A Cocktail of Loves in Poems, Prose and Some.//…alL ‘thrObs deserVe onE…!

They say it is the month of Love: February. Today: the exact day in said month.

Among other things, I like to think of, to call myself a Lover of Love. And, so, Love has always been in generous doses, been a healthy deal here at Nu kɛ Hulu (Water and Sun).

And because there should be no such thing as too much Love, because too much true Love should never hurt anyone, I bring you, Reader Dear, a cocktail of Love pieces…

A cocktail – poetry, prose, prose-fiction, creative non-fiction:

*       *       *

*

What for?

For what Thing have oaths been broken, laws come to no use, paradises been lost, selves ceased to be, wars raged and been waged, worlds toppled over and feuds fueled or even, been started?

What same Thing will humankind – with alL their possessions and statuses – never tire of hearing,of experiencing, of giving and if granted, never tire of receiving in portions and folds, once and again and over and all again?

LoveCokctail 3

Picture mine: After a Sunday church service –  in front of my home door, somewhere in Accra.Ghana; Sunday, September 16, 2018

For what one Thing have yokes been broken, wounds been bound, hearts known healing, shores been recovered, worlds bloomed anew, and collective tongues found or even, been first formed?

What single Thing have poem upon story and many a song been made and continue to be made for and about – all of which are – and will never grow stale and silent in the ears and very often, in the very soul of humankind?

For what?

 

II  *

Consummation by Aisha Nelson

the barrier
falls flat
still and stale

the wall
grinds into clots
of grit and water
just by a drizzle
not rain

the bud
flaunts its secrets
of spikes and flesh
due to a tickle
of dew

LoveCokctail 4

Picture mine: At a night ceremony, an anniversary –  Dansoman, Accra.Ghana; Saturday, November 17, 2018

blood-frothed thrObs of passion
scent-strung beads of sweat

And behold
you are not ashamed
not impregnable

But stand naked
vulnerable
in love

 

 

III  *

…But some Love can be like that.

Some Love can cry and work Itself into a kind of death, and yet, and yet when It gets all that It has been longing and dying for, all on platter after forever a platter and with every necessary accessory, what will this Love do?

It will go cold or comatose or worse at the sudden getting and having of all these Its heart-shredding, soul-gorging desires.

LoveCokctail 5

Picture mine: At a beach to reflect, write and such –  around Labadi, Accra.Ghana; Sunday, December 2, 2018.

It will go mute and numb with the wonder of prayers that get answered with such jarring humour and dramatic flourish; with the fear of how It came to deserVe this wondrous giving; with stubborn hesitation of how-in-God’s-universe It could have been worthy of such giving, such generous return of a meager love It even barely gave.

And when this Love, some Love does get over Its mute and numb, It plays too shy or too afraid or too careful or too careful and too afraid and too shy to let the first words gather form in Its mind, put on soul in Its heart, roll down Its tongue, slip out of Its mouth…

Is some Love not like that?

 

IV  *

CloudYou! – #TheSeedling

water
has curious personality

sun
is filtered-fine goodness

corn
needs no kneading

fish
sates at mere sight

LoveCokctail 6

Picture mine: On my way to go meet up and dine with the L.O.V.E. called Mother –  the high and clear blue skies somewhere in Accra.Ghana; Sunday, September 30, 2018

and
you should have been

the fun, the
blue hue
in that cloud

the onE right
there, yes

the One…

 

V  *

…Yoofi had been praying about Ewurasi since since. Perhaps, Prayer was all he did. Either he always failed at Watching or he would not even know what it is.

And when he thought about it all, he realized Ewurasi had meant something by all those little, sometimes silly, gestures:

Yoofi always saw Ewurasi off after each church service, right to her house gate. Many times, he turned around and found her still standing, watching his back as he went. Yoofi only smiled and waved Ewurasi another goodbye. Always.

Yoofi and Ewurasi did hold hands, sometimes. But thrice their hands accidentally brushed each other’s. Something not-exactly-odd about this made Ewurasi tremble with a curious quiver in her breathing. The carnal hung thick and fat in the air between them. Ewurasi’s face fell with a shame that did not seem to belong to her. Yoofi cleared his throat, with careful, measured intent. His lips flattened and widened until they lost every semblance of a curve. His cheeks thinned over the beautiful roundness of his jaw bones. Yoofi cleared his throat again, relaxed the flesh on his face and soon, said carnality, the block of tension, sublimed.

Yoofi and Ewurasi shared many things – sometimes, very personal things. Twice, he gave Ewurasi his handkerchief. Ewurasi washed, ironed, perfumed and returned it to him. Yoofi only raised his brows at what he probably thought was a doubly lame surprise. A contrived smile and a blunt ‘Thank you’, and Yoofi walked away.

LoveCokctail 7

Picture mine: After a Sunday church service –  in front of my home door, somewhere in Accra.Ghana; Sunday, September 16, 2018

Yoofi and Ewurasi talked a lot together. Once she told a joke about how some Christian brother tried proposing to a sister:

‘Sister, I really really want to be there with you’, said the brother, a little too boldly.

‘Where is there?’

‘There. I mean there…’ he simply reiterated.

The sister, she feared that the brother would think her un-spiritual to have forgotten all about it. Nervous, she quickened her pace, but not without redeeming her reputation – saving the face of her spirituality.

‘Oh, sorry! You mean the upcoming revival. Sure, it will be powerful. It will be mega. I will see you there, right? So yes, I will see you. There.’

In the end, Ewurasi was hurt, more than for just sharing this joke. She had her reasons. And Yoofi did not find the joke funny. He could not find its crust. He too had his reasons. Ewurasi felt the joke was out of place. She felt like the sister in the joke. And she could not tell if Yoofi thought her – too – un-spiritual after all or very silly or slyly suggestive. Or all of these. Or more and worse.

As for Yoofi, the joke scratched a delicate part of him about his inaction – or was it silence? For he called Ewurasi many sweet names and walked and talked with her many times over. Yoofi told Ewurasi his dreams – his wishes and revelations and everything in between – but Yoofi never said to Ewurasi the three magic words, together, and in the correct order:

Ilove and you.

*

L.O.V.E!,
As always,
Aisha.

Thursday, 14th February, 2019; Dansoman, Accra Ghana.

 

LoveCokctail 8

Picture mine: At a beach to reflect, write and such –  around Labadi, Accra.Ghana; Sunday, December 2, 2018.

CloudYOU! – #TheHarvest (Part 9:End)

This poem is the eighth and last in my CloudYOU! series. Learn more about the series in the Introduction. Read the firstsecondthirdfourth , fifthsixth and seventh poems. 

***

 …and for *Ehanom…

the
day before
today, I watched One
Day, perhaps, another
time too many. I don’t
remember much of
today’s corn and fish but I
still have the taste of the
millet and milk in my mouth,
perhaps, again, because
it’s the last…They say

cloudyou ehanom canoe and gh flag

Photo mine. For the First and Best in the Detail; For this Love and Place, called Ghana – and Beyond…: fishing nets on a sea bridge at the beach somewhere around the Lighthouse, Sempe , and the Brazil House of the Tabom People, all of Ga Mashi, (British) Accra. Circa September 2017.

the
day after today
is the last of one bundle of a
time and season – a Year, they
call it. I can’t tell
much of what that should
mean because I’ve survived, thrived
many times – much seasons,
much years; thrived many times of
many famines – such fates,
such lots – of You in many of

the
days of this dying year, this yet
another ending of a season…The list of
famines – the lots and fates – of You: the
generous and folds of your smile, the
beauty-s and butts of our jokes and oh!
the hues and blues of

cloudyou ehanom fishing nets and canoes on coast line

Photo mine. Harvest (and) After Harvest: fishing nets on a sea bridge at the beach somewhere around the Lighthouse, Sempe , and the Brazil House of the Tabom People, all of Ga Mashi, (British) Accra. Circa September 2017.

the
Cloud that you are
coming to mind,
coming to me, in
times and faces, in
thoughts and twirls, in
turns and shapes, in
things and places I never
could have gone asking for,
could have been prepared for. and see!

the
calculated madness, the
intelligent folly, the
uncomplicated Truth that
I am still at *this place, at
this time of harvest, and still
not sure, not knowing
anything at all about wanting
to be cured
of You
of You
of You
of You
of You

***

Love,

AishaLovesToo.

– Wednesday, 4th July 2018; North Kaneshie, Accra.

*Ehanom means ‘this place’ in Akan, Twi.

**An earlier version of this poem first appeared on Facebook page.

CloudYOU! – #TheFruition (Part 8)

This poem is the seventh in my CloudYOU! series. Learn more about the series in the Introduction. Read the firstsecondthirdfourth , fifth and sixth poems. 

You
know I did
not, could not
have forgotten to write
the day before today.

You
know that too well, I
know.

Life – corn and fish
and, and well, and
You – happened.

feet and heart shape twig

Picture mine: A heart-tied stick I chanced on, while on a trip to selected locations in the Eastern Region of Ghana. The specific location here is a footpath to one newly discovered waterfall – Akaa Falls – which is still being developed as a tourist site. –– Thursday, 14th June, 2018.

Yes, Life happened again
with the character that salt is
with the personality that is pepper’s
with the quiet confidence of sun
with the simple immensity of water

and

with You
with You
with You
with You
with You…

*

Love,

AishaLovesToo.

– Tuesday, 3rd July 2018; North Kaneshie, Accra.

*An earlier version of this poem first appeared on my Facebook page.

CloudYOU! – #TheBlossom (Part 7)

This poem is the sixth in my CloudYOU! series. Learn more about the series in the Introduction. Read the first, second, third, fourth and fifth poems from the previous posts.

 

The day before today, the day

I made
talk of the cream and soft crack of corn
with old okra and fine fish,
talk of the grit of grain in the thick of milk,

I slipped
in and out of sleep,
with thoughts of You,
with reads of Lahiri – but mostly
with of thoughts and loves of You –
wafting in and around my head.

I don’t
know why I write today but

I do
know You should know
nothing much has changed,

31235049_1811918348860656_6164188156150153216_n

Picture mine: The sky with a coconut tree close by, a roof and a mango tree behind it, a telecommunication ‘plant’ standing farther and too tall and straight, and iron rods jutting out of a building-in-progress.  –– Wednesday, 11th April, 2018.

nothing that
You or a Cloud
with the scent of water, if not
a cup pouring over with same

nothing that
You or a Cloud
with the break of sun, if not
the shine and gold of same

nothing that
You or a Cloud
with a hue that is blue and
true and just You

nothing that
these three or two
cannot easily solve,
cannot freely give.

 

*

Love,

AishaLovesToo.

– Tuesday, 29 May 2018; North Kaneshie, Accra.

*An earlier version of this poem first appeared on Facebook page.

CloudYOU! – #TheBud (Part 6)

This poem is the fifth in my CloudYOU! series. Learn more about the series in the Introduction. Read the first, second, third, and fourth poems from the previous posts. 

 

the day before this new one was long and soft with
Water. corn and fish happened, in parts. long and
soft with soup with okra – yes, with okra in the mix.
soft and long with grains – in granules, in milk. soft
and long with greens with flesh, texture and
character thick with salt and age and better

but
I digress: I write today to say
that the long and soft of yesterday
was well met with the plenty of Sun
and enough – just enough, no more
than enough

Blue. this new
day is not spent –
not fully spent –
yet, but

 

30530958_1798411570211334_2764287461906448384_n

Picture mineI, overlooking the part of Assokoro (Abuja, Nigeria) where I was, from my hotel room, during my participation in the West Africa Story Making Workshop, hosted by the British Council and facilitated by African Story Book, an initiative of Saide. – Sunday, 11th March 2018.

I am here, wondering
why the sun is playing
shy with its shine,
wondering when,
wondering whether

You
will come, whether Cloud and Blue
will come colour things up – everything.
Every. Thing. up – today. meanwhile, and

while Sun still lasts, I go
out to drink Its fluid gold
and round warmth – for as for
Water, It always finds Its way…

 

 

*

Love,

AishaLovesToo.

– Thursday, 26 April 2018; North Kaneshie, Accra.

*An earlier version of this poem first appeared on Facebook page.

 

CloudYOU! – #TheSeedling (Part 4)

This poem is the third in my CloudYOU! series. Learn more about the series in the Introduction. Read the first and second poems from the previous posts. 

water
has curious personality

sun
is filtered-fine goodness

corn
needs no kneading

fish
sates at mere sight

Accra London Market

Photo mine. A scene at the London Market, around the Korle Lagoon, Bukom and James Town, all of Ga Mashi or British Accra.                            Circa May 2017.

and
you should have been

the fun, the
blue hue
in that cloud

the one right
there, yes

the One…

 

*

Love,

AishaLovesToo.

– Monday, 16 April 2018; North Kaneshie, Accra.

*An earlier version of this poem first appeared on my Facebook page.

CloudYOU! – #ThePlant (Part 5)

This poem is the fourth in my CloudYOU! series. Learn more about the series in the Introduction. Read the first, second and third poems. 

 

the day before this new one
I saw and heard and tasted
You everywhere I turned
yes, again

but that is not
why I write
today too
about you.

the night before this coming one
I was wondering if I want, if I
can count You among my many
coming new mornings

13912409_1186836691368828_5519135376050041094_n

Photo mine. Dusk at the beach somewhere in between the Lighthouse and Sempe, both in Ga Mashi, Accra Central, Ghana. Circa September 2017.

or the
quartered, minced
hearts of yore.

the day before this new day
I had to pinch and pain myself
with the kind of cloud that
You are, that You are

threatening
to remain
to me.

 

*

Love,

AishaLovesToo.

– Monday, 16 April 2018; North Kaneshie, Accra.

*An earlier version of this poem first appeared on my Facebook page.

CloudYOU! – #TheSprout (Part 2)

*This poem is the first in my CloudYOU! poetry series. Learn more about the series in the Introduction

 

…and tonight too, your
name, you – all of
you – are

the cloud caught
high and heavy in
my head, my heart.

the cloud that
abides but is
yet to let down, shed
its rain…yes, rain.
like water. like dew.
generous, in flood.

Sea Accra Dusk

Photo mine. Dusk at the beach somewhere in between the Lighthouse and Sempe, both in Ga Mashi, Accra Central, Ghana.                               Circa September 2017.

and tonight too, moonshine
is still no sunlight. the soaked
sponge scraps sore. for once,

words threaten

to fail. corn bites before it
fills. presence is distant. fish is
funny. muse-ic plays shy and
dull…and…well, You still are

that cloud.
just like that.
tonight too.

 

Love,

AishaLovesToo.

– Friday, 3rd March 2018; North Kaneshie, Accra.

 

*This poem first appeared on my Facebook account on 23rd November, 2017.

 

 

 

CloudYOU! – The Introduction (Part 1)

I have always been careful about professing my love for Love Poems, both as a reader and writer of poems. And more. I have written to explain one time and at another and again and again about this.

I would later suggest a few Verse-ions of Love – not Love Poems – and quite recently, I wrote to appreciate Love in Four Persons I have come to, and continue to cherish.

While doing the thinking and the writing about my reluctance to Love Poems, I learnt more than a few things about myself: the how-s and why-s of the what-s, the things, I think about. The Psychology – a subject I love very much – of it all.

But I digress.

Late last year, I suffered and enjoyed a bout and a thrill of writing poems, poems which once again, I will be careful to call Love Poems.

This is how the thrill-bout happened:

  1. I randomly open my Facebook account and meet the eternal question, ‘What is on your mind?’ where my next status update should be.
  2. I think of what to write. I mean, I think of what Facebook is asking me. For the very first bout, the first poem of what will later be the first in a series, I was thinking of Someone, someone specific. This was on 23rd November 2017,  some time after nine in the night. (The last in the series happened on 30th December 2017.) The poems that poured after this first one had a mind and method of their own. That is, I needed not have the said Someone in mind before I wrote them.
  3. I write, free and as fast as my phone’s keypad and its text prediction, as fast and easily as my fingers and my typing pace can allow. I write, the words coming in drops and shots, dribbles, puddles, and sometimes pouring too fast for my mind to assign moulds to, and for my fingers to put down before the words gel and cake on on the phone screen. The words came to me, far too willing and freely.

    CloudYOU! Dusk.

    Photo mine. Dusk. A small town not far from Lapaz, in Accra, Ghana. Circa 2014.

  4. I pause, sometimes, to do very little editing — like correcting spelling errors and replacing words and such with others. At other times, there was no editing. Only more of versification,  that is, packing words and punctuation into lines — arranging fragments and whole units of thoughts into lines and stanzas or verses.
  5. If there is no slip in my use of the technology, I touch the POST button  when the stream of words cut, albeit with a discernible sense of closure. And it is ready to go, more raw than parboiled. The poem, just as it is. If slip happened — and it often did, for some poems — I would re-write (not re-type) the whole poem from a near zero-remembrance… Because I often tell myself that I have no talent for memorizing things, things including poems, even my poems, especially my own poems?
  6. Poem then loads. Then Poem goes up and public.
  7. Poem is posted!

The immediacy and urgency with which the poems happened to me, the solid and presence of the soul with which they came to me, the feel of freedom and light which followed my clicking the POST button on Facebook…

These. And more. I love. A vast lot. These.

It could be that things happened the way they did because I was in Love. Like actually, literally, in Love. Or because I thought I was in Love. Or I was only in Love with being in Love. Or because Love was falling in Itself with me. Maybe (not).

But if this experience is one of many things Love can do, one of many ways Love can come to anyone, and a writer in particular, then yes, I love Love (too). And I want Love coming my way more often. This way. Or any other way — Verse-ions, Persons, Other(s) — that Love chooses.

And I still can’t really explain why and how I settled on CloudYOU! as the title for the whole series. I say ‘I can’t really explain’ because cloud is not the only motif in many of the poems. Because there were others like corn and okro and fish and even water and sun. Because I gave each poem, in the time order in which it happened and poured, a #HashTag — more of a Name-Tag — of a stage in a plant’s growth. Such that, the series began with #Sprout, went through #Blossom, and ended with #Harvest.

I do expect, some day, that I be(come) more relaxed and reckless, less careful and calculating in professing my love for the kind of poems categorized as, or bluntly called Love Poems. And this time, not only as a Reader and a Writer and perhaps, Teacher too, but also as a Lover, and as every-One one of the Wonders about and inside the Magic called Aisha Nelson. Me.

So on this note, an excerpt from one of the poems in the series called:

CloudYOU!

I

sought and saw you in all, around me.
thought about you.
wove fine futures of us, around you.
dreamed about you.
crowned you

king…

 

Love,

AishaWrites. 

– Thursday, 1st March 2018; Dansoman, Accra.