A Team Of Stitched Players Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(tribute to chrysanthemums)


(i)

Morning spreads its wings
with the raised arms of cheer ladies
over our taupe
and olive jerseys burning
over us down to our shadows,

as we hang out together
gazing at each other's move,
waiting for sparks of sun

to burn us into its sphere,
a glowing sun dropping
to the pitch to float
us over a river of our running legs.

Our heads lowered to drive
our threaded arms
into a ball of petals,

we rally into a mass
of clouds, we young men
thick with coals to burn.

Set in a smoldering fire
of a game, which begins
with night hanging
down on our heads

letting our violet stars
shine beyond the borders
and shores of ourselves,

we, a boulder of biceps
woven into each other,

split out for a raid
of sparks, our tinder not yet
red for a jumping pop
after a touchdown knitted

and stitched with legs
and arms riding each other
for sharp dodges and throws.

(ii)

We, chrysanthemums say
we let our guys
knot themselves
shoulder to shoulder,

toe to toe in one
bouncing ball of players
in a swelling balloon
of hands wrapped
around each other,

every player part of the warp
to unfold into our opponents'
camp under our own
lights of beaming petals.

(iii)

What is a game, if not
a scroll of sportsmen curved
to their toes for the whistle
that ignites a battle

of round and cylindrical
bunches of legs and arms

piled on each other, after a call
has been made
by a racing whistling bird?

What is a bunching of players,
if not chrysanthemum
petals running into themselves

and ellipses, as players
and spectators join hands
split and planted apart, shooting arrows
of peeks to bulldoze a barricade

into the touch down that makes
crowds of spectators
explode from sooty gorges

into a sky of quivering
petals shrieking out the last hooray.