Faith Cometh by Hurting

I understood myself as someone who didn’t know how to give up. But I did know what getting tired felt like. I learned the hard way: that my terrible SAT scores weren’t enough for God to warrant me a miracle. I had hoped to be accepted into a private college with a full scholarship, just as he had done for Karen. But it didn’t happen for me. I couldn’t move away from my mother now. I wasn’t looking forward to washing all those dishes. So I stopped believing in God.  I had over stretched my faith into believing something totally impossible. But I believed because  I wanted something good to happen to me, for me, in this foreign land.

I tried as much as possible to avoid God. I stopped going to church on Fridays. I didn’t have a choice about Sundays because my mother wouldn’t have it, raising an unbeliever under her roof. I was not surprised when I found myself swaying to praises and lifting my hands during worship. My mustard seed had been sowed too deep. Still, I wasn’t ready to ran back to God.

I dated for the first time. And then I realized that kissing was a chore so I stopped. He must have been a bad kisser or I overdid it. I was glad it was over. The two month summer break between my last year of high school and first year of college allowed me to sleep in bed and over think this whole faith thing. I slept on the lower part of the bunk bed while Karen slept on the top. I thought it would be too dangerous choosing to climb up while sleepy.. What I didn’t know was that Karen had already calculated that I would be the one to pick up the phone when someone called, open the door when someone buzzed and respond to my mother’s calls. She was definitely out of reach. But maybe, I needed to be close to the carpet where it was easier to kneel and ask God questions like why he had allowed my metrocard to go missing without telling me. He didn’t care. He was the reason I was in all this in the first place. It was because I trusted him. Where had I gotten this wild faith from?

After two years, I asked God that we be friends again. I am afraid of God, because I believe that even if He will not do what I want, He will do what He wants. There was no doubt that he loved me, after all the things I said to him and all the things I asked him to do. I was not going to give him my heart, not instantly. He was going to have to earn it. I had learned that I was not tired of believing. That even if it hurt sore, like the boil I had in my knee as a kid, the one that allowed me to touch the rocklike structure of my knee, I didn’t want the pressure of living on this world to be on myself. I had come to understand that a part of me was etched on the shoulders of God like a fading birthmark.

And We're In September!

Here's something to keep the leaves falling:

Last year when you called me around the dim moon nights, I was lying on my bed wearing blue pajamas. And everything we talked about was nothing because all I kept thinking about was why you had called. And I couldn’t  ask because the moment was precious. I did not want anything to avert what was already sentimental. But then, you ended the call and opened up a door of confusion. What did you call to say? Yes, we spoke about how much you loved soccer and how much we were both addicted to the things that drove us crazy. But, that was not what I waited to hear. I wanted you to say that you missed me and that you called because you wanted to hear my voice. But you did not say any of that or allude to the idea that romance welled in your throat. What should I have done then? Ask what love could have meant in a 3 hour phone call? Tell me now what it is you meant when you said you called to surprise me?

My August Poem

Let me tell you something about this heat: it has not been kind to me.  I have been constantly frustrated and disinterested in doing anything that heightens this frustration. This also means I haven't been writing a lot. That's not good at all! Even worse, I have no concentration for reading. I wake up hot and all I want to do is cool down and drink some water. Despite all of this, I am here to share an August poem. Whatever that means.

An Apology to My Sacred Place

The reason is unnecessary
though relevant
to the journey of loss
and all I did to my body
was wrap water around it
to cool it and then sometimes
I'd look through the wound
and see how deep and damaged
I was.  If I were to die,  it would be
near the Brooklyn bridge. My feet knew
its path and I could find my way
home if I changed my mind.
Falling would be beautiful.
And body, my sacred place
I am sorry for hiding dirt,
and clots and tears as treasures in you,
and if you can open yourself to me
then I can find myself inside you.

New poems at Seventh Wave

So excited to share that two of my poems were picked up by Seventh Wave Magazine and I am so pleased and grateful. Here's a link. http://theseventhwave.co/two-poems-by-afua-ansong/

News Reporter From Bethlehem

Mary said she was lonely
and what God had to do
was start a fire in her,
start a burning that would ruin
deep down her belly.
It was just a spirit making home
in a wombam
and what could
Joseph do but be less than a boy
with not even a kite to chase.

Persona Poem

ECG Director 

If everyone woke
and said let there be 

light! then I would be
God and they, my chosen

people. But I am
not even in control

of the powers
in my home.

So I pray
each day

for a super
natural big bang

                                                        or the day
                                                        to wake the sun.



*Electoral Commission of Ghana

Tired of Poetry Yet?

I have been so worn, trying to get my poetry on. So far, I have studied with Barbara Helfgott Hyett, Jericho Brown and in a few days I'll be sitting with Martin Espada. I do have a lot to say about these conferences. But, in summary, I am surprised I am not tired of reading or writing poetry. I have also realized that I have written so many more poems that I had expected. And that is so refreshing. Here's one I really love:



What Happens When You Sleep

Ganarth’s adventure into  the spirit world

is a dream you’re supposed to be in

but failed to manipulate a nightmare, so you’re dead:

No walking into chambers with old men chanting things

you could have sworn were tunes that sprung 

from your grandmothers throat each morning, 

no spiritual tour guide, not even a wingless heroine

with a body of a tiger or a tongue of a giraffe.

But, you will  be judged.

Your choice: a stinking feather to speed 

your flight to hell.

Poems For Donors

Kojo

You gave me green hope

at one a.m. before I 

slept to dream of day.

Ann Denise

Under my pillow

I keep golden incense: they

are prayers for you.

Cecilia 

You shared until you

broke your thumb in process.

No sister like you.

Emmanuel 

There are places on

earth reserved for people

who set wings to dreams.

Betty 

Nine years of friendship

means burning your dreams

to set fire to mine.

Ibrahim

Memories of time

teaches love, trust, and pain

forgiveness, always.

Marsha

Your words have moved me

to trust my hands and eyes

from ninth grade to now

Jordan

Poetry are drops

of rain falling over 

dawn--a bee asleep. 

It's Been Over A Month

It always takes a rejection letter for me to write another post. Ahh, sad isn't it. I was working on my camera and new lighting equipments when I got an email that my chapbook had been rejected.  I turned off the camera immediately and began to think about terrible thing: "You are not good enough, how will you survive? How will you make money? Why did you choose to become a poet?"
As you can guess, this contest meant a lot to me. But it is not the end of my career. Actually, there are so many more good things coming my way that I cannot even stop to think another negative thought.

A few weeks ago, I started a go-fund-me campaign for my acceptance to VONA. It was such a bold and exciting decision for me. Meanwhile, I had also applied to a conference in Minnesota to study with Jericho Brown and had been accepted two weeks before I got my acceptance to VONA. The only problem was, these two would be in the same week and I had to pick on or the other. I eventually chose the workshop with Jericho Brown, a painful decision as I couldn't defer my acceptance to VONA and will have to reapply next year. Only the favor of God can get me in again and if that's all that matters then I am not bothered.

For everyone who gave me a single dollar to go to VONA I would like to express my sincerest gratitude. I will be attending three conferences (Minnesota Northwoods, Poem Works, Southampton Writers Conference) in total this year and will actually use some of these funds for those. I thought I owed you all that explanation at least. So this summer,
I will be in Boston, Minnesota and then back to  Southampton. I will open the go-fund-me campaign until the end of the year. I am looking for some miracle and more conferences.

I did promise to write each and everyone who gave me a poem. I decided to write a haiku. Hope you all enjoy.

I GOT ACCEPTED TO VONA

CHECK OUT THIS LINK TO FIND OUT MORE
https://www.gofundme.com/7e1ugs

War In the Mouth of a Gun

I have the energy of a moving bullet.

After i pierce through your ribs, I do not die.

I am not weakened by blood:

your veins will not keep me at ease. 

I split your bones and wonder into your spirit.

picture from google image:moving bullet

Naming Female Inventors

- after the Black Woman

There is Harriet Tubman,

who dug the underground

railroad with her bare body

until the sands mixed 

with her blood. Her hope:

to see her people bound 

in the chains of freedom.

She invented independence

for the black kingdom.

Then there is my mother

who carried me, exceeding

nine months, bearing milk

filled breast heavier than stones,

because I refused to suck.

When I split the skin 

on the back of head, she could

not eat. She travelled across

the atlantic but did not leave

without a promise of return.

My mother, she invented me. 

Photo by Ste.Marie

Dealing with the Cross

He bought me

while I was ragged, 

crimson soiled,

 rooted- dead- sprung 

up, spitting greens.

He exchanged 

his eternal being

to wrap me 

in the warmth

of the blood,

washed me—rivers 

flower over me.

It wasn't gold

melted, solid, shining,

it wasn't silver

as the white sun reflects

on a pool of water.

Not the images of kings

and queens or petitions

signed with palms of

perishable princes

whose lives are but vapor.

Upcoming Reading!!!

I'm excited to announce my first reading at an art gallery in the Bronx

Follow this link to reserve your seat:  https://pen.org/event/2016/01/21/bronx-africa-poetry-town-hall-tour

In Praise of Art

I have learned to adore a pen and a paper more than anything else in this world.

I am grateful to my right hand which delights in following every step of my dreams.

I congratulate my eyes for lying open during dark nights and heavy seasons.

A standing ovation to the neurons and axons and cerebellum and cerebrum that continue to adorn me with the beauty of intelligence.

I commend my eyes for allowing me to see, and if blind, I would have thanked my ears 

What a traitor to forget the nose and the tongue: expression will never be the same without you.

What is a writer without a heart, a pulse to pump a  flow of interest and desire of wealth through these valves?

I thank God for life; mine and everyone else's' that allows me to write.

image by William Ste. Marie

Caged- for Nelson Mandela

                                                           27 years a man was caged 

                            for being right, black in his skin,

placed behind an iron box.

                        They took his light and 

                                    his reflections,

                                              he refused to give up

his heart, his mind.

                         Firm, unwavering, optimistic.

                                           He made it out in time...

                                                     How long are you willing to be

                         Caged?

image from nelsonmandela.net

9:05 am Poetry

Who named the swan?

born to surprise the world
with its feathers
as it sits on water
majestic as a reed 
warblers nest, guarded 
by the fragrance
of wild berries. When she opens
her wings, they spread over 
the oceans, the toughest plumes, a humble neck, curved lips, dotted eyes--black.









image from http://alzirrswanheartstock.deviantart.com/

Who's in Your Circle?

Who are your friends? Ask Job and he'll tell you he doesn't know. But, he knows that some                           creatures pretending to be friends in you circle need to disappear. They add insult to injury, make you wonder how they became part of your friend list in the first place.
            Sometimes, we find ourselves amongst the worst group of people, or
                     they find their way to us.
                               Our efforts to erase them from our lives results in thoughts of loneliness.
  we would rather be friends than wondering hearts looking for familiar grounds to rest.
               Ask your self these three questions about your friends: Do they add value to my life? Do I positively influence them? How is my life goal connected to theirs?




image by inshiraphotos

Whose Fault Is It?

When your boyfriend breaks up with you, the first thing you want to do is go back to him. Remind him he shouldn’t leave. Throw yourself at him—the almost cooked spaghetti struggling to remain on a white wall, hoping you would stick. If you survived the first day after the breakup, then you would live the rest of your life in denial. Whose fault was it? Now you must understand, that this question is one that is presented right after the examination of a “relationship” even if the relationship succeeds, we must find someone to glorify. It was Adam who chased Eve down in his body and she responded.

So in the cold waves of January, I asked myself: who’s fault was it? That I had broken up with one of my boyfriends and was to come home and receive another call to end the second relationship. I kept both so well. I can never blame myself for having pink lips and eyelids that are drawn like smooth oval eggs and eye lashes like the fluffs of goose’s black neck. It wasn’t my fault. Richard loved me. The kind of love where he’s always apologizing even if you’re the one who is obviously wrong. We met at the gas station. After I had intentionally thrown a coke can at his windscreen for overtaking me on the road. I hate road rage so I was grateful that we weren’t on the street when I did it. Whose fault was it? Mine. I had started the relationship unintentionally. Please don’t blabber about fate because she also does not exist to me. But he responded: “You’re going to pay for that you witch.” I am not one to be attracted to witchcraft but suddenly, I loved the idea of swimming through the air with just a broom.

I say sorry and leave. Giggling when I click my seatbelt out, laughing harder than the day I found out there were two lumps in my right breast. Stopping quickly when his white car became a shadowing ghost around me until I reached my garage. When I get there, I don’t get out of my car. Because I am boiling with fear and strategizing ways to make life better than what fate has made it. He comes over and knocks on my windows with his finely shaped nails. I turn on the radio and listen to the weather forecast. Tomorrow, Friday, it will rain in New York. I mimic inside the car, someone opening an umbrella and protecting themselves from stubborn rain. He tries to open the car to no avail. I feel a strain in my chest and begin to breathe heavily. I open the door to breathe, when he walks back to his car but shut it back because he might return. I sip my orange juice resting in the arm of the car door and rest my head back to sigh. Whose fault is it?

image by Inshira Photos

model:Muhiba 

New York City Perspectives

                                                                                           

Sea Food Poetry

I love crabs! Especially in my okra stew. Here's a short poem I wrote on the D train. My inspiration, I was probably thinking of eating some banku and okra stew, the traditional one with lots of crabs and w3l3! It tastes deliciously bombastic!

                                                             Crabs in a Barrel

                                                          How did they get there?
                                                            if not by their own
                                                      automatic limbs and claws
                                                             gliding across the wooden
                                                       curves of this containers
                                                              indulging in the swings
                                                        of being carried
                                                             then settling back
                                                 into a  pool of frustration

                                                     How did we get here?
                                                             by spitting at each other's
                                                       faces and yelling
                                                                          at familiar voices
                                                       containing our anger
                                                                  in the grips of our arms,
                                                       pulling our hairs apart
                                                            in the blink of the explosion.


image from rapgenius.com

The Banana Theory

Before you read this post, you must eat a banana. Do NOT PROCEED UNLESS YOU HAVE A BANANA IN HAND.

I have a friend who thinks a banana can solve all your problems.

"I'm feeling sick"

"you know what will do? A banana."

"I don't feel like eating."

"You should try a banana."

"I feel dizzy"

"You know, a banana actually helps with your equilibrium."

"He just broke up with me."

"You should try a banana."

I have declined all these offers unfortunately which means that I am still sick, can't eat and feel dizzy. And honestly because I am more of a strawberry girl. But I am more amazed about his commitment to the banana and its healing efficacy. I'm sure if I told him I was about to die, he would suggest eating a banana to make sure termites and maggots stay away from my appetizing body.

My banana theory friend also thinks orange juice solves a lot of problems. After which  I opened the window to my kitchen dorm and revealed the imaginary banana and orange farm I have been growing.

You should know by now that I am not a health fanatic. But, I have recently been juicing: kale, apples, ginger, avocado, spinach and mango juice. It has left me in a very vulnerable stage because I feel I am drinking something healthy but my palette responds otherwise.

On a good day, I will eat a banana, with some peanuts.

But if you do want to try eating a banana, here are some of the benefits:
(Disclaimer: Even the peels are EDIBLE!)
* overcoming DEPRESSION
* sustains blood sugar
* fights muscle cramps
*high levels of vitamin B-6 which does a lot of awesome things like fighting agains type 2 diabetes, reducing swelling, aiding in weight loss.
* prevents kidney cancer
* relieves itching from bug bites (inside of banana peel)
* makes you more alert, especially with learning.

And I can go on!

I am probably going to start a banana business with this friend so we can make money and feed some health into the world. Maybe a banana drive through, who knows, don't steal my idea though!

image from fanlala.com

Sunflowers Inspire (to breath into something)

Exhale
You have not known love
until you are sitting on the floor
of an empty dorm, thinking
about his breathing rate,
wondering if the corner of his ear
faces the quarter blown moon
and if the pillow that touches his face
is warm with his heat.

Then all you want
is to be the air that he inhales
and keep him alive
only with you inside
(for some weird reason an exhale
will end his life). You start
from his brain, knitting memories
of laughter and hidden gazes;
you want to remain there
but you glide to his heart
to turn it over and then knock
his rib cage down: the room you
occupy there, is much larger.

Poetry for the Illiterate

Danger: look,
the blind ass 
still walks, 
it follows the giants.

War: hide,
married men cheat
on their mistresses, 
lose their tongues. 

Tender: consider,
kings and queens rule 
with power from slaves.

Burry: fire,
waste a barrel 
of clean water 
on the dirty ocean.

The Friendly Couple

"Pay the bills or wash the dishes for the rest of the year"
I look past my chair at the table, the finely folded papers
almost bending to greet each other, 
ConEd, Car Insurance, Life Insurance, 
Phone, gas, mortgage, tuition, loans
the ringing of the word pay seeps through my ear drums
to oil my rusted mouth
I begin to stammer, 
"I, I do not feel appreciated 
in this homely box we call a house
I do not want to wash away my youth 
with hard water and soap good enough for ducks
Can you please wash the dishes and pay the bills?
I will be the woman of the house
clean after your mess and mess with you clean." 

A Poem on Immigration

Untitled 

Mother's pregnant
Mother's immigrant

When mother gives birth on U.S. soil
Mother gives birth to citizen

When citizen child grows
To be eighteen
She can make mother citizen

But mother came before citizen
Immigrant came before child. 

When Poetry Complicates You

In an attempt to write a poem about a dear friend, I wrote a very deep and rather disturbing poem about a fawn that loses his father immediately after birth. Because the title of the poem was faith, I thought I could get away with it, but I realized there was so much surrounding the events of that loss and the idea of faith seemed incongruent. Most times, my work does this to me. I am beaten down to a pulp and arrested to tell the truth. If ever there is a time I want to hold back, a cuss word, death, murder, rape, it strangles me and says "you must get it out and tell the story."

Another friend complained to me that one must control his or her muse :You cannot allow them to go to places that are too violent, too rough; you must not be shaken by that demon of writing that makes you so psychotic because it only wants to tell a story of for example mothers who sell their children for wealth.

What ails me as a writer is not the fear of speaking my mind or writing my deepest feelings but making sure people do not label me by what I write. My sister always says my stories/poems are from my unconscious or even from experiences in our family. I tell her yes, but not entirely. I create my own world and use the power of words to allow the characters to make the right decisions.

Maybe, my dependency on writing is my need to have power in a world even though it might be imaginary. When I write, I want my words to take people out of their happy place into their philosophical phase. If they ever looked into a mirror and thought "I am beautiful," after reading my work they should think "it is only a reflection."

If I Knew the Name of my Muse

      You often hear "life is short" :I am here to drum in further. I am in such awe that I just graduated in 2014 and now I find myself undeniably in the coldness of January 2016. I often tell my sister that when I look at the mirror, I still see myself as a child, my big eyes and my chubby cheeks. Even now, I find it difficult to believe that I have responsibilities, such as paying rent and phone bills. There is possibly some excitement in working hard to gather money only to give it away in exchange of something else... I will not delve into politics today.  
      My goal this year as a blogger is to put out as many stories, poems, essays, pictures and art work that reflects my interests and opinions as frequently as possible. I write often but spend so much time editing or making sure the piece is "ready" that it seems I only have moments with my muse. One can only become better as the years progress, or not, so I will be posting much more on this blog. I also want to start a project where I use artwork as inspiration to my pieces, a series of Ekphrases.
         
Some more exciting news...I'm trying to do a little bit more of spoken word which means finding interesting memorization techniques and also sharing my work.(I think I should post videos of my process.) I might start a youtube channel to post such videos or simply post them on this blog. I am so excited about the places my poetry will take me this year. I will be sure to keep everyone updated!
     


Finally, I hope everyone has a splendid beginning to the year. We have to keep positive minds and energies throughout the journey, until we make it to the end!