Forest Trees
for N.I.

I looked up Saturday
and there you were
almost in the space
within which I stood
within a ring together

outside of it though
how hard you are to reach
to get hold of

my mind leaps to when we met
evening Michael Pintard
and I read -- Janyne Hodder
present, C.O.B. President

you who were most important
to the hoofs of my heart, beating,
making music, leaving hoof prints
as distinct as the horse
of Jesse James, riding into town


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
7:36 a.m. 28.01.08

Ship I Captain
for Nacoya Ingraham

i.
Lord enable me
to put her, to push her
in poetry

crate of unwanted kittens
under water, get rid of them
be rid of them

desire her as much
as such kittens
are undesirable

want to keep her as badly
as who chooses
to drown kittens
to remove them
from their lives

wanting their presence
in their lives, rubbed out

I want to draw her to keep
write this poem to make her last

want laughter, hers, in my heart,
bubbling with my blood
happiness like hers
to exist for

as many years between her and me
as existed, as separated,
Picasso and Marie-Thérèse Walter

like them, could we make art together
or will Nassau come between us,
get between us

not possessing Paris’ anonymity,
its devotion to art, its art-centredness
which permitted, still permits
sacrifices for art, for beauty

I’d like to take a stab
at a few portraits
as just-born, as fresh as she is

ii.
why was she touched
was she tickled

so open and trusting
laughter never shutting off

what if I were a dirty old man

this did not seem to matter
to phase her, or cause her to fear
her response, dear to me

by what was she so turned on though
and not superficially

react to such appearances
to such reactions usually
in this religious, constipated town

a smile could shut off
like a door in your face

but she flirted
with my heart and soul
happiness lasting, it seemed, eternally

I can teach her a few things
about words

is she open to learn
I’d do it willingly, gladly

my reward, her laughter
state of happiness
she invites me to visit
unusual joie de vivre

who could explain happiness
sufficient to mine

offset a sad state of affairs
alleviate fears
thick enough to cut with hack-saw

out of where did she come
into my sulking about life

believe in happiness
she seems to invite

I’m willing

iii.
beauty queen,
vivaciousness to burn

belief she has in happiness
I have lost, I’d like back

where able to locate it
locate happiness in Nassau
among these islands
in this land

with its layers of history
one burning the one
which went before

this town
with its cult of modernity
its gadgets, its gadgetry

as many, with as many to draw
as guns in the hands
in the days of cowboys

read me a poem
filled with promise
gift wrote it

I need a close look
a longer time

seventeen,
just out of diapers
just out of high school

tall and lovely
won’t want to push, to put
unhappiness up in her

happy as she is,
want her to affect me,
afflict me with laughter

it seems she was born
in Inagua in ’89

year I resigned from teaching
to go to Paris

where can I go
what can we do together
with the Punch listening, looking

what of choices
which are not scandalous

but here, what’s most innocent
can be twisted

I exist outside
of what is considered
this country’s culture

artist like me,
though so very much younger,
can we exit,
find a bench somewhere
to sit and spit out poems

bib so we won’t waste them

falling from our mouths

lap to fill with apples, plums

we picked an abundance
off of each other

iv.
someone to watch my films with,
to spend quality time with

a mystery that everyone’s
so tied up, chasing after what

round and round
in this small town
eager to catch up
but with who, with what

I have what it takes
with too few to join me,
in pursuit of perfection, art,
to refine creativity
creativity lost, tossed, to refine

enough of word-play
in need of someone
to play with, work with, stay with
how available is she

lonely days and lonely nights
to end with company
with companionship

in movies, in novels, in art, in frames
in the spot light, women with men

is my ball point pen
too slim for a woman, friend
to join me

stand with me, tall and side by side
with ink, slide forth onto paper

like a couple, winding down
a water slide
in a heap at the end of it
at the bottom of it

time for fun and frolic

v.
as un-guaranteed
as attachments are
I’m drawn to her

two people, able to click
and to cling,

free-will takes us apart,
pulls us apart

what could two hearts do
to join, to stay thus

I stay in tact, in touch with me
how though, do I contact another,
the other sex

I think of pairing off
with who is a fraction of my age

recipe for futility, receipt for futility,
this poem I write

wish it could be otherwise
wish she were different enough
to permit us friendship

someone to assist,
artist to uplift, to enlist

this army needs soldiers
even female ones

to carry on, to carry out
what was started last evening,
last millennium, in a past life

does she remember me
from a realm where
souls are all one same age

vi.
what of her emotional equipment

how many gears has she got
in addition to laughter, to offer
to share, to teach me

has she room for fair exchange
for all I’ve got to offer

where has she to put my parts,
my heart

what of a pen stand, a pencil holder,
a pencil sharpener

vii.
empty for what, for who

how much
can laughter occupy, fill up

her seventeen years
in my emptiness

filled or would I be empty still

at her tender age,
could she understand hurt,
life’s complexities

prepared or not
to entertain these

or dolly-house days
doll days, not too long ago
ended

I’m in this deep ocean
too long from shore
to be sure of my location
of how far I’ve come
from I’ve started

could she get on my boat,
ship I captain

join me in the cabin
or would she board in Inagua
just to get to Nassau

outer darkness,
where I am oftentimes,
come in search of poems

appetite for ice cream
for my scream

would she join me
beneath where
the train passes over
to holler unheard

cathartic ally
therapeutic ally
as in Cabaret

come to the cabaret with me,
to Germany
even without a film crew

dream-like, dream life, extreme life
no taste, distaste for what’s ordinary

extraordinary young woman
who makes me write,
wide awake all night

viii.
bubbling beautiful
bubbling beauty

until the sun came up
unable to see your face
unable to see you laughing

knowing you’d haunt me
haunt art for ages

small head, sweet face, tall girl

feet in slippers, almost bare
examine your toes, your thighs
slimness in pants

look at you hard
look at you soft

don’t want to lose you
or loose you

lines I’ve drawn
to draw you to me

poetry like strings
poetry has strings
to keep us attached

no strings attached
way to remain connected

ix
must write poem after poem
until a poem writes itself

like lightning writes
across night sky

similarly, signature of God
world in his hand, word his own

whatever he makes with hands,
with words

me as well as you
as well as poems

infinitely unique
infinitely well made


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
written between 2:10 a.m.
and 2:47 p.m. 09.09.06

Revisit It
for T.L.C.

threw up in your draws
now I fill it
with poems
fill it with flowers

my apology
do you accept it
do you accept me

want to be able
to look in your draws
to get into them

pull them off
pull them out
shove them shut

miss pussy, how it tastes
miss its meow


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
2:20 p.m. 30.01.08

In What Key
for Robert Johnson

we sing songs, according to
the mood we’re in, don’t we

similarly, meter, chords
of our poetry, governed
by the mood we’re in,
aren’t they


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
6:43 a.m. 30.01.08

A Poet’s Place
for Lorna Goodison

words lived in
like shoes well worn

words of my poems
not from my pen

words I write
like pens pigs live in

like old tennis shoes
at times, unfit
to drag into the house,
left upon
the WELCOME mat
at the door

or outside the kitchen door
at the back of the house

at times my words, worn
as well as chewed upon
by pets


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
5:17 a.m. 30.01.07

Travelers Rest
for S.S.

I am her shadow
don’t need anything
to eat or to drink

automatically
I’ll partake of
her conch chowder,
bread served with it
and I’ll drink her tea

nothing at all for me
shadows have no need
to drink, no need to eat

always watching my weight
what would a shadow be
if not as thin as could be
if not as flat as the floor

what if a shadow
got too big to get
through the door


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
9:55 p.m. 29.01.08

Ice Sea Beauty
for J.B.

write about me
what’s right about me
you’re wrong about me
write about me anyway
if you will, if you please

what, I wonder
does she expect me to see
does she expect me to say

is truth a pill
she’s able to swallow
a bill she’s able to pay


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
8:56 p.m. 27.01.08

Boots Steps
for Fred D'Aguiar

aren’t we part of
the calamity of Columbus
can we expect divorce

he came here and we came into being
beans, beam of light, beam of life

someone ignited at a gas station
a gallon of gas and a cigarette lighter
or was it a match

Columbus has made
all that has happen since possible

are we saying that he is or was God
were we created then

is the Caribbean the Garden of Eden
was 1492 not just day-before-yesterday

is the intestines of history
not a much longer road
a much longer journey

should we submit to the knife
scalpel even sharper
than a night on a slave ship

have that length of history,
of our alimentary canal, removed

can we live without slavery
that length of time in us
like a serpent coiled inside us
is it time we killed it

itching and scratching
for centuries and since
unable to find cure

about time we did


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
11:13 p.m. 27.01.08

Lord, here me!
Hear me!

Sky Balloons Fill
for Tia

balloon that I am
they knock to burst
I let them, I welcome this

not as thin-shinned as they imagine
this balloon’s made of hide
like that of goat or cow or donkey

often times used to fashion drums
to beat music from, to beat music out

I let them hit this balloon that I am

what they intend to burst
they hit higher into the air
where I am trying to get to


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
6:57 p.m. 27.01.08

Divide Us
for J.B.

shower curtain, frosted glass

I hear the water running
I know she’s in there bare

how fast my heart beats
to behold her, to wrap
her wet body about
with big towel, big hug

kisses to cover her with
jaws full of strawberries
thoughts upon the rocks

the sea washes in
poet dreaming up words

sea birds, sea gulls


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
5:28 p.m. 26.01.08

Ice Buckets
for T.L.C.

i.
until she stretched
until she screamed
came quarts
of ice cream

want her
hot to trot
good to go

with me always

unable to get along
without her
go anywhere
or do anything

ii.
kitten I love, I have
won’t let leave the house
not even to catch a mouse

my mouse,
the only mouse
she’ll ever need

however greedy she is
however hungry she gets


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
9 a.m. 26.01.08

Leave Our Souls
for Tia

desire from her,
responses to my poems

impatient for responses
sulk when these
are not forthcoming

my poems of her
already from her

poems she sends
assume, are from me

though from my hand,
poems I pen down
her essence, her substance

these in my fist
when I imagine
it is my pen I grip

must grip gently
grip gentleness


© Obediah Micheal Smith, 2008
8:12 a.m. 26.01.08

Adding Subtracting
for T.L.C.

i.
don’t want anything from you
want to swallow you whole

hold you, take you apart,
put you together bit by bit

want to toy with you
toy of you, of us two

ii.
am I asking too much
expecting too much

dish, that, this
must not drop it
whatever’s in it

want to take you apart
sliced peaches

only inside me
you’ll be whole still

whole beets dug up
out of my garden
dirt upon them still


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
7:29 a.m. 26.01.08

Words for A Tattoo
for J.B.

i.
while her eyes are still lit
all the candles upon, about the altar
to light for mass, from her soul’s fire

my poems are as sacred as they are profane

ii.
turning back through so many pages
for a thought, lost, misplaced,
somewhere in my mind,
before I could get it down on paper,
get it on my computer screen

iii.
why Bride of the Wind,
why Gustav Mahler’s wife,
why Oska Kokoschka, all in my mind,
on my mind, why Gertrude Stein

portrait Picasso made of her, upon her wall
what can I do to make you last

face to appropriate, adopt into art
a citizen, a resident, or elsewhere as well
a foot of shoe on, the other foot bare

dare to ask, I dare to write
rather than behind your back,
making art with your permission

ah, the difference is, Stein’s portrait
was a commission, a professional arrangement
with price attached, portrait in frame
in the flame of fame

a man he loved, his patron,
subject of a large percentage
of Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets

iv.
grab a flower by its throat, sniff its fragrance
instead of doing this, I’m beating around the bush
reading you art history, like reading you your rights

I’m timid, is why, not daring to touch you
though you’ve touched me
picked me up like a puppy in a pet shop
one you might buy

I’d sleep upon your feet to warm them
were you to transport me home

here in this pet shop, among gold fish, parakeets, rabbits
birds and animals everywhere, I await adoption

you’re suppose to be my subject
instead I want to grow big in your arms
I want to bark for you, bark out words

bark at the stars, the moon


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
12:18 a.m. 26.01.08

Nutmeg

bare, stare
woman enough
take picture
hair here, hair there
high shoes

snap herself
eye in camera eye

amazing how she fits
how she’s situated
rectangular two pages

hips off the floor
weight upon shoulders
upon high heels

hairy Suzie
against the ceiling

all dressed up
high shoes, bangles,
watch, rings


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
1:05 p.m. 20.01.08

Alphabet Suits

poems I fashion
suit me, fit me
far better than
clothes I wear


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
5:37 p.m. 24.01.08

3 O’clock
for S.R-S.

all of
these children
in all of
these schools

so many screws
in so many beds

how very public
very private is

a moment ago wiggling

dressed up now
in starched
uniforms


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
3:50 p.m. 24.01.08

Can Beets Can Corn
for Tia & Keith

a poem
must not be
thought up, brought up
like throw up

it must instead
fall down like rain

instead of thought up
must be inspired

muscles of the hands
or even the whole body
must never be
the author of a poem

its author must be elsewhere
must have no address

no way at all to locate
the author of a poem
or who creates art
or the creator of the universe

can the author be contained
in what he creates

can anyone can himself

we must be free
unbottled
to create


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
11:02 a.m. 24.01.08

We Mix
for t.l.c.

bleeding for you

poems all over
my bandaged heart

my heart-shaped
throw rug

my cum in the carpet
where you came too
when you came to

where you also drip

substances to write of,
to write with

poems to wipe up,
to wipe with

my poems are
our body juices


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
10:18 a.m. 24.01.08

Wipe Paper
for T.L.C.

i.
a new phase
a new face
to watch
to see

a new phase
a new face
for my baby and me

journeying on
journeying still

cells of our bodies
cells of our souls
to pass through
pass into

we open for each other
deeper deeper
darker darker

seeking light
all we can stomach

aim to grow up
grow into each other

go until
we know ourselves no more

sufficient, satisfied
to know each other

ii.
I like yellow grits
with gravy

with Long Island
steam’ mutton

is she able
to prepare such a meal

how I miss my mother
how I miss growing up

growing old
will she make it bearable
bear with me
bare with me

in bed to night
her skin and night
one shade

lamp beside the bed
to see to read by
to write poems

we both have pens


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
5:48 p.m. 23.01.08

Sticky Sweets
for T.L.C.

afternoon tea with Tia
tear her lightly buttered toast

munch her peanut butter cookies
crunch her chips

how far have I gotten away
from desire
for her legs about my waist
about my neck
my face in her water melon

until the season of such fruit
to split and eat was over

perennial though
what she grows, what I’d pick

I’ve picked the right girl
after all, needle without eye
not my draw

I’ve selected a little door
which leads certainly
to heaven on high

I might have to get there
upon hands and knees

I don’t mind creeping
I don’t mind crawling
through her melon patch

until larva trickled down


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
2:16 p.m. 22.01.08

What Sun Opens Up
for T.L.C.

overdue to have sex
with you

in a poem I’ve written,
we’re having intercourse

I’m merciless,
you’re enjoying it

I suggest you rip
but you’re made of elastic

can what’s rubbery bleed
bleed like a rubber tree

two gummy
too gummy intercourse

want to be stuck
together with you, with glue
until love arrives,
arises

and not even the sun
ripping night open

to let in day
able to take you and me apart

you’re in my heart
where you’ll remain


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
6:10 p.m. 18.01.08

Love Itch
for T.L.C.

gather her up
every single petal

yellow, pink
or whatever color
withered or recently fallen
and fresh still

must gather her up
before she’s walked upon
trampled into pavement
or into mud

getting to know her better
wrestling my way
into her way of life
her way of being
into her bean shell
up her bean stalk

not as easy any more
to make poems of her
used to be able to
at the drop of a hat-pin

on the floor upon all fours
until I found it

hungry for her still
but the will to write is shifted

Christmas, over and done with
deeper into winter now
she permits me less
other things and other persons
to give herself too

I used to have her on the rocks
like Bloody Mary in a rock glass

how we have whipped
and licked each other
balm as well as pain provided

song on the radio,
Barry White's music
recall a girl I used to go with
used to live with

last time I saw her
she confessed to being
a hundred percent lesbian
I was the last man
she’d been with, gone with,
slept with

suggested I broke her heart
like an arm
out of place
ever since

she brought along
a Barry White album
when she came to visit
to spend a week with me

what a time it was
except for ups and downs
which ended with
the axle of our vehicle breaking
our love van incapacitated

this new fling of mine
my heartthrob
am I too old for love, to take it

boat pitching upon the waves
all the pots upon the stove
having to be chained down

Lord, help me to hold up
and to hold out
however love pitches,
tosses or throws me

allow me to be true
to her, to it, to this
love itch


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
1:36 a.m. 22.01.08

Cup of Worship

empty something
when I masturbate

put it out again
to collect sunshine
to catch rain water


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
7:37 a.m. 16.01.08

Attach Two Sentences
for S.S.

it is to the sentence of life
that we are attached

by the sentence of life
that we are attached

not everyone is
connected to it or by it

not everyone abiding by it,
singing, “Shall we Gather
at The River”

river, the sentence
by which we live, love,
from which we suck life

sentence with its left bank
its right bank

like the Seine, Thames,
Euphrates, Tigris,
Mississippi, Nile

sentenced to prison
as well as to life
as well as to die


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
9:08 p.m. 15.01.08

Filth Upon The Globe

expect the nicest looking persons
to do the nastiest things

who looks angelic
can act like hog
or pig


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
9:01 p.m. 15.01.08

Art Is Vehicle
for Cedric Scott

my art needs
to take me elsewhere

has it not got wings

has it not yet learned to fly
to take to the sky


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
6:50 p.m. 12.01.08


Uwe Ommer

I am invited
by the way she looks
even if it suggests
that you keep away

it is but paradox for me
it is for who could read
to enter
who can’t has to keep out

I enter her heart
through her eyes

enter her life
though she seems not to smile

but how happy we are to meet

waiting a long time
for this mutual agreement

for the look in her eyes
for this poem I’m composing

inspired by beads, bareness,
plaits hanging down

most beautiful woman
ever seen on green earth

but how can I reach her
reach into a picture

I am unable
to get my arms about her,
unable to embrace her
my wish is to keep her

too long now
I’ve been waiting to marry

unable to take
this book of pictures
of the world’s
most beautiful women
to the altar


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
5:33 p.m. 12.01.08

1492 to Now
for Tumelo Mosaka

i.
this is the place
where Columbus landed

this is the place
where he was first received

this is the place
where the argument started

between the old world
and the new

ii.
our being de-emphasized since
is it because we’re flat
no mountains like Jamaica,
Trinidad, St. Lucia,
no Kaieteur Falls, Guyana

or we ourselves
shooting our foot, our selves
putting a picture out there
to attract tourist to sandy beaches

suggest this was what we were
place for taking pictures
scrubbed free of reality

suggest our natives were waiters
our women sitting, platting straw

what does the world out there think of
when they think of us
when they think us up

are we ourselves the reason why
we’ve been excluded
left out of the argument

advertised to the world
by agencies abroad,
sanitized for consumption

that we are real, has that been left out
fact that we are people
dying, struggling, surviving

but feet away from hotels
as if a million miles away

as if we lived underground
or in another world

emerging only to wait tables
make beds, keep pools free
of falling leaves

iii.
this is the place
where Columbus landed

this is the place
where he was first received

this is the place
where the argument started

between the old world
and the new

iv.
does the world know
that we live here
what we do here
that we’re real here
that we’re still here

is the word which goes out
that the natives were annihilated
in the early 1600s

is the thought that even now
there are no natives
rooted, tied, to soil and sea

are we just a beach
is that what is imagined,
when we are thought of
when they look us up or think us up

is this what we perpetuate
to sell ourselves, our sea-sand-sun
should I reach for my gun

kill this image, kill a lie, killing me
is this lie what I am living daily
for tourist dollars

allowing native self, native me
to be rubbed out of the picture
to keep it pretty

let me like that child announce,
the emperor’s wearing not a stitch
he’s as naked as a fish

I see his ass, I see his dick
as naked as the natives were
when Columbus landed

the natives are still here
we’ve not gone anywhere

even though we’re wearing
suits and ties, skirts and dresses

address us, we can hear,
can talk and think, I swear

how tired I am of being asked
to disappear because
the tourists are coming

v.
this is the place
where Columbus landed

this is the place
where he was first received

this is the place
where the argument started

between the old world
and the new


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
5:10 a.m. 11.01.08

Fix Breakfast
for G. Ruiz

I eat, I feast upon
the breakfast
of champions

I don’t eat shit
nor bull shit

don’t try therefore
to force feed me
either

my father had
a strong aversion
to cat shit

keep what you’re calling
music to your self

do not attempt
to entertain me with what
you’re getting off on,
getting high on

I have,
thank you very much,
my very own fix


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
4:23 p.m. 10.01.08

Poets Together Once
for A.H.

open your pores, April,
open your mouth,
let the poems have wings
like a flock of squawking geese,
like paper-light, white and yellow
peanut butterflies


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
8:22 a.m. 10.01.08

Hoops for A Bicycle

such large whole notes
her hoop ear rings

silver light reflected
rings around the moon

hoop earrings
her hair can’t hide

hair obscures her face,
hides her eyes

elegance can’t hide
taste can’t hide
not even in hair

though she is
as difficult to locate
as a needle in hay

tiny beauty I’d take out
I’d take to church

if someone else, with her,
didn’t get there first


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
5:03 p.m. 09.01.08
Tia poem # 67

Double Bass

strings strung between us
music we make
Blues or happy
songs


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
4:39 p.m. 09.01.08
Tia poem # 66

Who Go Off
for Francisco Goya

sent her off,
off she went

sent her off,
sent her mad

went off,
went mad

home again,
but she’s off still

coffee knocked over
coffee spilled


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
2:31 p.m. 09.01.08

Verse Attachments

want to give me up completely

don’t want to keep me
on a slim rope, on a string
on a thread

on a strand of web
what a spider hangs from

don’t want to moor
yourself to me
like a ship to a dock
with ropes the size
of your arms
of your thighs


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
1:46 p.m. 09.01.08
Tia poem # 65