Bow To Creeping Ants Of Stars Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In the storm, a tree rises higher
than double-towered trees touching stars,
as sun shines, needles
in hot rivers of sweat and smooth-faced
lakes hollowing out in ripples of pain.

Time has dug trenches on faces,
through which a hippo-wrinkled man
hides with the bull dog,
wears a crocodile's back of fortitude
hissing only with a chopped breeze.

Mountain King, if your crown shines
brighter than sun, let it drop
to your feet floating
in high-heeled boots bleeding
with kicks that landed on foam and stone.

That crushed the grasshopper hopping
on crutches, and left the mantis
limping on a wounded leg over earth's fire
from a sun grown too fat,
the elephant upstairs with no staircase,
ever step on a ladder tumbling to the valley.

(ii)

Mountain Emperor in a red hat
beaming with the blood
of gored and torched children sniveling
with the wind. On shiny crystals
topping your crown, look at scarred faces.

Mountain King standing in heavy boots
growing from low shrub
to the broad-shouldered baobab
and the hundred-handed hands of a banyan tree
beneath your shadow's glow,

bow a little to see how much dust and mud
you drag along with your boots.

Bow to a collapsing mountain
of people you've gored and scorched,
as sky's stars and moon and sun
tumble and creep on earth's eroded floor
wrinkled with slashes of pain clothing them.