Tuesday, 28 October 2014


Iquo, your symphony stormed my soul
In this flower-city of Trondheim
Your symphony came, Iquo, it came

It brought the dreams of elephant-children
Who now, kneel before the ant,
They starve; their meal-bowl shrinks.
Your symphony carried with her
The memory of corpses rotting from Ebola
The pain of our land raped off everything
The betrayal of family-heads; bargaining our blood for aid
And the grenades garnishing our door-posts
And the inevitability of our very near death

Symphonies are for a hopeful people
Can we also sing symphonies?
Iquo, must we?

Thursday, 11 September 2014

Morning Call

What has the toddler done to be cursed with the drum?

What has the babbler done to be burdened with song?
Each night, in sleep, the voices come
begging to be heard at my court of song
and until I hear their plea, place them on my bed
curdle them with the pen
and lay them to rest in the arms of drums,
thy never rest.
Each night, each dream time, even lavatory time
I sing.
I, the grandson of Wosekpo mother of songs
I, with the jittery voice, son of Dzatugbui!

9.31 AM. 11.9.14

Thursday, 8 May 2014

I kill my enemies in my writing: Writing Process Blog Tour, 2014

I run away from a General Science class in SogakofeSenior High School. I found myself admitted into a program where the subjects scared me: physics was a monster and elective mathematics was a viper, chemistry was manageable and biology was good (of course, it is a reading subject). In my infant wisdom, I left to a literature class (against the rules of the school). I was found several times and returned to the science class but the more I was found, the more I was motivated to run back to the arts class. In the end I became a General Art student (after proving to be a better arts embryo). In the art class, prose was my friend, drama was my playmate but poetry became a dreaded obstacle to overcome. So I gave it more attention than all other genres, then the epiphany came: I discovered more beauty in poetry than any other genre. Before then, I wrote poems in my mother tongue, Ewe, so I translated them into English, following the styles I encountered in the poems I studied. My teachers read them and … that is how I became a “writer”.
I apologize for my delay in continuing the conversation. I should have posted this on Monday, May 5, 2014. I am in a self-imposed exile which comes to all of us in one way or the other and I am writing exams at the moment so I need to battle with time these days.
The main motive of the blog tour is to share writers’ experiences through their response to four questions. Each writer who shares their thoughts tasks three other writers to continue the dialogue so as to continue an unbreakable chain. My good brother-in-song Fiifi Abaidoo handed over the baton to me, and I am delighted to be part of this series. In what follows, I answer the four questions.

What am I working on?
I am working on so many things: myself, my thesis, my poems, my single-hood, my madness, my anger, my ... I am working on my old poems, trying to take out the "juvenility" in them. I have put a collection together as a manuscript and I am hopeful to publish it as soon as the cedi decides to stop falling like rain. I am also working on some academic papers, one of which was publish last week in a US journal. Again I am working on a deeper understanding of cultural aesthetics especially in traditional art; and my grandmother (a songster herself) is leading me in that esoteric sojourn. I am also working on getting more TRUE friends, especially writers (since the more you interact with a writer, the better you become in your own art). In the end, I aim at becoming a deep writer and scholar with philosophical and academic output in almost all genres in the arts.

How does my work differ from others in genre?
I have not read many writers inasmuch as I wish I could so I cannot tell how different my work is from others. However, I try as much as possible to be myself with a quintessential voice. I try to put my emotions into my works so that even if it is not performed, the necessary effects can manifest. My traditional Ewe background has a lot of impact on my work but that does not make me comparable to the great Ewe writers of glory (Akpalu, Amarttoe, Awoonor, Anyidoho, Azasu, Wosornu, Mawugbe, Adzei, Deh, Akpabli among others). In a nutshell, I try to be pedantic with my muse and since all writers have different gods-of-song, I think my work will be different too. The themes in my work are however linked to all humanistic woes and histories.

Why do I write what I write?
Writing is my own response to awakening consciousness. Most of my works are products of anger and madness at a system, person, philosophy, institution. Simply put, I write when I am angry and mad. After writing, the anger and madness reduces and I become sane again. Writing then is a therapeutic method for me. I kill my enemies in my writing so that I don’t physically manifest my anger. My anger is usually instigated by news, speeches, books, history (of all humanity) and individual behavior. I hope to correct thoughts and systems. I hope to re-create humanity. I hope to make people think. I hope to make people cry and become happy that they did.  I hope to entertain too (if and when I can). I hope to bring out the beauty hidden in arts and philosophies.

How does my writing process work?
A thought becomes a metaphor, then a word, then a phrase and then a sentence… coupled with symbols, aphorisms and anything at all. The thought is like a seizure and until I pour the thought out, I become enslaved in the inner self and uncomfortable. Sometimes, the thought becomes a traditional song which I keep singing until it gets written. After writing, I leave the work to rest, then I come back to bath, comb and give it a make-up until it takes the shape of an angry beautiful monster. I take a deep sigh. I rest my head (and sometimes, my heart.)

Now that my work is done, I implore the artistic spirit of the following friends and partners-in-song, to go into the divining room and continue the dialogue:

Edzordzi Agbozo with Nana Asaase 

Nana Asaase (Philip Boakye Dua Oyinka) is a poet, writer and literary coach. His twitter handle is: @AsaaseNana

Edzordzi Agbozo with Offeibea Awuku
Offeibea Awuku, a poet and writer. Her facebook link is: http://facebook.com/nana.o.awuku

Edzordzi Agbozo with Chief Moomen
Chief Moomen is a poet, writer, tv producer, radio show host. His twitter handle is @ChiefMoomen

Friday, 21 March 2014

No New Name

Do not yet name me among the vulture clan
I still breathe the aroma of home

I am the tiger skin’s proverbial spots
Journeying into tomorrow
Holding yesterday in the right palm
Staying unwashed by the blazing rains of alien climes

Whenever Dzatugbui calls
Her miracle voice licks my tongue
Refreshing my voice
My voice that is haunted each day by foreign saliva
Whenever Wosekpo calls
The truth in her smile waters the planted cord
That links me to my earth,
Mending the fragmentation in the present snow-burns
Whenever Abena calls
The melodies in her eyes
Light the candle in my loins
Massaging every framework
To the point of a final libation to the god of innocence
Pleading to break the vow
Whenever Kafui, Dzigbordi and Selorm call
I go into memory-bank
Of childhood and the dreams of the present
Of our naivety about false ritualistic ecstasies

I must be home soon
But now, my land,
Do not name me among the vulture clan


Monday, 24 February 2014

Coffin at State House

There is a riddle in our soul
A proverbial totem of survival

Crocodile children went to the play-field
And fire maimed their homes
So they returned
To meet headless walls

Our cedi kneels
Before the shrine of global gods
Her value dashed to garbage can
Her flesh, de-fattened
Her destiny dangling
Like locomotive squirrel’s testicles

Our economic witches
Lost their eyes
And now
A new coffin lies at state house

We have known survival
But these headless walls
Threaten us into ghost-hood

Wednesday, 19 February 2014

A Dearth

Now I stand
Looking through the glass window
Holding a cup of cold water

Then the voice came:
You are on a foreign land.

What is in a self-exile
That maims the deeper self?
There is something in this journey
That takes the spirit from us,

Then the cup dropped

Splitting ALL its contents and ITSELF

Tuesday, 28 January 2014

Clan-root’s Demise

who sealed the mouth of  crocodile’s children,
Whatever prompted Kutsiami to boat you mid-duty
Blurred the diviners’ visions
And tamed the leopard-clan

Root of the clan,
They say
Crocodile children clamped you
On a gun’s noose
Watching watching
If you will shiver
As a Tuesday man of the leopard family
Your smile set fire to their dreams
So they pulled the trigger
Placed you on the dining table
For Salagatsi to feast upon

Death eats juicy hearts from our clan-house
But yours
Must appease Salagatsi’s eternal hunger
He has gone too far
Death swept too fast
Even seers were deaf to his lingo

Let death know that
It just touched a bee-gourd
With a left finger

The fire still burns

Your fire still burns