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.


Shadows follow

the shape of things to come,


and your time has past thirty years,

we lie awake,



forthcoming changes,


everything through

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.




















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