river
that lies under soaked
no wonder adam was wounded through
his left broken rib.
no wonder his filament
still dances with men. You
are radiant, beautiful
like an Arabian moon.
You are fireworks that lits steets of fragrance
that defiles minds
under illusive pills of rainbows

i am a victim. we are all victims
victims to this vacuum hallmarks
hallmarks that write pictures
hanging on broken

should the moon come
to hang near my wooden window,
i wound pluck a feather
from her melanin,
i would exchange this lonely heart
for her auras
for i am a victim,
a victim to this story of eve…

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah

Quarterly Dream.


and she appeared!
She appeared like a blue rose
chained onto a pen-note.
with every page of her skin
coated in chocolate melanin
of epistles drawn into a curtain,
splashing galaxies
and songs of
And she rose:
From the deep of a burning star
flaming in dunes!
she cried in chapters
for green became
white and white
became red
and red grew
coptic heart-pulses
braided in
the anvil of
love colors.

©The Village Thinker

I wrote Abomination-


I wrote abomination!

I wrote a poem.
It would never be read.
It is made of paganism
and plastic darkened world of lament.
It is a poem of curled broken lines.
The church would ridicule it!
The mosque would fight me on…  The saint would laugh it over.
No publishing house would dare it horns on.
For it contains lies,
it contains damming statements that collides
and erodes the many errors
that humanity have been made
to swallow and overbloat.
It would mock and rebuke the living.
It shall praise the dead.
It shall frown on life
like a forensic tonic.
It shall admonish death
like the first suckle of a baby
from penetrating breasts.
I know what sentences awaits me in the holographic holocaust of society. But in all, like a slave of this empty life, I don’t care, it won’t matter to me. For I know, not everyone is a student of Shakespearean nonsense or the Awoonor crying errors.


Poetic Chromosome

Poetic Chromosome
(For Josie Amofaah Nketiah)


how infinite is the question
of why
when it opens in our hearts
and flood the soft stories
in our mouths
how often does each letter read
and respond to the quest
of our aching

like a milling machine,
it numbers on our fingers
and correlates in our livers

–like numbered limbs,
you feel another leaf
from a naked tree
with no song;
and emptied writer.

there are questions
we find no answers
and emotions
we find no filters

they hang like looms
under magnified breasts
of a beloved mother
they syndicate like petals
under tanned shape of roses
and still
the answers are

like love letters
painted under pianos,
we find no room
we find no road
we find no hope
until the oceans
in our whirling hearts
turn GREEN..

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah