Don't be like the Plantain tree
That rips it's leaves as though it has had a violent lover
Be like the Iroko tree
Tall and intimidating
As people sweat at its splendor
May they sweat at yours

The rainy season is at
The door once again,
And loneliness has
Brought me a new pillow,
But who is to defend
My repugnant soul?
Can it be the Gods?

Hear this! The rain has
Began knocking at my
Slammer door gradually,
Oh no, it is knocking
And wailing so heavily,
With his icy voice
Of storm and cold
Arresting my hearty dreams,
But I will retch at his smell
And hurry for my handkerchief,

Where is my lantern?
May be, the native doctor
Has the answer to the
Cylindrical jar containing
Her eternal juniper organs,
Indeed, it is my misfortune
To go about with the priest,
For even the child of
The priest even dies at noon,

Ah, I thought she was
Vigilant and ever-ready
To make the debtors
Chew the palm kernels,
But she became the
Portion of the exterior of
The *** that skin can cover,

I have lost my heaven,
Oh no, I have lost the
One whose neck is like a
Bunch of small-fingered plantain,
I have lost the whetstone
On which I sharpen
My thirsty sword to
Perform deeds of valour,

Let the Gods weep!
Let the ancestors wail!
Let the people of Africa,
Give me condolence of
The talking drums,
For their child is gone,
The wise woman who cut
Her thumb in order to get
A wise husband is dead,

Mother, the Okro full of
Seeds of children and literature,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
The toad likes water, but not
When the water is boiling,
Send me something
When someone is coming,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
You and I exchange gift.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com

this is the first time i ate
a watermelon, like i did today...
it's going way back
back to the times we
were apparently apes...
so there's this gorilla
sitting on a windowsill,
with diced watermelon pulp...
oh wait, what's in his bowl?
the outer-layer,
including the hard skin
of the watermelon...
    you're *******...
        he's eating that too?
what, ever see a gorilla
peel a banana to get a
      babushka jew-head out
from the outer layer?
(insinuating circumcision)
   gorilla eats the whole thing!
and he's sitting there,
  insinuating: fibre...
         excess chewing,
keeps the dentist away...
so between chewing on the outer
layer of the watermelon
(including the hard skin) -
he drops pieces of diced watermelon
pulp into his gob, to water
the chewing dynamic...
what? you do it with apples
and pears, and cherries, and grapes...
the gorilla says:
       fun experience...
       intermission of a gulp of beer...
it's hard to imagine a gorilla
being the size that he is,
            having the cullinary skills
   of saying: oi! oi!
     don't fry that plantain!
                       eat it raw!
half an hour it took him to chew
through the red pulp and the outer
layer...
       and he thought:
     ****... as painful on the jaws
as i might have chewed a gum
                                      for 2 hours.

A journey to the past
 
My spirit felt restless in pain
In drowning fear,tis heart's dream be slain
Souls of Love in tis world found few
My joy melt like early morn due
laid in bed my eyes search for sleep
memories of hatred and hurt made me weep
pains of past refused to let go
A feeling lost, to the end a journey slow
My heart longed to reach the past
Holding hard the joy to last
Times in my dreams i cry for thee
Only to be waken by darkness around me
I cried for the past to let me go
I seeketh the answers in starlights distant glow
many a thoughts and mayhem in tis mind
Tis a curse to my loved ones I bind
Lost are they from tis life
Fate a thief of joy in disguise
Tis heart tormented like a stormy night
I take my steps a journey in past to find some light
 
Words of my friend bought peace to my heart
to seek the answer a journey to start
my bag with cloth and food. a whistle to start 
A beast on rails steaming hot,my time machine to the past
Seated by the window.Fading concrete to fields green
the breeze on my face a journey begin to my dream
My thoughts travell back to the days of my childhood
with my father walking through the wood
his voice of wisdom close with nature
Ever to linger in my dreams of the future
through the rice field the silver brook
pictured in my heart a printed book
the sound of men and women with fruits to sell
wake me up from the memories spell
My time machine a familiar sound metal on wheel
the window my theater to the world like a movie reel
times i fell back to my memories past
Till I saw the familiar station in memories to last
I pick my bag and my heart with joy to beat
Will I find my memory among the familiar aroma of sweet meat

The night in the inn my sleep lost in journeys pain
With the hope of day break my past to gain
The sun in the morn yet to shine its ray
I start to the bus stop  a familiar way
decades past since i laid my foot here
yet the ways to my field so fimiliar
I walk towards the gate changed to a different name
Yet the house and trees stood the same
I wait for times few searching to find a soul of past
with none in sight I turned my back time changes fast
A voice I heard , A dream or a memories trick yet loud and clear
An old and graying man in my memories vague yet walking near
with the name my father calls his old eyes searching my face
Cry not my child ,I knew not tears hath covered my eyes
The old gardener decades eight remembers me his old eyes bright
His stride as of young familiar clothes washed to white
He held my arm strong and sure led me through the garden with memories ever
The old house stood its ground faded paint memories a burning fever
We sat down in an old familiar place the old man spoke of days old
My dreams etched in this house my heart with joy untold

His tales carried on of my father and family his love to the land
Tales of fishing in the brook and pains of honey bee sting,a painted picture by a magic wand
Time stood still the young had moved to city with lights bright
Yet with time their hearts dimmed and the ways of old faded out of sight
The old bike gleamed in the sun In tis I learnt my first lesson to cycle
we ride it through the trees green to the brook on the edge of fields circle
With my legs in water My I felt as child the days past yet never lost
The old man with stories fresh changing masters and rising cost
The sun burned hot in the noon yet through the filed a breeze so cool
The sweet fragrance of lemon my spirits soar tis to leave I am a fool
Lunch in plantain leaf spicy dish with meat the old man a better cook
Served with love with a proud words tis the son of his lord a child of the brook
An hour of cycle ride to the mountain mother with her silver tress
A water fall painted with rainbow on the rock drizzling droplets sprayed my dress
Hours I stood under it watch full eyes of the old man to him iam just a child
We walked and talked among the natures path the mountains call me to beauty wild
The day end with the sun sinking low we ride back with a breeze to follow
We sat to watch the fireflies glow tis must be eden my happiness flow
The days tiredness ebbing with the local brew tis in earth a heavens part
In his words I felt his love, TIs garden after death his spirit his heart

I start to return to the inn in the fire light tear drops shine
He held my hand with a promise to ask to return back in my days fine
My heart wants to utter words million yet in silence I stared
Yet I took his hand with a promise to keep an oath sacred
To the spirit of my father Ill come there again 
A love of an old gardener in his memory my heart remain
I walk back to the inn my spirit with joy boundless
To my friend I spoke yet my words scarce with smiles countless
I slept with a lightened heart with dreams without pain
Tis old gardner his love for the land a memory of a child to gain
The new begin my heart longed to see the old man one more time 
yet the call of the world and promises in tis heart chime
Time to pack my bag to board the machine to present The green flag wave and a whistle sound
My heart refuse to leave my dreams found
The life of the old man strong decades eight
A heart of gold who won the time passing fight
My promise to return to the garden of my childhood 
My vision to share it with the unfortunate of tis world
My spirits in peace my eyes watching the window of nature
My heart hopes for my dreams of the future

when i last met her
her ******* were bursting with seeds
her thighs plump as stems of plantain
and when in the December sun
she dried her hair behind the acacia
i dreamed of lying with her on the grass
drunk in the moaning song from her navel
till the evening drove us cold and old
and darkness stole her flesh from my eyes
and it's almost December again
as she walks with my hands in her
along the field after crop
just tugging my hand once to stop
delicately drawing from her breast
an Agfa snap of two unreal people
in the most unlikely place
looking awestruck into the lens
passing into the evening light
before leaving me halfway
of her cottage and a home.

I was on a plantain branch
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
She put her bangles on a rock
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
Glimpse of gold, shined my eyes
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
I took it and flew back home
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
A cry of fury trembling hut,
I wonder why she made that fuss.
With a bit of twinge I shout,
“One I took, three with you!”
Still her rage in frenzy mood,
Crowd is fanning flames to grow,
In my nest it shine and rest,
Golden bangles shining lust.
Then I went back looking around,
To watch the jokers in a run,
But my eyes in surprise hunt,
The bustle of hut in deep slumber.
Oh! Again this gold will turn
me a golden queen of crows.
Another bangle on the rock,
I took it and flew back home.
What a foolish bird I’m!
Fallen on their tricky trap.
They found my nest and climbed up tree,
My two bangles went with them.

Sailing away on a luxury liner
Packing your bags and eloping to China
Building a castle and digging a moat
These are all things you can't do with a goat

Any assortment of wrapping and bagging
Over the fireplace or under the lagging
In your pyjamas, in Tupperware boxes
These are all places that irritate foxes

An onion, a carrot, a plantain or mango
A tikka kebab and a bottle of tango
A handful of pencils, a flaming baton
These are all things that won't fit in a swan

Pet shops and grocers and stationary suppliers
Takeaways, rivers and all kinds of fires
P&O; cruises, kebab shops, IKEA
These are all places I'm not allowed near...

**

the blood on this dental floss is muito rico!
i must write all about it;
that’ll show em.

{espero!}

but what will she think of it?
i think i'd like to be stuck to her,
like a plantain peel on a naked shore.
two giggling morons
under a chocolate moon.

{suspiro...}

yet i’m stuck in didactic verse.
in a winterland.
knitting sonnets about
oral hygiene
and shaky hands.

back in bed now,
the words start to come together:
“Scatter my ashes in Dublin, Ohio
  or the Bronx Zoo!"

I’m all over the place this morning.

Fearing the chronic angers of that house,
pushing every feeling out
The stool, standing tall, under my feat, the seat
Holding me high, eye to eye, with my Father’s
My bed, safety lately, where I’d rather be, alone/

The rocking chair creaks as
Plantain chips crackle and wreak in an oil sheet.
Table cover creased, arrangements around
The feast. The yelling begins and will not cease.

And small hands folded in lap, while
Tears leak out both eyes, slowly
on the right and left cheek, left to weep.
Wanting so much to move,
and rain outside fell too.

I dreamt a dream of child soldiers and blood
A boy small and stout laying motionless on the grass
His little body covered by plantain leaves
His shoes swallowed by debris
The songs of the ancestors long forgotten as their tune is swallowed by the cry of battle and ******.
Nameless boys and innocent stolen girls
Graves with no tombstones
And commanders with no rules
This is war

the last time I wrote my hair was shorter,
copper, colourful and vivid.
I wait because that’s what I was taught to do;
you bleed until what you crave consumes you.
until your head is afflicted by the fervid, dark feelings.
when I crawl around my every day, I find pieces of you.
in plantain chips and Plato.
in wool coats and white coffee mugs.
it's impossible to tear myself from you.

Anemone,
Aubrieta
& Aster.
A life so precious,
A life so spacious.

Cosmos,
Cyclamen
& Crocus.
Call me when your ready,
Call me when it gets messy.

Ground Ivy,
Greater plantain
& Garlic Mustard.
Give me some love,
Give me everything above.

Our garden has turned
to awful melodies
of screams and sounds
that I once heard
as rhymes and
beautiful notes.

I never knew,
something so negative
could feel so positive.

Ce n'était, l'an passé, qu'une enfant blanche et blonde
Dont l'œil bleu, transparent et calme comme l'onde
Du lac qui réfléchit le ciel riant d'été,
N'exprimait que bonheur et naïve gaîté.

Que j'aimais dans le parc la voir sur la pelouse
Parmi ses jeunes sœurs courir, voler, jalouse
D'arriver la première ! Avec grâce les vents
Berçaient de ses cheveux les longs anneaux mouvants ;
Son écharpe d'azur se jouait autour d'elle
Par la course agitée, et, souvent infidèle,
Trahissait une épaule au contour gracieux,
Un sein déjà gonflé, trésor mystérieux,
Un col éblouissant de fraîcheur, dont l'albâtre
Sous la peau laisse voir une veine bleuâtre.
- Dans son petit jardin que j'aimais à la voir
À grand'peine portant un léger arrosoir,
Distribuer en pluie, à ses fleurs desséchées
Par la chaleur du jour, et vers le sol penchées,
Une eau douce et limpide ; à ses oiseaux ravis,
Des tiges de plantain, des grains de chènevis !...

C'est une jeune fille à présent blanche et blonde,
La même ; mais l'œil bleu, jadis pur comme l'onde
Du lac qui réfléchit le ciel riant d'été,
N'exprime plus bonheur et naïve gaîté.

I try to learn one or two every year.
Plantain, mullein, chicory.
I try to learn some usefulness.
Some nice lady told me the other day
That she could never learn medicinal plants.
It seems she had never considered
Learning them one at a time.
I have to remember to learn the name
Of that **** that spits needles at me
When I get too close

i mean, that **** is weirder than the scots deep-frying chocolate bars (mars, mianly, even though i think snikers would taste better), or slices of pizza; yeah, and they say: euro-trash... how much more ****** can you get?! i don't even want to know what the irish culinary fetish is; it's enough knowing that the thai like deep-frying locust.

i never understood it, this english "thing",
there is probably no nation in the world that has
a compulsion to mix two carbohydrate heavyweights...
heavyweights?
         pasta... bread... rice...
                 crisps...
          so i was reading the yesterday's newspaper
and this recipe was included in the magazine:
      pasta with beans and pesto...
sounds good enough...
but i read into the recipe...
          400 grams of linguine,
                       300 grams green beans,
        200 millitres basil pesto
                    freshly grated parmesan...
and then it hit me:             *1 large potato cut into
                     1 centimetre cubes...
    but now i'd be asking americans to: not bother
getting a passport...
      in school i watched the english lodge crisps
         into sandwitches...
     this is the most oddball of all current nations...
who the **** combines two heavyweight carbohydrates?
they even have this standard of lodging chips
    into buns...
               like my father once noticed on the building
site, this black guy, stuffing a banana peanut-butter
            and some bacon into a sandwitch...
              fair enough if you lodge a plantain into
the mix... but a banana?
              about as weird as the english
                     using crisps + bread... or pasta + potato.
having a glimpse at this pratice,
seems more fascinating, than, say, spotting a yeti.

Stray dogs
Roam in the night
Looking for food
Looking for water
Maybe they too roam across my mind.
From San Juan
The saint feast parade spreads
Across the isle of enchantment.
(As their license plates claim)
Remember your sunscreen
As you are in the belt of Cancer
Even as the weather shifts
Dynamically
Hour to hour
Minute to minute
Day to day.
I came here to challenge the waves
But they challenged me instead
And I walked away
Battered
And ******
But balanced.
I had time to consider the plantain
And that it seems to be used in
Everything.
I roamed the streets of San Juan
In between their three towering
Sea kings
Guarding the city
For centuries.
Oh San Juan!
Jewel of the Americas
Respectfully following
the code of the indies
For 500 years you have stood
Defeated once
But unconquered.
(I think theres a lesson in that)
I kissed the freshwater
In the forest of the Anvil
And tread precariously amongst
the stones
Amidst graffitied groves of bamboo
And the calls of coqui.
So Puerto Rico,
With your history,
Your culture,
Your food,
Your beauty,
My only question is
Why arent you a state?
But then I remember
That the president is racist
And full of hate.
But I want you one day
To fully join us
In the flawed
But proud
U S of A
Stray dogs
Roam in the night
And maybe
Stray dogs will follow me home.

1 million miles per hour
Faster then China
Quicker hands then Bun'Dee
Mighty than USA
More arms then Putin's Russia
This Zacks World
Forget Cody
Mac G & **** Bean
Izm isnt... plantain
More power then Jesus or God's
A M.A.D. Man mutually assured
White Man Super Powers

My D Kryptonite

Blow these hoes *** to smitherines
Call me King Z
Now Bow!!!
P.O.W.
proudly
Alienated Aryan Prophetical
Zzz zzz

you know, two doors down,
a bunch of youthful sikhs are having
a weener get together party,
sounds like friday at the mosque:
no women allowed;
and they're standing there in
the garden, smoking joints,
laughing & trivialising,
**** on the read: i call them.

and there's me, little ol' me,
solving a sudoku puzzle and drinking
some *** on the side, while listening
to the ultimate template for "m.g.t.o.w.",
and thinking, am i part of this movement,
to be the reversal cartesian dynamic
that hasn't kicked in?

vocals on gorgorath,
and the story behind it...
i see hell as silence,
mainly? no throne of god,
nor hallelujah angels...
i have to make this pig latin...

ego videre infernum qua silentium

  and i do... see hell as silence:

   videre infernum qua silentium...

heaven?

      rephrasing: audio... for pedantic
***** involved.

so i have thus: sikh party two doors
down,
i don't mind them...
    i'm sure as ****, the fan gets involved,
i start to gurgle the brew,
i tilt my head back, with a neck still
intact..
  and gurgle the brew...
        mind you, these neighbours killed
my cat...
               i'm not begging, i'm not asking
for a response, i'm just saying...
  what happened, happened,
    i have the north winds to attest to...
no sikh is going into my house
and say: make us a kuppah...
no, *******, turn your turban cloth into
a napkin, and have
your jimmy-jimmy daal....
you ******* idiot... oh? it didn't translate?
how about i voodoo my cat's remains
in a woogie-boogie promise
of: the haunted house?

     i **** as hell digged up a grave,
you "think" i'm about to joke?
let me fiddle with my nose for a bit...
you know how disrespect for humans
is born? when the "idiot" disrespects
the non-edible, petted forms of animal...

you make grievances with
non-edible pieces of meat
that men are associated with...
you're asking for the name of the seasons,
plus a choir of angels to untie you;
boo-shakalak-kee-sha!
  what did i find?
these turban brigadiers, these
blue indian, these pakis...
they have only one motto:
strength in numbers...
    but when they hear a white boy,
gurgling alcohol out of the window,
as if imitating drowning,
tilting his head back giving the perfect:
macaw signing in the sea...
these olive skinned virgins either play
*****, or call for backup "plans"...

*** yer plantain, but not yer bananas:
sure short, a ******* wake
across the whole of the caribbean...
called the havana autumn:
lost leaves, dry dung,
    monkey 'ave a throw's worth
of a bullet 'andy.

what? you gunn'ah **** on the pineapples
any'who? ******* will,
i'll be right there,
shitstorming your *** whether
there's an irma or her **** jose -
***** i'll witch-broom your ***
right off with a woop, telling my
neighbours: i've done so;

and yes, the internet is not a cul de sac,
you don't get to play
radio 4's the archers here...
sorry, i was wishful thinking for a sitcom
too... turns out...
    the phonebook is exponential in size,
but also too erratic in terms of
fluidity / fluctuation of capitalised on
use.

We stare into the ceiling without looking at each other

Slowly you place your hands between my legs of burning desire,

I saw a portrait of your youth, as the silence engulf us:

My guilty pleasure, your disobedient hands,  

In a few hours you will become a man.

I didn’t cause this silence; our hearts were entwining (:)



My guilty pleasure, the portrait of your youth

A mother’s warmth, or just a cougar fantasy

Who made all the rules, society or us



The hearts asked for pleasure first,  

Then comes the sacrament of confession.  

my African prince of Lloren, Kwara, my vision



I will not accept that one and one should be two

A double plantain so jointly attached is still one

Love is not a substance, but at times comes off as one.

Therefore, from this day forward

I will treat love like a commodity  

Basis facts my guilty pleasure, your disobedient hands

Manly as ever, one day you will be my man. (:)  

As we walk the sandy beaches of Togo:

Just remember, one plus one doesn't add to two:

The bus driver is only doing his job-



he says i am out of my zone



come on mate- take a look at the rain-



i just want to get home



never mind- its not too far to walk



as this sudden shower comes steaming down



London Bus lookin all shiny red new in the rain.



so i take cover and hudde on the pavement



and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt



,washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-



search and return to the gushing thames



in drab doorway i see pregnant mother



with dripped make-up and cigarette-



a bloke runs past into the Tote-



theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol



The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-



pumpin out da reggae sound all round



an chillin there inside snug



an outside da rain drippin down.



headless wooden mannequins in windows



indifferent and dead to the scene



model outdated displays



of yesteryears east end Fashion



The screech -grind -halt-



of braking trucks and cars



taxis and buses



and halt heave hum, go off and on



phrases like jazz



emitted from the traffic hissing



on the wet steam road



passing the plain low gates



and walls of modest eastend brick



Little pockets of Istanbul-



vending exotic skewered tastes



empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-



sickly sweet old vegetable odours



curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes



- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,



Karla, Kassava and Jamaican mangoes



Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple p'taters



an mumble she grumble onward, homeward



past the asian butcher selling cows feet



fifty nine pence for two



sad looking cadavers of chickens



comically -hung by their feet



boney alien headless n sad



and blood spurted and smeared



and dried on a cardboard box-



so rich an odour of spice and death-



what words to use



yams and hams and potted jams



shelves stacked with imported cans



grinding horror of the butchers blade



splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box.



brown Black plantain bananas-



fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-



kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-



Illegible torn bills and posters on posts



walls and naked wooden doors



of cracked paint peeling in the rain



Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins



scattered uprooted far travelled communities



stirred in the stew of this eclectic london Crucible



shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-



an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing



twins to the child support centre-



wishin she'd married a bloke with money



north africans in bright kaftans



saunter surreally in the full cool, attitude of summer



somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters



seem more misplaced in this scene-



people with gaunt girocheque expressions



huddled in Pub over pints



awaiting the Worlds End



To my left number plates while you wait



keys cut school of motoring special rates



then a right into finsbury station out f te rain



and the scene fades.