Efo Dela's ars poetica

Forget it; forget it all,
Colonialism, Neo-colonialism, Imperialism, They didn’t cause this fall, Some raison d'être must exist, A rationale for this I-Don’t-Careism, Would you tell me?
Who’s to blame, You, them, or me For the way we are?
How do we explain That we didn’t hear when Samuel F. Morse sent, “What God hath wrought”? Or when the brothers Wright took to flight, Or that we know not from whence we came Or to where we go?
Tell me, who is responsible?
Whom do I ask? The excited barefooted children Sitting under the blistering tropical sun singing, “In the bleak midwinter…” Or should I ask you sitting there, trying To be like “Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat…”?
When the drums did beat, Your feet couldn’t, wouldn’t dance, You were lost to it all, Adowa, Agbadza even the Kpanlogo stance, You swayed not to home-brewed rhythms; Who is to blame?
Here, near the centre of the Earth, Passions, not actions define all factions, Here where the Sun kisses length and breadth, Fingers are pointed for days on end.
Who is responsible…

No rhyme or reason
No time or season
I saw death. All of it. And it was me
I felt life's breath, felt its heat, please let me be
But the shadow remain. Fearful and brunt
The hollow expands. Hopeless and blunt
Deep within the rubbles. In the trenches of your heart
High above these castles, in its crevices let your soul start
It is lost. For death has no heart
It is the cost. For life has no cast
And turning nature's head. Twist it backwards
And sleeping in destiny's bed, there's something we move towards
Yet to every step. Distorting nature. You pay with balance

*****13th December 2012*****
by Nana Yaw Sarpong and Efo Dela

When a man loves;
It is fierce, burning, self-sustaining,
He will defy the gods to keep them safe,
Those he loves,
He lives, dies for them,
Loyalty leaping from a devoted soul
And he calls them,
Comrade, Brother, Sister, Friend.

When a man truly loves a woman;
The passion; explosives,
Like volcanoes ejaculating magma,
Let nothing stand in his way.
When a man loves a woman,
He becomes a poet,
For his heart speaks not mere words,
But sacred oracles,
Cultured Conversation Cascading from confounded lips,
And he calls her,
Angel, Queen, Dear, Woman.

When a man a cries,
‘tis rare,
Each pain filled tear speaks, a dead language,
The reason you couldn't comprehend his pain,
And when they hit the Ground,
Mother Earth captures her son’s anguish,
Pure petrified precious pain,
And that’s how diamonds are formed.

When a man’s heart breaks,
Miles away it’s heard and called thunder,
His heart develops infinite fault lines,
And when it tries to heal itself,
It calcifies at each crack, Jaded,

Like …

They came in iron canoes from the endless waters of the sea,
a people so poor they could only afford one god, and the greedy men of the coast, for a god they couldn't see, sold their brothers to a people they did not know.
They sold their brothers, they sold our gold, And when nothing was left they sold their souls, They pillaged their present, pillaged ours too, Leaving a generation too bankrupt to afford common sense.

Ours is a history of vindictive sibling rivalry, Chop down a brother’s farm; your melons grow no bigger, But we take delight in his family’s hunger and misery, This Cain-Abel, Jacob-Esau, Joseph’s brothers, Judas gospel.


And it came to pass that in those days one arose, And in a coat of many colours one night did he declare, That we as a people could manage our own affair, And he too was dropped in a well and quickly sold out.
Through our checkered history, one theme remains true, That our leaders will betray us is no mystery, They rip this nation apart and sell it in bits, This is o…

There will be a sad song,
A song of Princes and frogs,
It shall go on and on, it shan't end,
There will be a sad, sad song,
And it will be a song of ashes and dust,
Of shock sacrileges sang so slowly.

There will be a sad song,
And it won't be long,
It will sing of tragedies,
Broken hearts,
Lonely souls,
It will sing of shattered dreams
And we'll all soulfully sing along.

There will be a sad song,
A song that would scar frozen hearts.

We shall sing a sad song,
A song that shall move me to tears
And all my shed and unshed tears
Shan't make me feel any better
But I shall shed them anyway,
For it shall be a sad song indeed.

There shall be a song,
And it shan't be about Arabian perfume,
It shan't be about fields of gold,
It shan't even be about Venus' eternal beauty,
It shall be tragic, soulful, sad, very sad.

There shall be,
A song,
A tragedy,
A Greek tale of fallen heroes,
Of Achilles,
Of Heracles,
Of demigods and the underworld,
And the ferryman that helps us cross the Styx.

Th…

I've seen the future, I painted it in a vivid picture.
It was,
Wilted roses and bloody skies, Miles and miles of wheat field destroyed by blight, Many dead seas and dying lands, Nations in despair untouched by light.
It was, Gardens of hope overrun by thistles and thorns, Battle axes and split skulls, Great battles won but no victory songs.
I saw Today in the mirror of truth, Emaciated and disfigured, and though she fed on the choicest meal, The nothingness nibbled at her from inside.
I've seen the future, Ignoramus, I've seen the future, Nostradamus.
I saw Tomorrow die, Slowly, Painfully, Her lungs filled with Today's fume, Her tar covered skin glistering under the scorching sun, Her muffled whimpers, Drowned by the thunderous tides.
I've seen the future because I dare, I've seen the future, it seemed so blurred.
I've seen the future, and Asaase Yaa*, She was curled up in her own blood, having been gang raped by politicians and men of religion and we stood by doing nothing.
I've seen…

I’ve pushed at the giant Iron Gates of Gaza, And since I’m not Samson they budged, just a bit, But I’ve seen the beauty that lay on it plaza, And I’ve desired to share in its glory.
I wait for the shifting of plate tectonics under my feet, Hopefully, these gates will fall in the quake, Or maybe shut firmly, But two days of waiting is all I can take, Then I’ll move to lands more obsolete, And in their innocence perhaps find no deceit.
It’s a waiting game.
Behind the Gaza gate of doubt lays love undefined, This waiting game plays tricks on my mind, My nerves are frayed till I’m emotionally bankrupt, Believing that like before what lays behind is not corrupt.
The sun rides slowly across its heaven, Telling me the wait can’t last much longer, But if after the quake this gate stands in defiance, I move to lands of lesser glory and but better reliance
But for now, I wait, Grudgingly gazing at the giant Gaza Gate.
*****August 15, 2012*****

I woke up one day to find out I was dead.

I hadn’t made a name, no footprints left; They only remembered as a forgotten man, It was like I wasn’t ever there, here, By the way, I lived you’d think that was the plan.
I woke up once and life had melted away.
I’m standing above myself, A halo over my once miserable head, What a sight I am, uncaring, unfeeling, And people wondering if I’m really dead.
I woke up one day to a loud silence.
I woke up to a call I could hear, I woke up to deafening silence, The end wasn’t near, the end was here, There I lay, dead in every sense.
I woke up one day and I just wasn’t there.
Pompously righteous priests nonchalantly muttered prayers As strangers planted me in the garden dead, They planted me in a garden of shadows and gloom, 6 feet in the ground in a box without much room.
I went to bed a 7pm and died at 9.
I knocked at the pearly gates, The reply was simple, "No admittance after 8", So silently, I wait, Morning is only an eternity away.
I woke up one day to find…

A smile; The most deceitful of facial expressions, It stands at the gate of the face like a sentry, Guarding malicious thoughts that wait in ambush, If only to their thoughts we were granted entry, We’d know…
A smile; Sharpened on the assassin’s stone, The preferred tool of betrayal for traitors, It disarms you, and when caution has flown, It plunges into the softest parts of you, Shredding your essence, Leaving a ghost of your former self.
A smile; Painlessly it slipped between my ribs, Tickled my fleshy heart, Only then did it sink its fangs into me, I died, Slowly, Painfully, Et tu, Brute!! As I lay bleeding, I stared at its beauty, still mesmerized.
A smile; The cosmetic with which malevolence is hidden, It paints beauty and draws us in, And even in our pain we still trust its innocence.
A smile; It is the camouflage that the Judases wear.
*****June 15, 2012*****

They came from the sky like a hunter’s arrow, Our dead brothers, they never saw it coming, How shall we explain to their children tomorrow, This tale of a falling bird killing Earth-bound men.
Gracelessly, they fell from the troubled skies, When the wax on their wings melted mid-flight, In our mind, we can almost hear terrified cries, Silent screams echoing into the pitch black night.
We smell burning flesh when we close our eyes, We know not their names but we hear their cries, Our dreams are haunted by their nameless faces, Their story forever tattooed on our heavy hearts.
Which god or man keeps them up in flight? Which god or man failed us on that night? For this senseless loss can’t be blamed on chance, So tell us which sun god knocked Icarus from the sky.
We’ve defied our limits; we’ve dared the gods, We’ve achieved the impossible, shown it can be done, Our wings have touched the skies, against all odds, But sometimes like Icarus, we fly too close to the sun.
*****June 5, 2012*****
- On June 2, 2012,…

Are we just pawns?   Pawns in a gratuitous game of chess, An amusement for gods veiled behind lofty clouds?   Are we mere mortals, no more, no less, Destined, predestined for some predetermined end?
Are we ill fated prior to nativity?   ‘tis a harsh fate then, ‘twill be futile to fight it, won’t it?   We would have been preordained to fall short.
What then is destiny?   An inexorable preset end Perchance, it’s whatever happens in the end?
Was that the reason for Judas’ treason?   Was he damned beyond all reason, Doomed; accursed before the beginning of days?   Am I destined not to know, to be perplexed? Then it’s all futility, no use fighting this fate.
So what if peradventure,   For one and thirty pieces of silver, The Maestro he did betray,   What would become of his fate? Would he destiny have thwarted?   Mayhap, it would have been predestined, Destined, some crooked destiny to thwart destiny.
Somewhere, up yonder,   In that fathomless inscrutable blue, Do hallowed Deities congregate and ponder   Over s…

Why does it have to get bad before it gets good? When it’s bad what’s the guarantee it shall be well, When we toil and struggle in our personal hell, Why does it look like there’s no end in sight?
Why aren’t we all born with a golden spoon, Have our lives served to us on a silver platter, Sip on champagne and caviar all day long, When we get served our daily bread, why no butter?
Why does a Phoenix have to rise from ashes? Why not in all its glory rise from gold dust, For a creature of such majestic beauty, Surely, a grand entrance should be a must.
But one of  my mentors, he said;
“It is the law of nature, Fruits have to rot before seed Can be served to the earth for growth, A mother has to labor before birth”
So when I struggle up these steep hills and life lashes, When the sweat on my brow mingles with all the dust, When all that is good around me is but a pile of ashes, I'll tell myself, at the top, I’ll exchange it for gold dust.
*****May 18, 2012*****
Thank you Kodjo for those inspiring words …

And if I walk the misty roads of life,
Chasing a destiny that's not mine,
If through the struggle and strife,
I find that life is empty indeed,
What shall become of this shadow that is me?

Shall I sail through the Devil's triangle,
Or maybe the Dragon's
Shall I sink into the trench Mariana,
Or be swallowed by this black hole of doubt,
And if I do, what's next when there's no way out?

Mine is a destiny full of doubt,
A course that was mapped,
Then someone thought twice,
Maybe a life decided over a roll of dice,
Most likely, it's mine to decide.

If I chase a dream that is mine,
Maybe not quite mine but still I chase,
Who’s to say I didn't make a new base,
A pedestal on which my fate may sit.

I must be what I must,
And who to say what that is,
But to be that, in myself I must trust
To survive the tsunami that is doubt.

There's a path I must take,
Or maybe there's not,
But if I will it and leave none in its wake,
Who’s to say,
Life’s dividend will be naught but solid gold?


*****F…

There are some little things we let slip away, Those things, sadly, we can’t go back to, Sometimes we wish we could go back to yesterday, Just so we could find things we once held true.
So many minutes that we let go waste, So many words we could and should have said, Sometimes we say our sorry just a bit too late, Tomorrow’s regret shan’t wash yesterday’s hurt.
Many silent tears have we secretly shed, Till we were empty and shed no more, And though tomorrow laughter may be heard, Pain is what today would be remembered for.
Some memories should be put to bed, But our regrets would not let them rest, Some moments should be left to end, But when they end they hurt the worst.
Some things we wish we could go back to, But the path to them have overgrown, So we take our mistakes and what do we do, We build a cobblestone road and walk alone. 
*****May 8, 2012*****

We were Children once, innocent, lost in an imaginary world without bars, confusing faraway fireflies for shooting stars, playfully skipping on the narrow paradise road, believing that the purity of our hearts would get us there, but the scales on our eyes finally fell off, thanks to Men of God who teach and scoff, commercializing the once narrow road to paradise.
We were naive once, ignorant, living amongst pygmies and thinking ourselves giants, reveling in the grandness of our little world, intoxicated as we sipped our folly by pints, nescient of contemporary teaching, but we met men who towered above us, we were humbled, re-educated, joined a new bus, Exchanging one form of ignorance for another.
We are Men now, enlightened, ours is a world of our own machination, having learned the ropes of this world, harmonized with the iniquities of our time, we shrewdly shed our simple nakedness, found a way to be immortalized in our prime, bribed our way through the Pearly Gate, having finally accepted the fallacy …

Old Men declare wars, Young men die in it, Then Old Men get the glory and more.
Will it ever end? 
Young Soldier like an Ox, Tried and true, Young Soldier now in a Box, Fried and blue, Packaged to Mum with endless rue.

This bloodshed has been forever, We all had a part of it, The West, The Far East,  The Middle East,  the Near East, The bloodbath still lingers on. Every day I ask, “What is this beast?”
I’ve lost count, World War 1, World War 2,  The Cold War,  The Gulf war and all the namelesses, Little people, little towns totally razed: I’m sick of it God must be too.
I think God is polyglot, He must be. Every day he hears the cries and wails of mothers, Inaudible,  loud,  in a thousand tongues, Cries for sons dying in faraway lands: Yes, God is polyglot.
The world is not enough: We just have to get some more.
Somewhere a Cleric calls, “Jihad! Death to all infidels in the land.”
In the name of Jesu Christi, Crusaders repaint the Streets of Gold in blood.
Or is it for Spiritus Mundi? Men just hankering for power,
Armagedd…