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.


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




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



The Village Thinker finally put together his first collection of poems in this poetry book, “Half Our Memories and other poems”.
visit or 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 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.


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