Doors to Eris

By Felix Bongjoh

Using Eris - the largest of the dwarf planets beyond Neptune - as a symbol of finality or goal, the ultimate, a lucid possibility, a brilliant clue, a way out of anything, and from a metaphysical perspective, what happens beyond imagination and what transcends life on earth, the poet explores ordinary facts of rural and urban life, encompassing the multiple themes of cultural and personal inter-relational values, including love, compassion, war, solitude, man’s interaction with nature, etc. Accordingly, the poet draws his imagery from various down-to-earth experiences and universally familiar scenery to drive home specific ideas. For the most part, the local color consists of commonplace geographical sceneries and characters with recognizable traits with which the reader is able to associate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781490797113

Felix Bongjoh

Felix Bongjoh, currently living in Boston, Massachusetts, is an International Human Capital Development Consultant, who previously worked for an international organization for some 30 years. In addition to the present twenty-fifth book, Saddle On Thunder, Bongjoh has previously published 24 books of poetry, as follows: (i) Chorus on a Bridge; (ii) Broken Gloss of Bliss; (iii) Nightfall at Dawn; (iv) When Dusk Hoots; (v) Weeds of Jewelry; (vi) Season of Flowers; (vii) The Ineluctable Spin; (viii) Gloom’s Sprout of Love; (ix) Spectrum of Zephyrs; (x) Whistles in the Wind; (xi) The Sun Still Glitters; (xii) Cliff of Sirens; (xiii) Quiet Shadows Scream; (xiv) Angle of Angels; (xv) Sculpted Out of Sky; (xvi) Feathers of Fur; (xvii) Through Sundry Waves; (xviii) Beyond Dying Ripples; (xix) Doors to Eris; (xx) Outskirts of Inner Bowl; (xxi) Ebbing Out, Bouncing Back; (xxii) Tailored To The Stars; (xxiii) A Storm Wave’s Reach; and (xxiv) Isles Of Light.

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Copyright 2019 Felix Bongjoh.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-9710-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-9711-3 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Trafford rev. 08/30/2019

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Contents

Doors to Eris

Light Again

Beech Tree

Horizons

Uncrackable Nut

Garden Bible Class

Born and Bred in Chains

A Prisoner’s Venus

Handwings

Shadows and Doodles

Inverted Funnels

Marching Hawks

A Detainee’s Face

Kites

Day and Night Bloom Together

An Afternoon Mourner

Burning in Flames of Guilt

Red Admiral

Sky Lands on Earth

Laughing Mouths

Moonballs

Through The Gates of Bimbia

The Old Man’s Family

Bees and Hummingbirds

The Monarch’s Flower

Chanting Days Bark

The Duiker Prize

Suns and Stars

A Tide’s Love Journey

The Old Man’s Album

Sleep’s Trash Dump

Low Shaved Season

Slaughtered Pupa

Freed A Red Spotted Butterfly

Moon in White Ants

Lake on a Dining Table

Unguarded Treasures

Daylight Blanket of Dusk

The Helmet

Dumped in a Gulch

Lilting moments

Burnt-down hospital

A rejuvenated Road

The reunion

A day of timely reckoning

The Flame That Won’t Burn

Pot-holed City

Truncated streets

The Office Watchman

This book is dedicated to Agnes Josiane Bongjoh, my beloved departed daughter

Doors to Eris

Monstrous cloud,

headgear

of a cruising falcon.

Neck scarf

of the falcon

bloated

to the edges

of a super bowl’s

overcrowded

space folding over

itself until

a black blanket thickens,

is pulverized

into thick chimney soot.

Breeding flames

of a darker

night

in the tallest heights

of the sky,

where doors to Eris

open to gusts of air,

close, open

and close again

and open open

open, opening further,

(i)

when a fleeing

porcupine slips out from

a lion’s

scratching paws,

and sinks into depths

below

a craggy-edged cliff,

the lion breaking

its neck

against a spiky tree

stump,

its legs trapped

in the thorny,

spiky mouth

of creeping plants,

tentacles

crawling like snakes,

as the lion growls

and bleeds

in a river

of its own blood.

The porcupine

in a dome of reeds

and grass,

rolling itself over

in the glowing

ashes of Eris,

a new life beginning.

(iii)

How often do men

slip by Eris’ doors

to find themselves

deep in jungles

of snakes,

when grasshoppers

at their feet

chirp and chart out

a soft track

through the flying sparks

of a blacksmith’s

garden, behind welded

artefacts,

where Eris’ largest

door opens

to new life?

Light Again

(i)

They’re quietly marched

Out of Jupiter’s cell,

Where they’ve been

Breathing in night,

Smelling black flowers,

Seeing shadowed

Silhouettes of themselves,

Drinking dark corners

Of Kola Superdeep Borehole

To quench a thirst

For bare bodied sun

Somewhere in the Ceres

Of their dumped minds,

Doors to Eris closed,

For they’re astronauts

Not yet about

To land anywhere,

Trapped in a deep

Sac of space to drown

In the stormy waves

Of a wild sea overflowing

On banks of their

Overstretched sleeves,

On which nothing grows

Above a sprouting

Dwarf flower of hope

Petals shriveled

In the boundless

Stretching fire

Of a freewheeling

Sparrow

Riding the skies.

(ii)

If the sun were ocean

They’d drink in all,

Each walking out

Of a mile-deep dungeon,

A fat drunk fish

Still missing a water mass

Of undulating nights

On desert-dry land,

In which their gills

Have been so overworked

They’re airless,

Lungless, selfless, no inner

Core molding them

Back into tall-headed bipeds,

Into long-necked

Bustards eyeing one

Gill-less Fish,

A falcon-winged freedom

They still cannot catch,

Nor woo to nibble

Off a long worm of a bait

But still breathing through

Glances they dart

At each other seeing

Only a statuette of his ghost

Trailing behind

An elephant of his silhouette

Flipping over its trunk,

Saying nothing, doing

Nothing with their eyes’ hands

That stare