A cigarette with Sonia as the fan went round and round - Martin Egblewogbe


And so it was.
And it came to pass.
And it was peaceful, being with her.

And the smoke of our burning went up and up
caught up in whorls and spun around
by the blades of the fan turning lazily
in an endless circle.


Long legged cross legged
reclining in the sofa: Sonia;
Across the table with the gleaming top
leaning forward in the armchair: I.

We might have been –
but we were
smoking
and she told me about her son
looking into the future with great faith.

And the smoke of our burning went up and up
caught up in whorls and spun around.


We might have been –
but we were
drinking
and then we discussed
The Church of Law and Finances.

And it came to pass, that
we talked about Impotence
because
a flaccid penis at the very entrance
was a disturbing matter indeed
The powers of Viagra notwithstanding.

And the smoke of our burning went up and up
caught up in whorls and spun around.


We discussed the tyranny
of Pain and Death;
The one opportunity for Power
and Myth, and Society, and Misery.
Then we said, Let’s lighten up!
So bottoms went up and ends brightened,
and the smoke of our burning went up and up
caught up in whorls and spun around.


And so it was.

We might have been friends
bringing the weekend to an end,
But we were
fellow travellers caught in a time warp
and the smoke of our burning went up and up.

In a moment of kindness she offered me her ass;
In a moment of silence I raised my glass
and the smoke of our burning went up and up
caught up in whorls and spun around.


Fellow travellers in this space ship
sharing the loneliness of our private gehenna.
Sonia and I, turning words into thoughts
And thoughts into words:

And the words were caught up
by the blades of the fan
turning lazily in an
endless circle.

6 comments:

Nana Fredua-Agyeman said...

Martin's poems always mesmerizes.

Anonymous said...

The slow fan--suggestive,sensual-- suspense suspended.A slow steady climb to climax...touch of Ravels Bolero--well weaved.Silverzorro.

Darko Antwi said...

A HARVEST OF WHEAT

Just when you're about to think that you've read all the wonders of OGOV publications, and that there is no poem left to surprise you, there will be one at the rear to come on a Saturday afternoon - to get you mesmerized, as rightly commented by Nana.

What makes this poem so endearing is that it defies the code of secrecy by inviting you to witness an act of convenience. You can't therefore read it in isolation than to put yourself in the speaker's shoes. Illicit or not, what matters is the mutual pleasure of 'fellow travellers' who are within a space & time 'sharing the loneliness of' their 'private gehenna' The fondness / or interst for each other is uncomparable. You can't blame nor envy them - because you wouldn't know where you would find an irresistible partner, howerver shortlived your companionship may be.

PRAISE

People would like to associate with Martin for so many godly reasons, including the sake of his talent and handsome personality. But those who get close to him with the intent to learn, will do themselves so much good.

Why am I saying all these? I say so because I realise there is so much wheat in him that has to be shared with others. The evidence is that I've never found a single chaff in any of his poems. That leaves me with a simple calculation which goes: if you can't afford to write chaff, you'll get published, although it is becoming increasingly hard for poets to get contracts.

It's no wonder that Ghana has born and bred his leading poets from amongst Martin's people: I have not known any African language so rich in culture and hallowed by phonetics as Ewe.

Martin, me lo wo (i love you). I'm straight anyway.

george amoah said...

great piece. keep it up!

Arthur Nkansah said...

Interesting poem...I like the interplay with imagery and mood.

LS said...

This poem is rather more contemporary than most work posted here; except of course for its almost/near Biblical opening:

And so it was/And it came to pass.

It suggests an omniscient Voice of God narrator until one begins to realise that the persona himself takes part in this drama of post-modern angst and disillusionment, defined by the characters' inability to find answers to life's great questions. They do not come away any fulfilled or satisfied, because, as the refrain reminds us, even at the end, they're still caught up in that spiral so that :

... the words were caught up
by the blades of the fan
turning lazily in an
endless circle.


I'm worried though about the Capitalised Abstractions. They hog the limelight and draw attention away from everything else taking place in this piece.

That said, I find it interesting that the poet yokes privacy and gehenna together since I wouldn't have thought any gehennic experience assured one any privacy at all; but this is how writers make us rethink the uses to which we could put language. Remember Pound's dictum: make it new.

Incidentally, Wikipedia says the name Sonia, like Sophia means wisdom. Ironic - since the characters just paper over their disillusionment with drink, smoke, and, probably more sex.

I do not read any good ending in this piece. Their pleasure is momentary. They receive no absolution, for they're still unable to answer the big questions. They will carry that angst like a burden. As Buju Banton says, it could go on and on, the full(story)has never been told.