A Cocktail Of Voices Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Under condensed stars of light
spraying a moon-lit night,
all guests grow into birds.

The high-pitched party
explodes the sun to shine
brighter than a mid-morning ray,

its floating shards
twinkling more than stars
ever seen in Venus.

Not only do guests
sip their cocktails
but also sharp showers

of light in one gulp
of a million stars blown out
into the largest sea of light.

(ii)

Bounce on, bounce on
O snow-of-snow splash
gutturally blown out
in a single voice of dazzling light.

The voice echoes Mars.
The voice regurgitates Jupiter?
Maybe, the bright silver devours
gold spitting out Mercury.

All is light like an owl's voice
with a tint of a cuckoo's.
The sparrow hawk chips in a shade.

All is light like a coo wearing
the dress of a jay, the dove
joining the cocktail of voices, as pigeons

and snipes beat their own drums
of voices. Thunder too says
"it's mine" as gongs boo thunder
to raise their chest-beating voices.

(iii)

After the party scientists
and journalists shout out in a voice
that never swells into
the sculptor of its sound.

The orator cutting air
with a warbler's mouth can
be pasted the voice
of a golden-crowned kinglet.

The grouse too stands
on the pulpit
of the pigeon. The boulder drops
on a leathered hole
to shoot out a thunderstorm's voice.

Let's build a voice's technique
of brotherly birds
into‘'vibraphonics", the new art
of bringing Hitler to the podium,

when a politician yet unborn
or one born and reborn
groans and howls on stage he's alive
dressed in his own sea-sizzling
and jack-saw-on-wood voice.