The Muses

Oh! Great sages of blema
here I come once again
my voice has gone blunt
and in need of whetting
I am going to the forge
to saddle my voice again
at the foot of the brook
where orchids hung from
the nooks of prehistoric oaks
to defy baobab of the savannah.

There is no propitiation here
but the invocation of the sages
here, your salt, honey, palm oil
cola nuts and cowries
I have not forgotten
to bring packages of tasseled lion hackles
I have once wrestled my gourd
from the whirlwind alone
and sustained a mortal scars
as a solitary stipple of prowess.

I call on Tutu, I call Avakpe
Ayidzolu and Agbadzo
neither in distress nor for a war dance
but to guide me to the waterfall
at the sprawling foot of the rainbow
and help me catch the spray
from the eaves early at dawn.

I am the great Hunnour
who does not initiate in the sacred Yeve
for when the head has gone awry
in the omega mood of astral trip
no priests can restore
but only by the wise gods of blema.

That is why I set forth early
at dawn with the dews to wait
at the forge where only gods
and goddesses eat orchids for breakfast
and belch rose petals to soothe
the aching hollow heart of mankind.

Written by

Dela Bobobee(c)