Tuesday, 19 May 2015

Funeral for Hope


In every beginning is an end
In every end is a beginning

We shall keep our breath under our eyelids

We saw green trees melt into ashes
The mid-day rain washed memories
Damped them where rotten shadows
Once upon a pride, sold cleavages for praise;

On which face shall we smile
When the last offspring of hope
Was found, a skeleton, in a rubbish can
Behind our house of dreams
Where we erected flags to impregnate desire?

We shall lay his skeleton in state
For despair and stress to pay homage
We shall mummify it with ashes
And inter it among the daffodils in our backyard
Wait for moons to see it resurrect

For now, it will be shameful
To borrow someone’s face for funeral
Though ours is bereaved of tears
For now, we shall keep our breath
Under constant watch against thieves and cannibals

20.05.2015

Monday, 30 March 2015

Memory


Last evening I went on pilgrimage
To Moholt cemetery

I planted a flower on your name
Hoping your memory
Waters and petals it into
The beauty you denied our world
At sunbirth

And I recalled
How, one day,
You emitted hope from your smiles
Singing away all doubts and all pains
And your voice became the libation
In a gourd of sacrifice

The rhythm of your waist beads
That provoked warriors into battle dances
And the mountain you carry behind you
That teased away the celibate priest on the other street
Are all now but eaten by termites

I shall come this way again
With you firmly rooted
In the backyard of my memory


Wednesday, 21 January 2015

Shakti




Shakti; the clash of lightning, shining through the soul
Let people take away from me food and air
But if you are taken away
I start to die

Your lips my weakness
They shoot sunrays into my heart
And your hips put to shame
The Pacific Popcorn Flower,
Your eyes and the moon are twins
Your eyes magnetise than Jupiter’s magnetosphere

Like the hurricane
You destroy all beauties in your sight
What are rubies before you?
The clothing of a street beggar

The longest distance between us
Is the sound of our breath!
We are two hearts; Glued with the honey

Invade me with your lips
Stab me with your tongue
Pierce me with your fingers
And let my rod penetrate
The garden between your legs;
Leaving each other
Wanting more of every second,
And remain imprisoned until

Our stars lead us home

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

Symphony





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


17.3.14