Hiking, the Eclectic Abstractions: Poems
by Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah
Hiking, the Eclectic Abstractions
The black Bible is his travelling book among the Seven Seas long the margins of compromise for the obnoxious acknowledgments
and everywhere he stops his feet with a scared look, as if he had forgotten to express his sweat and temper in a general feebleness of outward stiffness and composure, he leaves his body, unpleasantly rough, jarring to the senses and remains the obedience in the noon sea, we are both surprised to see ourselves coming higher up to the quantity of his luggage without knowing what to make for a hasty answer I have offered while staring in at the window drinking my hot coffee, I quail before your awful presence.
The sea dusts and whirlwinds, leaving
everything in blank and empty,
he goes into a trance of composure
and somehow he hears someone, whose voice is almost your strength,
giggling and hurrying up with
the Arcadian insignia in one hand,
he waits to hear more names,
which have no vowels to soil rags,
he allows his head hanging haplessly until
those shadows are reeling into a corner
are returned to their start with the halo, I have his heart in my mind and finish my coffee and myself for the natives, who lean over the great kite behind my schooner, I take every smile, a curious process of hesitation to whisper your forename and this is not half so bilious
and half hale and hearty when he grapes his
mouth in the handkerchief. Time and ice
melt away in the same direction more than one sense, he ignores a fresh mind for playing
the Infant stage to form a bridge
between credit for a man and his
energies untrammeled by precedent
as barrel thundering as he half falls
from unconscious conflict and neurosis,
almost a standard methods in a very
varied picture used for various crafts,
he asks for drinking water but cannot
take a sip, he flops and squirms on the floor,
his dreams are eaten up by a black corona light, I remain in Tahiti
for colours and shapes I have bought between polarities of good and bad.
Hawk with Halo
In the mid-air,
where heads are smouldering,
you are singing the soft and rough in contrast to the energetic rhythms of a temporal and spatial condensation of my life,
I filling the musical cadence in local costume
left behind in the meaningless spectres
by my late great grandfather.
Your voice is now arresting a deadly locution,
we the audience still waiting
to trace those collective words
from the gulf and beyond.
Your uncle after long interval
with physical existence
in the deepest slumber,
claps and we are teased by
old paddies and soldiers,
who carry trays full of cups,
the bird sits in an up draught.
The sky returns with its night colour which
is packed with stars and sulphur smelling,
their wet heads glistening in the early dew
are small, treated to become plenty for all, we are burred in fatigue,
your wings are in the bow. I try on your injunction for the three fools in the foundry to fix everything I hear, we dare not say with your indelible looks of regret and I wonder to turn my gloved hands to your forehand, I take three steps backward in the bald fluorescent light and you tie your cloth belt and spread your wings. I am really caught in something of the cultural works. I yield to the bend of your breathing.
The cloudstreet hums,
walls vibrate, tears drop from the metallic hardness of the distance between us, with an alarming speed,
rooms filled with sea currents,
we are filled with sickly smile.
Every parts of life floating across everything capture beyond unpredictable lurch,
everything cross the rough strip
and everything remains a trait of certain vibrations and insinuations, the house falls into a special version of afterimage, we are
lost in its weight.
the shape of things to come,
and your time has past thirty years,
we lie awake,
the blur of the water, everything remains imported confession,
sea waves come in your way,
a ray of moonlight
without shedding itself is all the feeling of guilty,
everything is looking like a urine sample.