Animals In The Cornfield Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Cub scouts whistle out each other
in a drill, pulling out every instrument.

Whistling, whistling, where're
the flutes? Animals blast out from
the bush, snarling, cat-calling,

where're the cats? Where're
the kitten mewling in the light wind?
Where're the puppies yelping
in the breaking wobbling wind?

Has the whining horse galloped
so close - so close it has flung
its feet to kick, pushing with stone-laden
hooves in a bulldozed spate of wind?

(ii)

Only pebbles on metal roof yell back,
but no house stands on the farm.
And then, like a rushing herd of cattle,

rain tumbles down in strings
of silver grains; and in tight
beige guitar strings shaking - shaking

the maracas, as maize stalks
and tall grass dance to the sighing
song of an accompanying wind.
Down the valley a gale's bulls.
Down on the knoll a knitted group of cows

moos louder than younger cattle
of the rain storm, as a lighter
wind from the west bleats
with goats, whose feet glide down
like a small spitting waterfalls.

As hands are woven and interwoven
round the necks and chests
of stalks swaying cobs
like new-born twittering babies
in a light dragged-out wind.

(iii)

Whistling, whistling, cymbals
rattle on too, as chimes
amid the tall grasses
and tree branches hanging down,
scream in a low voice.

Whistling, whistling and a trumpet
of thunder blasts out
a gavel-dropping order, as jumping
galloping groups of cattle
roll down the wet slope of a hill.

Whistling, whistling, then a piccolo
floats wet women down
a slope, maize cobs flipped over

from baskets choked with bloated husks,
as the rainstorm
blows the trombone that carries
the women through
in a canoe on a river of sorrows:

"Our baskets carry little grain,
grains of rain and accosting animals
having grabbed the harvest".