Chants for the Masters
Chants,
voluble. Tremors from footholes of mountains
and green places . . .
From spurts of melodies they come,
chants of our land
chants of our masters
and chants of ceremony
Virgin tempo,
with reverence and arrangement of cowried ankles
and bodies that speak of soot,
eyes powdered in white . . .
Restless Chants,
preserved for the Masters
anthems and pledges, oaths
and allegiances
to those who witnessed the day
invaders scaled the city walls
without shame.
Chants,
redolent of native blood,
omu, ogirishi and nzu;
with syncopations treading heavily
on this clammy, humus ground
and sprinkled with articles of
common ancestry;
and feathers which speak of the
eagles that sired the hawks and
the kinsmen of royal birds;
and there were femurs from
baptized reptiles who have never
squelched in rancid mud for the
first time;
and elements of vegetation thrived —
animated spear grass and achara,
becoming tools that spoke in this
fiesta;
beads scattered and flung, and yet
held in place by throbs coming
from hollow grounds, excavated heaths
and re-greened holes . . .
Chants.
Spelling names and occupations of
town criers and the village folks;
tempos revealing deeds and valour
and journeys to where chameleons
have made their borders . . .
These deeds they spelled of the Masters,
whose bodies alone fell to the invaders —
sons of sophists —who wrecked our
city.
Chants,
heroes’ epic unknown,
dirges un-deciphered,
methods of assembly —principles only
of patriotic chanters,
with fire and pain in their stomachs,
chanting Chants for the Masters.
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