Home, Feel; Birthmarks

Home, Feel; Birthmarks
Home is polygamy
Wanting us night after night.
Death is a monogamist
Not wanting to share.
Life is a thief
Playing smart like chaskele.
What is home
Whenever it smells not of jealousy
What is jealousy
When it smells of ruins in a wall
What is a wall
When it taste not blood
What is blood
When it is devoid of soul
Do you know that
Every feather that riddles on a bird
Was once a miracle in an egg.
So who is an egg
And who is a bird?
A bird is a demi -God
Whiskered by a sperm and
Riverside poem…




(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 . . .


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.


Ten Thousand Chant Songs


Ten Thousand Chant Songs

why have we ruined the chant songs
in the stage of our mother’s breasts?
why have we bought rotten kola nuts
when we had just a night to offer libation?

we have stood behind this river for far too long
and the prayers have not been offered! 
we have watched for our fathers’ apparitions
and not even the priest has an idea of their airs.

i, abeiku,
the son of the thirsty hunter
knock with his teeth
asking why the Gods have left us
to this fate of flies

Nana Arhin Tsiwah
© All Rights Reserved, 2016




there is a story we cannot
tell quietly at night
there are erred stories
we cannot finish writing
they hang losely under sagged
pointed breasts of

whenever these songs find
their feet into my ears,
it breaches wilting hymen
of voicless breath
of ailing mothers..

¶The Village Thinker



(A Future; A Soul, Murderers)

in the quiteness of
our relinquishing
distances, we shall
feel the colourful
embraces of
our forebearers.

we shall. shall see
distances of
sleeping plains
carved out
from vigilant sweat.

we shall feel
thinly bubbles
of beliefs that
washes glaring eyes
of cold Rivers.

i know the choruses
of midnight Owls
the dance of
Bragoro teenagers
the sounds that
sounded sumptuous
memories of
days-lonely gone
into the earth.

But I tell you:
no matter how
clean the anus is,
the smell is
always scattered
epistles of cubic diagonals..

until his death, his book
“Antelopes Can Sing”
was a starring milked watermelon that caused Professor Osimesi
of Rivergods to
bleed of masticated
jaw Ejaculation.

Time he wrote:
were as numbered
as the virginity
of a stubborn

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah

Son In Lost Cowries


Son In Lost Cowries

the Harmattan
shall clamp
me into her

do not weep
into a broken
of wonder
when you read
from a bloated
sheet of blood

that a big locust
me before
the evening
grew grey.

i have wandered
through cold tears
on the surface
of twilight

i have seen
the unmentioned place
where the sea
pockets her soul
on the lips of

do not purge
your duct
when you finally
dream a cow
devoured me

for i have paid
to the insolent winds
the pains
of the castrated

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah

*Torn slippers~


*Torn slippers~
(For a daughter captured by mocking-Dwarfs)

my daughter,
slippery leaf that
waddles the sole of
the River canoe. death
won’t swallow me into
its marshy stomach!
fear won’t break me
into its xylophagic
crawling temple.

this still tear that
hills my chin and faults
the hinge of my chest,
is not of your departed
mother’s hymen
but of your Road
that is patched
under the
hunter’s sole.

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah



(The African Dream)


I have a dream…
like many an African child’s hybridised songs
they are combed into a fantasy world of loneliness
the dreams of a dreamer in his father’s landscape
does not crawl to fit the fiddling flute on a mountain
channels of our minded self seldomly sleep soundly
their lonesome in a paired mind


like many an African child,
these dreams are stomached pains of hunger
pains of motherhood that never dries its tears
to be that man of his mirrored-self
is only one realised score in the horizons of the mind
flooded guns, weapons and cheats
have eaten destined intestines in their diseased selfishness


common grounds that echoes eclipses in circulation
the believer is but only a half-painted achiever
her tears, an un-sung melody to the hills
his smiles, an un-revealed revelation to the clouds
the feet of the sane is a lousy lake of insanity to the insane
but these echoes, these diluted melodies
like any African riddle, is only meaningful to the cold-hearted adherent…

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah