A masquerade seeks cowries
Beneath raised dust tossed
By feet conversing with the earth.
He shuffles shackled feet
Forward and back
To the call of the spirits.
The drumbeat throbs and trembles
Beneath the canopy of the sky.
Little boys caper about,
Their voices screaming in a duet
To the weaving trees shrieking
With the evening wind.
The masquerade raises one cowrie
To the fading light
And the flute begins its solo.
Soft and slow, it steps
Into the twilight, innuendos
Trailing each tune,
Each breath giving life
To song and dance.
It whispers sly and sweet,
Of gods crumbling to dust,
Of bodies sweet with sin,
Of death on the lips of love,
Of dreams paling with time.
The masquerade sways
To the rhythm that touches
Its raffia skirt and its smoking
Lips whisper portents and doom.
Little girls cover lips over
Avid eyes bright with need,
Their bodies swaying away
From their planted feet,
Away from the taboos
That deny them the sweet scent
Of grass, chirping crickets
And the pregnant moon
As the gods come home to play.
The panegyric and spectacles of traditional Nigerian dances with drums and flutes and of course masquerades have always fascinated me. I have never actually seen such spectacle in its entirety but in the poem above, I try to depict the images that fill my mind any time I think of traditional festivals.
©warpedpoetic, 2019.
