A Tributary In Servitude 13 Thunder Among the Hills

carpets the whiteness of earth.

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Hands hitherto apart stretch in unison

to save what is left

of the nemesis of heart— hatchlings of sorrow

peep out of the broken edge— charade of apostolic vagabonds.

Maggots of the aftermath these are which crawl the twin dunghill

which serve me as cheek.

Even when the falconer is nurturing the beaks of assault putridity is the melody of my soul like this rain which bears semblance to my grief.

II. The nettle stings— the flesh rebels

the chameleon of heart clasps empty hands in the air invoking fire

then retires to cover

in the upside-down bowels of a mortar.

Mortars that have seen all the mess

will be torched by the heralds of rain—

I recant the legend of the yam

which wrecked the virginity of the soil then gave the soil a farewell of leaves eloping with the farmer

to the death awaiting its clan.

III. Here, a barnful of sin offerings my ailment defies all treatments bretton woods' prescriptions oriental concoctions

Agony-land, agony-child

all I'm asked is to sit and stare they'll bring me my grave in bed—

father, save me from this rain of sorrows.

They found what belonged to no man and they swore to vanity the land is to be sheared

shelled and skinned—

Vertical horizontal spherical iconographies of

disorder and disorders rain

The man in me bids me stay through the tragic harvests of Negro obedience:

my eyes turn bitter cola my cheeks walnuts...

The hunger will linger on the scars will not heal—

I'll be here by the world's corner exiled from the rituals of my clan

watching a commonwealth of bitterness emerge as monument to a senseless past.

IV. Divination knocks

odu configuration surfaces on the tray of my art:

A TRAGIC OPERA HAS GONE TO TOWN.

Night is daytime, night rain is pay-time, rain

thunder is elegy for the doers, thunder.

Iron bends iron stone splits stones small knives, forked sticks

are growing on the fingers of patience's patients.

Fetch us the medicine-man who cures all maladies with

a dose from the long brass gourd…

V. Nothing is hidden from their sun, nothing,

it licks the secret samples the scheming.

Even when our sight is sealed with black blankets of night— we await the promise

we applaud the storm revealing the beastitude of reigning fowls

It will yet rock the conscience of the eaters

more eggs will fall announcing a messy secret…

VI. The new Babylon

with hordes of refugees trails the harvest where it lent no seed.

And we say we are free, and we say we are wise—

we bury vinegar in each other's spring chanting since we cannot recast

the mould of unity: the dew stop

the dew hangs.

Boa constrictors lie submerged

in the clouds waiting to write the history of rain, of laughter— stones aim at eggs,

guns aim at snails where

two elephants maintain a balance of power.

VII. Burnings and lootings lying and shootings down the precipice—

vain clamour ushers us into

another reign of mortars, of thunder biological, psychological, chemical welfare the second coming—

a grinding of our bones.

Last minute rush to quell

ignition on the Aburi of our bond— hijacked,

turned towards a rage of metals of dust, of rust

of festivals of anarchy

and indoctrination of evil— this recycling of toxic wits…

Come father, before the

reeds of Edom settle on iron tide beating the ash of mortar shells— another lie for the throat of history.

Elegy in which I, myself shall spill my blood, await my resurrection from the land of stones—

whet the raging furnace of death with blood, my blood…

The rain dangles on thread in between the hills— stones lookup to stones hills behold hills

and war is born

and hell is born

the dragons unleashed…

And the angels wait, restless sieving our heaps for light shall we, my people,

deny the thunder

And expect a miracle from the winds, and the gods which deny us, ancestors which betray us,

and our sins which destroy us heartstones which jump ding-dong to earth our world

this pending cosmic elegy…

Chapter end