The Lonely Bridge Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In a storm
of onyx clouds,
I step up
to a bridge over
a river,

hurling off
swollen debris
sinking
eroded bank silt
into
the bottom
of whirlpools,

still digging
other holes
across
a river stretch,

as waters
splash over
themselves,
hills of waves
stretching,

no fisherman
riding its waters
but my eyes,

as I paddle
a heavy canoe
of me,

tilting over
swelling waters,
as I walk

across the bridge
from bank
to bank.

From ripple
to ripple,
every peek
a trip
to wallowing waters
in a deluge.

(ii)

No honking
motorcycles,
no trailers,

no drumming,
booming
and thundering
train.

No trumpeting
twenty-ton
lorries,
but only a wingless
bird of me
crossing.

And I now know
life is not
lived in a couch,

but on the slab
of an undulating
arched bridge

swinging
back and forth
like a hammock

flapping
wings over
a crocodile-infested
river,

the bridge
extending for miles
but not
hitting the wall
of an anchorage.

(iii)

I ride
and pedal
myself through
all afternoon,

but not
cutting off
the bridge,

as it trails
and tracks me,

waving flags
of hollow air
at me,
as I look
behind,

my breezy head
pushed forward

to steer
me along
a lonely bridge
I now lose
sight of.

(iv)

And I veer
into the home
of my inner
bowl,

the bridge
leading
only to me,

the beast
I carry
but don't splay

to have
a full view
of its hills and valleys

covered
by charcoal
and onyx clouds
under
the dome of me

with no loop
to peek at
all the hills and cliffs
and promontories

carrying
lighthouses, their
emerald
and red beacons

etching out
corners
of my inner bowl
I don't know
under hot pink rays
of dusk

burning out
a galloping night.