endless love


Thousands of years ago
I found a dream
I had a voice
I sailed a canoe
To distant ears never threaded
But upon the crucifix of death,
I found love
endless… sublime
Inscriptions inside a tomb!






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




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

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



The Village Thinker finally put together his first collection of poems in this poetry book, “Half Our Memories and other poems”.
visit http://www.amazon.com or http://www.amazon.co.uk and search for these key terms; Ghanaian poems, Half Our Memories, Tsiwah poems and get your copy for a thrilling read of African-brewed poetry.




(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

A woman-in-Shades.

A woman-in-Shades.
~(for my unknown African woman; the one i keep dreaming of)~



whatever made you this beautiful
subliming before the dancing sun
i do not know; cannot see.
there are no seasons without rugged tailors
where hungry fishermen sing in boats
dancing on weaves and submitting
to oiled chocolate feet of Goddesses.
i cannot define the colour of the leave
that sheltered the blooming plantain
which stands at home
singing coiling songs of royals.
your charcoal coloured eyes
are the very songs of the palm-wine tapper
that keeps radiating heart fisted lights
into my short-drained mirror eyes.


there is a drinking cup of beauty
it sits in hearts, in souls; squats on dark melanin.
sometimes beyond lakes of Her cold eyes
i see the many pieces of myself stealing
the photographic words that reads
amongst those thickened dark eyebrows.
who made you this mirror flamming sky?
that peacocks perch to read
drumming tales of unleashed feathers.
is it the heavy dew that dances
behind those perfectly
arranged alphabets of your calf?
see. slip. fall. admire. fetch.
dust. harmattan. cracks. peels.
pillows. lenses. colanders. mats.
are the tides that keeps tilting
my leaping ballooned groins
should your shadow walk
through the dream of this hunter’s son.