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.



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 . . .


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

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


—★Defining poetry per my Traditional African conviction★—


“For me(Nana Arhin Tsiwah)— the matter of whether poetry is emotional or philosophical is not worth an argument tool of any measure to me as an African poet. I don’t know how these compatriots of mine think. Well, it may be a differential allegory thought sought after thought and that shouldn’t be a burden. However, the essence of poetry to me is that poetry like any other art rooted in traditional African principle is far more of spirituality than presumed by most people. The simple definition of poetry to me as a soul woven from an African palace of distinct measure is that poetry is soul-food roasted from the deep fire of spirituality”.

——Nana Arhin Tsiwah——


That culture may flourish——


Born on an angry morning,
the weeping of a woman,
she was a mother;
a mother of twelve.

Her womb was my home,
her soul my blood,
in her spirit was my life,
written on pieces of coagulation.

From birth,
inside the little hut,
of red clay from the river bank;
a black feather was found along
the dungeons of my teeth.

I am told,
I am culture itself,
bridegroom of loyalty,
a stream pool of unity,
a future dream of supremacy,
the swish I saw solemnised.

Bleeding thoughts of me,
under the shrine’s shelter,
where kola dances with solar;
and as they did–
my royalty remains at my ankle,
and along the beads around my calf.

The Village Thinker © 2014