Fire From A Lodge Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Grabbing her knotted
little hand
like an egg in the gem
of a satin weave nest,

an old bearded veteran
asks a child

what a fire is when it spins
flames from the lodge
of a dancing, glowing fireplace.

A fire, says the child,
is brewed by flames on coals
ignited through a weave
of dry wood
or broken pieces of carton.

Or reeds and grass
in a harmattan bush caught
in sparks that sputter
and spatter
and spit out flies of flames;

and roar into yellow bird-wing
flames rising in dancing
pyramids and round saw-edged
masses like a phoenix's breath.

Bright star, thunders the veteran,
wrapping the child's little hand

in his large banana leaf
palm. How do you feel when
your hand is swallowed by mine?

I feel warm, says the child.
Warm with the flames of my hand,
barks the old man, rolling
his eyes like two flashy moons.

(ii)

But must you always
ignite flames
into a fire? , the old man asks.
Flying yes as morning sun! ,
cuts the child.

No, axes the man, giggling
with window-gaping teeth
growing into a door of fire.

Pour a basket of bees
on a sleeping blind man: he'll
jump up growling at flames
from a crawling fire.

Sprinkle a bucket of wasps
on a drunk dude buried
in his sleep: he'll groan

at creeping flying flames
devouring him
down a hot lion's mouth
in a burning crater
of scalding magma.

(iii)

Place grandpa to sleep
in a sea-pulled bed
over drifting anthills

woven into bouncing balls
of creeping bugs,
flying little flamy reef knots
on all sixes.

Quivering, he'll wake up
at mid-night to throw arrows
at you for drowning him

in of a stretchy wildfire
still tying him up with sharp-toothed
threads of flames crawling
from lodges of nibbling mouths.