Farewell Party Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Who told you
the world does
not stand
on a beetle,

when it wears
a typhoon's wavy
hat, crosses

and buckles
a rainbow belt

through full rain-
and geyser-filled
clinking glasses
of water poured

into troughs
behind
the house watering
horses and sheep.

And fits shoes
of breeze
into a trotting wind
to roll over

on lakes of sea
in the corridor
humming
across storm waves

of rivers to ride
on a dim path?

(ii)

Parrot chats
from deep throats,

when floor spreads
no water gobs
on a wing-flapping
duck's back,

as wind bounces
into wanderlust
tentacles of puffs
and pops

to cruise in a flight
of chats
to the Sahara

through puffs
on a conveyor belt

dropping off
a baggage of sirocco
in Europe,

and caves of air
in graphite clouds
on Africa's edges,

a man's throat
sizzling with thirst.

And the dry throat
that trumpets
a cough and flutes

a sneeze to the desert
of another man
riding a bicycle
on a rocker.

(iii)

It has been dusty
and windy
in the center garden
tent of the hall.

He‘s been windy
and a crawling
ant, the world standing
on him,

as the bloated beetle
lifts off
the world to the gate,

the host in a sofa
already flown home

in the vehicle
of a deep, slithering
buzzing snore.