Compass Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

The geometer no longer
grabs the arms
of a bouncing hurricane,

as wings flip out
waved gorilla fingers,
the furry animal striking hard.

As it rises to punch
and push its arrow head
through air,

a tornado drops
the peg of a compass
spun to hold the center.

The net of a wallowing
circle rides round
and through the ripples
of a fisherman's paddle.

(ii)

How a world holds
down the pencil
to sketch out round
herringbone wings
of a galloping ripple

to grab trout and crab,
but not the whale,
with its house-filling mouth,

nor a shark
drinking a river
with all its soft-handed worms,

as waters nibble off
the compass that doesn't
catch the shark,

but devours the bait,
as it swims
into a sinking world
of wider-mouthed traps.