On Cave Hill Campus
for Kendel Hippolyte
if I could say your face,
I’d have seeds to sew,
gospel to spread, spread of marmalade,
mama-made bread
if I could say your face
naturally growing beard, going white
locks like pods of seeds about your face,
about your head
if I could say your face
your head hangs down, heavy,
not with sorrow, not with worries,
with a warrior’s plans
if I could say your face,
a nation in Jah’s name, out of ashes, might appear
but I haven’t a thousand words
to make a face to show the world
John the Baptist, his head upon a platter,
Salome wrung his neck like a chicken’s
a phone number, a wrong number
head of John the Baptist ringing
like a phone off the hook
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
7:55 p.m. 11/july/06
Blood Milk Mix
For Darcy Anderson
“Y’een gur stop,” he said to her calmly,
“till I break sumtin in yur face!”
“Come!” she said, “come!”
daring him to try, daring him to do it
is it violent language or romantic interplay
black-black, pretty-pretty school-age girl
whom, whenever I see her,
glimpse her, my pen fills with poetry
like breasts fill with milk when a woman’s with child
in the face of such a one, such a woman,
a boy threatens to break something, smash something
not cake, not egg, he has a bottle on his mind,
a culture far from mine
he threatens to bloody, to mutilate, a beautiful,
black face
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
8:13 p.m. 10.06.06
Bottle To Uncap
for Nickiesha Clarke
made of cream
tall container to last a long time
is it a tin she's in with lid
or a bottle or a jar
how to get her top off
to get at what's inside
is my worry
is what I'd have to figure out
trial and error
or are there instructions, a label
or does the bottle, can or jar talk
is it cooperative
does she come with instructions
words to direct who wants what's within her
as badly as I, how to get inside
what she contains is smooth
confirmed when we meet, when we part
what quality and what quantity of it
for who's lucky, for who's blessed
want her to run out and not to run out
not to waste
like a container which overturns
or like ketchup, mustard or hot sauce
in a bottle or a jar, dropping, smashing
if she stumbled, I'd want to catch her
before she spilled across the floor
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
10:52 p.m. 07.08.08
Across A Girl
Across The Road
“lem me go!” she exclaims
she complains
some boy or other
always snatching at her
open hand closing
about the back of her neck
half a noose, she wants to be loose
to be free, to be liberated
they want her tied
try time and time again, to tie her up
to tire her
but indefatigably, she strikes back
acts out, acts up
lights out, I make her out,
I hear her mouth
in a group along the side of the road
in dark, lit only by headlamps
of vehicles coming and going
I'm drawn to her, attached to her
though, most likely, she's unaware
as if fishing for her, with lines of poetry
so many of these, as if in dark waters
dangling
my pen, my fishing rod
I a fisherman or a spider with web
with her entangled in it
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
8:17 p.m. 15.09.06
Morning Mass
for Angela & Antonius
I live in the church bell
in the church mouth
like pigeons, their nests in the belfry
like a church mouse, running about
even though I don’t go like I used to
odd hours I keep
up still when the church bell rings
with the roosters crowing
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
6:24 a.m. 15.08.08
Lizards & Other Lovers
a poems for Victoria Sarne,
inspired by reading her poems,
“An Absence of Lizards,”
“Post Mortem” and “Listen,”
from My Soul Sings
Even When I Weep
i.
dare to live with nothing more
than a lizard's tail to hang onto
when that pops, where do you land
you fall into blue ocean
or against the sky
unable to fly when love ends
and you are no angel
and you have no wings
lizard with broken tail to hang on to
to hang out with
and a pencil, lead of which
you hope would not break
like your heart has
before your poem ends
your song rain
ii.
what would it be like
two skeletons having intercourse
refusing to let love end
when they die
without the cushion flesh provides
bony music clacking
clicking upon contact
ribcage through ribcage
fingers interlocking
knocking up against each other
even if they crack up
even if these two
who are no more
break into bits
or gently, carefully,
to be able to return
to their separate jewelry boxes
to emerge again, to meet again
to love again and again
iii.
she picks her voice out of words
the public abuses, misuses
out of garbage, words garbled
she picks up, picks out
multicolored threads
dyed with blood, with tears, with dread
that's her voice, telling past, present
of things to come
if words have power still
to create as well as they relate
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
2:29 p.m. 02.04.07
In Prisms In Paradise
for Bryan Boddy
i.
about as close at present
as we've ever been
able to push in or out
or in and out
inside the verb, inside the word
able to move about
occasionally, upon a limb together
she and I, her and me
together perch, or together fall off
or upon our faces
how careful she is
about the steps she makes
about steps she takes
well kept in her hands
well protected in her hands
clueless though she can be in crisis
with decisions to be made
about which way to go
which way to turn
I turn away from her
have done it time and again
way away from me waiting
until the journey together
recommences
on foot or me on top of her
or her on top of me
heap of love
antithetical to a heap of shit
upon a green lawn
ii.
let our eyes not touch
must not allow it, not two boys
this unbearable business
meeting eyes
admitted between the opposite sex
made uncomfortable otherwise
same sex, eye-in-eye
when locked in hostility
or when about to be
iii.
why why why
women I'm inclined to go after, go for
their usual inclination
to pull away, attempt to flee
and I must go after them
must chase them like cheetah
hungry for deer meat
iv.
just want to know
you go from wall to wall
like water filling a pool up
like air in a room
just want to know
that you leave no gap
the rest
not to be concerned about
like getting the grammar
in the sentence exact, correct
like having served your sentence out
and you can be let out
out of prisms into new ones
full of light
and new life and fresh air
v.
want to look like a million bucks
even if worth but a nickel or a dime
hand in hand or arm in arm with a man
want the world to know or to imagine
your man had all the wealth in the world
diamonds and pearls, gold and silver mines
you two from a whirl of wealth
Rumpelstiltskin, from straw,
spun corn for a princess to savor
to save her from fate's knife
night's knife
for a taste of the good life
vi.
I sense a bull
am I sensible or silly
about art, about Spain
about black and white
about black in white
about what's right
about what's wrong
about who is, who isn't
sense a bull, sensible
or silly about art, about fashion
about Versace, about Italy
about Fellini
who, if anybody, silly about me
will find me irresistible, what I wrote
after I am here no more
dead and buried
I pee poems and I pee actually
the former more than the latter
something that I eat or drink or think
which keeps the poems flowing
it is that the language
needs refreshing always
why it flows through me
like purified water
I purify adjectives
verbs, words
vii.
he wants the world to know
the whirl he’s in
the dicks like axis, he whirls upon
spun from homosexual love affairs
never over, though he’s out of bed
he winds as he goes
anyway, any where he goes
winds wherever he is
viii.
squeeze a lot of people
into a space, into a room
taste after taste after taste
of alcohol
make the fit, make them fit
tighter, more and more snug
connect and tug, rub, rub-a-dub
sparks bound to fly
someone bound to die before it's all over
before the club closes
why we'd squeeze ourselves
into such spaces, such places, a mystery
are we lonely, these situations
are they remedies
my pen fills my fist, I box with it
until I'm sweaty
dance with it, without end
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
12:44 a.m. 27.07.08
Ice Eyes
i. Ayla
call it carried away
say the time was right
say I was inspired
by her dad's women
released from wood
compared with her
breathing, lovely, innocent
as well as aware
in love already
with another poet
a boy I know
history needed such an act added
we were available
to weave such an instant
which cannot be undone
like hair is, when evening comes
undone and down the back of a woman
in her night shift, outfit for bed
and sleep and dreams
ii.
she is not that pretty
and her skin is pale
putty-like, putty-white
chin up
behaves as if she were lovely
many suitors in pursuit
for years
in the country she's here from
she studied ballet
first time I saw her
entering On The Run one evening
I was sitting and writing or reading
air I could not tell
from what or from where
I remember feeling
the suggestion was
she was attractive
though she acted attractive
I didn't think she was
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
10:44 p.m. 31.07.08
