Felix Bongjoh

Shisong-Bui, Cameroon
Felix Bongjoh
Shisong-Bui, Cameroon
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Flowing Out Of Night

(poem carved out from the tough rocky flesh of changing seasons)

(i)

I ‘ve plodded through
caves and tunnels of December
to widening gates.
Pulling me into daisy rays
spat by a widening cyan sky

through window panes
breathing out light
and slide doors sneezing out
showers of gossamer
threads of brightness,
carrying rays-floated March.

The road has snaked through
bushes of star-starved nights,
moon the only sun
that shun bright through
graphite panels
of daylight swinging nights.

This morning I slid my doors
to let in blades of light
cut through the closed-in box
of my living room space,

a ceiling no longer
pressing me down
into crow tails of crawling night
to flood and drown me deep
in a pool of darkness.

(ii)

But the ceiling flies me
into sun's core,
as mid-morning daylight
is hoisted on tall poles
waving and sweeping air
with flags of splashed light.

No more smoky poles
of winter darkness
raised by dark silhouettes
to fly soot from chimneys
riding through dawn
to a black blanket-covered dusk.

Planted in a cave's tunnel
stretching, face down,
into a deepening gorge.

But a rolling light
from swelling floors
shot up to a swinging cerulean sky.

(ii) .

When the clock of my sundial cock
crows and throats
its saw-on-rock tenor,

earth draws down a curtain
of polyester sun
splashed down to float
and flow from the front door

to the closed-in walls
of narrow kitchen vents
breathing out light.

This morning the dark tunnel
makes way to a sweep of light

flying and diving in
from light-slapped balconies
drunk with a cotton sun.

Bouncing in with lances
to grab swords of rays
waved by a summersaulted sky.
Rolled out on floors
below swords of rays and light.

A show of gladiators
waving swords of rays
flipped out to plant a rising pole
of light poking a sunny sky
to bleed out more sun
spouting from a candle-lit horizon.

Unfolding itself slowly
into a pool of daisy rays
flooding the floor
to float and dance in rolling
wheeled moonstones,

as its spray is tiled
with pearls of a new hue.

And soft feet tramp on
across waxy corridors, as outside
gold rays hangs
on ribs and fingers of taupe trees.

(iii)

A ringing spinning sun
jumps down below its bells
onto a green lawn,
spins a larkspur
to widen its mouthpiece,

as it trumpets out
a spring song
with a deep buzz to shoot

and flip out more rays
into stropped swords
and lances cutting through air.

And light pours down
through winter-drained
and scorched bones

and broken phalanges
of unclothed twigs
with no fatty beaming flesh
to cover their brittle ribs.

From a corridor of light
shot down by a sun
perched on the rails of my balcony,

I whistle with a breeze
to carry me
on rails of Winter
to a runway of Spring.
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