One More Sun Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Pound down tall stems
and cut through
the crawling bush

in a rainstorm,
when a thawed cow
moos downhill,

a shepherd having
cut himself off
from the trail
of his tottering herd.

In heavy downpours
drumming
the spine like a roof,

trudge through
mist and fog,
march through tall
elephant grass
stalks and pinnate leaves

when winds stand up
like steel gates
on the hunter's way
in a forest clearing.

(ii)

The shepherd
converts
and weaves
himself into a hunter's
track, a tide

pulling him to muzzle
and spear.

Thrust yourself
forward to a roar, as winds
shake off whiskers

the beast's hole and nest
screened off
by closely stitched mists.

Grasses weave snares
against feet,
fog swaying

a cream
and chiffon curtain
doubling itself

with a parchment fabric
drawn down
by swelling pulling winds.


(iii)

With these whispers
from your inner
eyes and ears,
pick up the spear

and shoot the sun
in the face;
and the star
on its angled shoulders,

as a sooty
angle awaits
you in the core

of a marshy jungle,
mud and clay your
only soled shoes.

Tramp back
from a hunting trip,

when your inner bowl
is filled with
a dry desert sand
and trudge back home
with no job,

your mooing cow
having died,
your spear broken.