Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah: 3 Poems

The Swing & the Fury

I write my life scattered about in lines

& stitch them together as midlife crisis.

The first line is a fishbone, covered by two cottony puffs from white hair,

snarling above a cornet, I slow down its tune among the motorcyclists

I’m of them to pass the dairy farm

& discuss arthritis from couch to a ladder.

I remember all the strays

you’ve included to manage the lowest rung of a leg.

The second line almost a baby equipment

& that requires assistances from the sisters,

I settle in the back seat, waiting to see in the mirror

how the heart beat springs up & down from your South to my North,

shaped on the anvil with sugar sprinkles,

still under the summer heat

& cherry blossoms hang from the sky,

open weeks are zipped with your breath.

At this dead heat,

to pay the next death duty

for debris,

I debug the cancer

from the cactus wounds

with your fingers making numb.

The furthest corner of this room

is just a frown furrowing your brow,

I take the fury on your face

& fuse with the bones of the spine together,

showing a brilliant future

in the front through the dark corridor.

The third line remains the surface underneath, the glass is full to the brim.

I keep the brine

for a very agreeable weather

& that’s why I’m not hurt outside their dairy products.

In Rome I make a long list, age-old customs,

you stare at it aghast,

I’ve nothing against people making money

& paying taxes on it

for very tall for their age.

This mound is clad among groups of people in heating allowance.



is the most gift

& ordinary thing.

I’ve wrapped with your voice

beneath the ruins

& above

the first lemma we compose

like a yam tuber.

Some things almost the symbols in K, L, M, etc, are

between our vector spaces, your wife proofs

with my corollary right

against any Renaissance pigments

on the walls or from the ceilings, we remain silence before the headlights

during Labour Day. Aiming straight

at the crag

& seizing your moment

blundering down the aisle,

hands are folded, days are rushed away

up the corridor to complete the triangles

for this trench.

It’s quieter there though you clench your fists

built around a circuitous route to avoid the hill centre.

You DIY without all this hassle at work,

DJ does his chance by just standing there –

doing something!

I consider this old chrysalis struggling to be christened

when chrome handles glisten with our sweat,

the visitors begin to filter into the hall,

holding water from the goof ground,

the next finch,


a finicky eater, flutters about,

the lake is wide opened in your mouth

we gob the results, hanging from hunches,

I decollate to the fuselage without my go-cart.

Cooler towards Riverside

We’re lizards to our ends as from our beginning

during the fall above the bog, where wattles are covered

with clay to hide your presence, we’re formed from no supposition on any subject governing the guard,

I go ahead about your story,

that doesn’t agree with

what the historians have said before a large audience,

I’ll keep out, yes, out your way. No eating an ogre or a ghoul, no begging your pardon, sir,

I keep the edges to a pinch,

as I’ve been accustomed to do, I feel disposed to see inside

& enter the house & retreat from the floating staircase,

I master its ritzy riser, if that’s possible to alight the cuttings for the next collage on dust.

This music is much more akin to blue jazz than cold rock, here within, you’re easy reach.

How do you react to the news when they shout & boo?

A colleen grabs your wrist & some paddies have a very bad reaction to these peanuts.

I sit down to read your hand- writing full of role-play,

a robin stares at a fishing rod still in the lagoon to rob you

your self-confidence over the fire. I justify nothing, only the touch, the softness & the impossible.

Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah is author the of new hybrid collections, The Sun of a Solid Torus, Conductor 5, Genus for L Loci, and Handlebody. He lives in the southern part of Ghana.

C.C. Hannett: 1 Poem

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