Muttering Men Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Men mutter in the yard,
as night's soot engulfs
dusk's sailing umber,
the prattle growing into
a hullaballoo, as time's
fuss rides on and on.

And clapping hands take
over tapping feet.

The men must be agitated
over falling nuts
from a palm tree, as wind's
hands pick the fruits
even faster in the wind;

and in a gale flying faster
than catapulted arrows.

The men's mutter grows into
a growl and groan,
as we sail and flow through
a watery night,

a hanging river floating
canoes of buzzing,
rumbling sleep steered
by rain's band
conductor and tap dancer
drumming us like size drums
through deep snores.


(ii)

The river of night
flows with drizzle and rain,
flows with muttering
men, but through the window
I see no dudes strolling
or running through
through splashes and crooning
culverts of rain.

But the river flows, times
flow with a night river
dumping a silt of silence
on dawn's eroded shore.

Have we arrived at a sun's
fort, its wheels
dropping in flashes of rays
hitting earth at angles
slashing retinas into night,

onyx clouds still
steering us along darkness
with wings of a pelican
trailing and albatross.

But who are the muttering
men prattling
with the wing-flapping
birds of a long

winter night bearded
with dark wool and dyed
cotton specks of smaller
birds flying, soaked,

over muttering men
not yet drowned
in the hanging river
of rain cruising down the creeks,
as I peek into the dark,
the sun shooting up

gold sparks behind tall trees
and rolling mountains,
no love lost among muttering
men tap-dancing

with time through a long
winter-coated
night swallowing sun
and spitting out
only more crow tails of night,

as I spring up
from bed to join the silence
of silt on the shore
of night's river
still throwing out more silt.