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