Two Hills Rise From Pots Of Ink Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Two hills, two
tall and stiff
rocks, their trunks

heavily clothed
in dark green
trees and grass

rising like a poet's
afterthoughts

after a trip
to convoluted
Everglades
in an air boat,

cotton masses
of sky still falling
on his chest.

(ii)

The hills rise from
the drifting edges
of two bowls

water-filled
and swollen
with deep blue ink.

The hills rise from
pots of ink, these
moss and seafoam

watersheds feeding
them with script
on soaked nibs.

(iii)

They rise from
the deep green
feathers of a turaco

star-crowned
with cotton crows
and chinchilla
feathers
brushing quills

to transcribe
their chitchats
with sprayed stars
in the firmament.

The stars fall
on the unclad sheet
of hanging air,

thin like a poet's
drifting papery
field waiting

for night's screen
to squeeze out
moon wax to drip

with a melting
cream sheet rolled out
for a silver-lined
message to deities.

(iv)

Two rocky hills
shoot
their pike-sharp
heads
into a firmament

to pitch their
head-to-head
in a billowing flamy
mass of sky,

when it's not
dusk, not dawn,
animals down

in the Everglades
yelling out
arrows of love

for life beneath
a deep green film,
stroking palms
brushing
and rubbing

green mossy hairs
of croaks
and roars
and edge-dragged
hisses and chirps

shouting out
to man to drift back
and swim
in his own paced space.