I hid my love in my blood


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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.

#TheVillageThinker

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THE DAYS ARE BRITTLE LETTERS


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THE DAYS ARE BRITTLE LETTERS
(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
she-Goat.

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah

THESE DRUMS WERE NEVER UNDERSTOOD


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THESE DRUMS WERE NEVER UNDERSTOOD
(echoes of our oblivion)

Barricaded, the drums have lost its traveling pathway in our ears
the palace have lost their ancient proverbial voices
blanksheets and chapters of void stories
swallowed and pricked by salsa shoes in bikinis
the aroma of wise-men caged in a barrel of the ‘wisest’
in dreams we have seen minds peaked beyond
the lizard no longer eats locusts but leaves
frogs and toads swim no more in ponds but brewed waters of the calabash
calamity has befallen the hunter in the forest;
his gun stolen by dwarves, gun-powder caught by webs
as darkness drains the seeds of light from the hut.

Our minds have slipped under the skirt of light
illusions have betrayed our trust from seeing the miracle of the moon
obliteration have kept her sternest eyes on us
we sit by the streams of thoughts
washing and bathing the dirth on our fingers
and all we keep doing is drinking and drinking
to the jollification of contemporary feet
that dance dust into the eyes.

Green leaves wither without symphonies of the harmattan
a mighty nation ones stood on this mountain
beauty filled its quarters, plentiful fueled its cheeks
dreams were birthed, courage was an endowment
but when the storms of strangers waved their hands against its mud walls,
doom filled the caps and laid low nudity for embrace.

We have walked past the shadows of faith,
seen to seem the fate of another on our shoulders
we bear not the traits of our ancestors
salvation (the hyena coercing the lambs) is but a supremacy calling
whimpers of anthills buried within the heart of centipedes
creeping servants climb down memorial tunnel
sliding and escaping through a tiny hole of death.

The drums; the rains, the sun have all kissed shame
the birds, the lingiust, the spider have all embraced guilt
our fathers, mothers and children have all been encompassed by ringworm prevarication
in our vibrating dilemma of recollection,
moonlight beamed from a hide on a carved wood
the palms have no wounds, no cracked mounds
with the prayers of our ancestors reincarnate itself no more
lies bagged in sacks have deprived our only seedling of truth
we have substituted spirituality with pietism
married diabolic omen over symbolistic sanity
but do we ever sit to ponder over what shall be of our seeds
when the wind of coldness blow through our homes?

The rhythms of the drums, have leaked through our colander ears
we back-turn and see no drummer
reality have eluded the mighty nation
chains of the flutist roamed in our buckled minds
the survival in the forest is not for the fittest
so is for the rise of a fallen wiseman
by the fire-side, the drums have ceased their whispers
soon the last of our blood shall be drained
to feed vultures and appease malices of cockroaches.

Nana Arhin Tsiwah
(The Village Thinker)
© All Copyrights Reserved, 2015 ….. 27/05/15′

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-—Our priest—-


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-—Our priest—-

His forehead kissed the sky
And it became blue
As another tongue
Communed to his lips

O’ spirits
Spirits that sit on thunder
Spirits that spit clouds
Vomit not your anger

His head bowed
Like the frond of the palm
O’ spirits, spirits of this void filled land
Cast not your bile
To barren our cocoyam farms

He raises the ‘Kura’
Cracks his lips into two rivers
One flood with kola saliva
And the other opened the eyes of the herbs

Fathers,
Fathers,
Blind not your hearts
From the fate of these bones
For asamando shares no joy
To the blindness of innocence…

Nana Arhin Tsiwah
© All copyrights reserved, 2015

SWALLOWED BY IMPOTENCY


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I

This evil, this paralyzing demon inside me, keeps a glance at my soul.
The torture of romances from her lips, sends a huge himalaya of shivers beneath my abdomen.
Why this thistle of thrilling pains with no gains of dead dreams? And nature an irony of beauty painted in solitudes of life’s muscles. 
Chastise me, cast me into the furnace of tears and deep sobriety of toast.

II

No timely interventions, the world of my own is a myth. And who is a saviour to cleanse my woes and purify my stains?
Having been shot with life’s dead bullets, the longing for inner peace with no place to fetch her soothing waters.
My mind remains in torrential torments— deep echoes of weeping within is all I have got to take solace from.

III

The sky patched with grey mirrors, darkness flexing her egoism beyond my strength; who will be there to comfort me?
This journey I am traveling looks subduing, a quake trembles forewarning from the abyss of death.
I am only midway, and my strength has lost it gem to this trade of transexual orgasm.
The Lord’s prayer and the psalmist letters are the waters I wish to drink, though my throat looks wet though I am so dry within.

IV

Moments have scripted me to dying younger than I have anticipated, so is the gate of hell smelling with smiles of welcome.
My mathematics teacher prunes my ear with echoes of warning
“you have no bright future, only a swelling hopeless skin with no fluid.”
The classroom magicians have tried several magical works on my world; it still looks gloomy and unreadable.
Who art thou that sees beyond comprehension to wrestle me from this dilemma?

V

I am impotent, and the cry of my childlessness tickles through my spin.
The gravity of hopelessness is graver than the magnitude of my inner powers.
Poetry, being a poet and having lingered through its course of servitude has changed nothing.
The only miracle that keeps its rhythms of beats along these soft pinnacles of me is surely the salvation potion of suicide; there I have found glittering lights to comfort my soul till the iron gate of the heavens beams no more grace on my lifeless body in this dungeon.

The Village Thinker © 2014

ON LIMBS OF A BUTTERFLY


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On limbs of a butterfly
I shall sing halleluyah
Chants chemical chemistry
Of wisdom of the old
For the golden old oak
Behind the spiritual walls.

Strange night appeals of cold weather
Tales of aftermath birthed in oracles
I paint the eyes of the priest
Sound the horn of the great elephant
Tomorrow shall be another day for libation
And call for reunion of the past.

On limbs of a butterfly
I shall fly above the greying skies
Plead with the goddess of fertility
To let this barren land regain her fertility
From the long silence of the ugly harmattan.

I need to revisit the shrine
Call the future a stardom pose for Africa
And where we would bear witnesses
Of the fate of our people
The struggles of our generation
And the might of generations unborn
To kiss this sweat bile of pain
Heaped into the core of our bones…

Africa must sing aloud from the wells of history
Be revived by the treasures of mystery
Africa must revisit her silent butterfly
To give her a befitting soothing song of appease.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Till I’m called to eternity–


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Till the path we share glows,
till heaven kisses the earth,
till we live like stones–
dying younger than death–
praying longer than Christ–
we share a fate of unison;
a fate of division,
a fate of completion,
a fate beyond yardstick measure,
——time and fate beyong our eyes.

For I see the throne of God,
and an irony of satan,
for when a guinea fowl is at crowing,
then the hen is surely at laying.

I beseech you my blood–
I beseech thee my soul–
that you will give ears,
and give your heart,
that I may speak to quicken thy soul….

I am a believer of Africa,
a soul undertaker of the universe;
so let Africa speak,
let Africa stand,
for the world is a glorious ours….
Our souls,
our fate,
our Africa!

The Village Thinker © 2014

That culture may flourish——


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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

‘W)nsom w)nsom’— Collective Efforts


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W)nsom, w)nsom
For it is collectiveness that we stand
The day has already ridden to far land
Mpaninfo) se, “s3 anomaa any3 ne buo a, ebu tra nek)n”
As I lick my little burden off
The pride of our culture laid to rust 
Nothing beautiful seen among our pride
All written in lines of lies beyond means
“s3 y3reyi apay3 a, na 3no nkyer3s3 takyer3ma nante asaase aniwa mu”
The law was created, —likewise men manifested.

All we do in our prime is walk unconcerned
Whilst our last days look blur upon the waters
A clean pair of hands far fetched
The destiny of our people neglected
Along the shores of wishing to be soaked
Tears welling up in the eyes of our people
Hunger tearing up their bellies at night
“Y3ts s3 3k)m de y3n nanso wo ne whan nK)ka s3 patio ani y3 ap)twe ap)twee”
This beautiful nation is ours
She is fast greying beyond boundaries 
And all our leaders keep doing is nothing
Which they call something
and O’ all is but mediocrity
“Ampa s3 k)k)sakyi di ap)nkyer3ni ani a, nano na 3soro”
Thousand minutes of traversing this journey not maximized
The castles hanging up in us not whistled
This still grey of us is too early.

W)nsom, w)nsom
the land is bare
The people are still lying dormant
Hoping that the top layer would be peeled
And you hide in your chamber
Calling on the clouds to pour on you luxuries
The stench of the open is swallowing our noses
Mosquito bites ripping our hearts apart
O’ such a shame, such a fate
So adamantly ignored for that someone expected
We wallow, and roll all over in bed
“Nanso kuntu w) h) yi, d3nky3mbo) renpronsuo”
The fly of our veins, brimming the sleeve of our clave
I surrender not to the tramples
Like a child awoken to humour by ghosts
“Tetefo) se, 3y3 den na ap)nkyer3ni ho te mfifiri?”
When our agreement on sheet is seen folding beneath craze datum. 

If I sing and preach like the thunderstorms
Of angry birds in the graveyard
And whistle like vultures in paradise of carcasses
With no slim shade of me representing true saving
And I keep it all dried, and still hide in dirty sleeves
Expecting the man of the helm to descend to me
I am nothing worth near patriotism
For,
“W)nsom w)nsom 3ne nipa”
Firis3 3bu travel woa, 3no nkyer3s3 p3s3menkomenya w) ndase3″
I am a fictional jointed soul
Roaming with my fate above boundless traces
I speak not because I have to
But I speak because I need to
Times of our nation,
Hours of our sad condition,
All calling for the loyal writes of our lives
Think as I think,
Reason as I also take to reason
“Na s3 y3n adwen a, daakye mfofo b3dane y3n kwae3”

The Village Thinker © 2014

Death calls me


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I hear their rumbling,
the heart is growing leaner
tiny trenches of life leaving me
I see the world sinking in me
heavy lids of eyes unraised
blowing blowing far near
I intend not to hear this voice

Psychotic imbalances of thick smoke
leaning around the pivot of me
a life lived is a life shared
but not when all doses of you is green
am married to the discotheque
the hard liquor my goodness
an admiration beyond obedience

I am the bane of dane
slime potion of lures teasing me from teaspoon
am hardened, an incorrigible me
with trains of passion led in the dark hours
time wasted, time wasted
My young life is flying away
and I wish I have more life to make amends
As the doctor declared,
“am sorry Kwame you have only a day to live”
And o’ yes, the shivers run down my spine

I have wasted precious I had
I have blown this love I had
I have thrown to the gutters this fate
A young fate of promises all gone to the drains
The HIV/AIDS I kept protecting myself from
has finally laid me boldly to life’s end
I see the graves nearing this night
with whispers of the advices not heeded to knocking me
Young and healing for happy
young and all was a bliss
but now all is in cold melt
I am finished,
perhaps, I should give my remaining minutes of life
to the hands of the noble friend of saving shame— suicide!
For death’s call is near…

The Village Thinker © 2014