Circles of Light
for D.V.H.

landscape, moonscape, seascape

escape evening falling

sun into the sea
instead of upon your toe
or upon your head

out of the sea,
the sun fell into, the moon rises

light you do not have to be an eagle
to stare into


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
3:44 a.m. 20.11.08

Unable To Turn Her Off
for S.R-S.

we used to do
what boys and girls do,
kiss and screw

used to make stew,
we ourselves in it,
and eat it with wheat bread
out of the toaster
or out of the microwave
with butter added

without me, she used to go to the movies

with a bucket of pop corn with butter
in the darkened theatre
she’d sit and watch
and laugh and cry


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
4:21 p.m. 20.11.08

Missing You
for t.l.c.

used to eat your pussy like ice cream
used to eat your pussy until snow fell

whatever happened to our intimacy
to our cup of tea
how hot it used to be

will I have you again this Christmas
with ginger snaps

will you snap crackle and pop
what of a bottle of wine to uncork


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
8:20 p.m. 20.11.08

Kwame Dawes
for Nicolette Bethel

i.
this to inform me
to read and to read me

this complex tea
complexity of this sweet
of this street

it could be a kick in the pants
a kick in the teeth

or a kiss
a treat, a trick

it can be tricky
living on this street

children at play
bikes in the air, backfiring

fire crackers exploding
at times too near

this to read and to read me
evening falling, Christmas coming

art needs to rise up, artists too

I have, all my life
admired monks in monasteries

saying prayers, saying mass
growing what they grow
doing what they do

was it Brother Henry
who used to bake bread
bake sweets, bake other treats
who passed away not long ago

his monastery bread has disappeared
from food store shelves

ii.
who to look to for leadership
away from politicians,
away from politics

though politics is impossible
to look away from
or to get away from

artists are my mentors
writers, painters, composers,
film makers

friends are my mentors
some say I mentor them too

how democratic the conversation is
what a fair exchange

skipping rope, the other turning
to jump into, out of, into

the conversation extended
are books exchanged

books exchanging hands
books across language gaps
to get to know, to learn to read

Atlantic meets Pacific Ocean
Caribbean Sea meets other seas

lakes, rivers, fjords, seas
merging, negotiating, in conversation

my trickle of words, trickle out
are added

extract of vanilla
to add to what I’m making
to what I’m baking

iii.
thought they were
the Christmas tree
or Christmas trees erected

Susan Wallace, Rupert Missick
Ashley Saunders, Robert Johnson
Norris Carroll
to hang ornaments on

grand mother’s graying hair
for broaches with butterflies
with other winged things
to clip on, stick in

touches of elegance even in old age

what are we to hang our ornaments on
or stick them in
if not upon a Christmas tree
if not within a head of hair

when what we thought we had
is missing

what we thought erected
has come down

and we must, all over again
erect, set up, put in place
what had been standing

ourselves, become fixture, structure
wall to hang pictures, memorabilia on

what happens when
forgetting has occurred

erasure like the erasure/eraser
which slavery was

over and done with, what was done

left with people in ecstasy
hysterical, singing Gospel songs,
stomping and clapping

iv.
why are we still
at this late date,
this late in the day
passing in, passing up
our poems our papers as
if to be marked

why are we still writing
as if for a grade
and not for life

old bulb blown
light bulb to change

lines of verse, these threads
manufactured to specification
to screw in, to screw on

imported bulbs, when these blow
I want to be able to throw them out

implant my own
our own enabling us
to see as much, to see as well, to see as far

why are we still, at this late date,
this late in the day
passing in, passing up
our papers, our poems
as if to be marked

I want what I write to be pure light
light from- as well as added to

the sun, the moon and stars

v.
don’t want, don’t need
a million dollars

like Mother Theresa,
like others similarly devoted

for health and strength
for motivation as well as reward
to do my work, to labor and to serve

what I need, all I need
is Holy Communion

no carpet or elaborate curtains
or wall paper

take these up, take these down
strip these away

I need to rough it and to enjoy it

I need the comfort of discomfort
I need sufficient and no more

my need, to teach others about enough
to be such an example

how rich the life of Merton was
with what wealth of inspiration
was he blessed

so many with so much comfort
of various cancers dying

little left to make a difference
to instruct or to guide

who live to heap abundance up
here on earth
in the end, beneath a heap of dirt

what have they added up to
or taken away
what difference did they make

so many live selfishly, selfish lives
nothing to show
for all they ate and drank
for all they horded

vi.
able to make do
make an art of this

bread dipped in Communion wine
organ music in Notre Dame de Paris

all about us, especially up above
breathtaking colors
patterns of stained glass windows

we in worship in so many ways
in so many places, what a din

how dim the light grows
how dim it gets

intensity of what’s divine,
this to see by,
by this to journey far

vii.
people in captivity
indigenous and from Africa

escaped, not only across land
hid, not only in other lands

but disappeared, through integration
into others or into each other

into whomever welcomed
offered their differences as sanctuary
as shelter

disappearing as if into night
as well as into light

embracing otherness
racially, culturally
as well as otherwise

altering identity
in order not to be located
not to be found ever again

way beyond the actor’s mask
becoming his face


viii.
want to, when the book is read
when I get up off the toilet seat

wipe off and feeling fresh and clean
refreshed and clean

go out into Key West or into Mexico City

what if I could/wish that I could
choose the city outside my door

shower and dress and step out
into whatever season I wished
even New York, covered in snow
and wearing boots, crunching through
crushing snow

or Paris, metro to catch

in no time flat
on Champs-Élysées
or Boulevard Saint-Michel
or get off the train and go on foot
to Jardin du Luxembourg

whatever city I wished
reward for having read

out of the toilet
and into whatever space I desired
or chose

right outside, just outside
my front room door

ix.
unable to tell from poems I write
the degree to which
I live in fear of the Lord

unable to discern
the depth of this fear
and that it is perpetual

no vacation from it ever
whether I’m masturbating
or having sexual intercourse

what I pen down,
pin down or try to always

are prayers, whispered to me
voices from above blue skies

my attempt always
is to write angel songs

angels in chorus, without end
in my ears, singing

my wish is to help you to,
to cause you to hear them

do I fail to
have I failed them,
have I failed you

x.
I want to turn you on
and leave you running
while I’m dressing,
while I’m undressing

I want to turn you on
and leave you running

you’ve left me running, truth be told,
for ten years, since you got me started

no where around, no where about
and I’m turned on, unable to turn off

my engine idling
at times I’d rev it up
or you would, from afar

unable though to switch off
what you switched on

with pussy hairs
you’d sprouted like snow fall

what a season commencing then
commencing when the door opened

and there you were
clothed in maturity, in nothing more

I in awe

xi.
I have to be outside it seems
with the barking dogs,
in the pouring rain

this instead/ here instead
of happily married

second set of family members
to embarrass, to be concerned
about my well being

about the image I bring
about what I take away or add

unable to bring respect
a doctor does, a lawyer does

in trouble land, a troubled man
seeking upheaval, undulation
rather than comfort zone

in the street, in the rain
is where I, like flowers, bloom

xii.
pink rose of her lips
petals offered for lips to crush

crush of four lips
in white clouds, in blue sky

xiii.
unable to get any of my players to work,
pushing, shoving cords

attachments, plugs, drop cords
to no avail

slap up my CD player,
it still refuses to respond

what an urge I have to hear Brandy
to remember you and me

want to anyway
even without this singer’s music,
without her assistance

look straight back at us,
at you rushing into womanhood

memories sharp and clear
make my cock stiff

recall us to arouse me

object or let me draw upon you bare
out of the water, dripping,
to be dried off

do I recall or do I forget
our marriage extended

or do we, do I seek divorce

xiv.
what did I stumble into,
in through
a part of now, forever more

two brothers with nine additional siblings

all in all they’ve seven or eight fathers
I one of them
with money to provide

contributed sperm cells
must now find money
for the collection plate

congregation of men
to fertilize a dozen eggs


xv.
time to disrobe
this one or that one
someone or other
right down to the bone

here from elsewhere
from here and there

teaching career
which had taken him places
abruptly ended

no body knew
not even those closest to him
not even colleagues
in his Science Department

his house was a boat
anchored off shore

back and forth to work
he went on motorbike

missing a few days
without word or sign

they got to him finally
found him on his house-boat
on the toilet

he’d begun to stink
and the maggots were on him
falling off him

his flesh falling off him
decomposing

antithetical to
what I’ve composed here
or have tried to

stirred by the possibility
of similarly dying in solitude

offspring of flies
tickling when and where

you’re unable to feel it
unable to enjoy it


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
Written between 4:45 p.m.,
Saturday, November 15, 2008
and 2:30 p.m., Monday,
November 17, 2008.