Angry Poetry
for Pat Paul

i.
very well made
like I like my Kool-Aid

could stir her up
could stir her round

I’m all stirred up
since seeing her
since our encounter

this way, that way
with big spoon in punch
in big soup pot
in cake batter

she is made of so many things
of so many meals

eaten over ages of days
three a day and in between

treats and sweets
for sweet tooth
a sweet mouth

these in her accumulated
saturated, honey-like
honey bees, nectar-like

her flower petals open
I’d like to sniff where these join

where they gather
I’d like to enter there
enter where

petals leave an opening
for rain and snow
and sunshine

ii.
where can I run from this heap
from this pit

I need to pull my fridge plug,
take flight
Czechoslovakia, Cuba

here on earth, oh, God
away from this no place,
this no man’s land

was this ever home for me
home to me

this roughness, rough necks
to rub up against since I was born

is this their comfort zone
or are they wretched too

my heart bleeds poems
like some container
leaking something precious

I suppose poetry
is the only country
I’ve ever been at home in

a citizen of

iii.
don’t get upset about nothing
about no body
about zombies

foolish to seek footsteps
to expect flesh and blood

someone who disappeared
from this planet, from this realm
centuries before being born

who thinks he’s a star
is not even lit, not a bit bright

iv.
whiff of a woman
with her period on
going by

smell of it, of this, antithetical
to the smell of perfume

this I suppose
is what inspired
the manufacture of fragrances

concentrated, bottled and sold
bought and sold

supplied/demanded
this intense dynamic

v.
there has to be somewhere
upon this green, round earth
where I can take what I do
and wed it to income,
to earning a living

be able to translate it, trade it
for food to eat, clothes to wear

I write poetry as naturally
as readily as I breathe air

vi.
left out in the cold
to make it warm
to make it spring

make flowers bloom
birds sing

left out in the cold
to catch a cold
to catch a check

I sigh and ice melts
and soon
it’s summertime

vii.
want to plant the seed that I am
in the land, in the country
I’m from

and spring from there
so I’d belong to it

I want to connect
the land with the sea

the fish with the fisherman
the farmer with the field

as I am to my pen connected

one in my fist
which I can’t put down

viii..
evasive bullshitter,
sidestepper

I’m angry still
though I’ve calmed down

thought I’d spent it all,
all my ire

seething still

I want my 4 shillings back
with interest

lent it to him ages ago
before the money change’

when he was
a construction worker

came down off scaffolding
around what’s now
The Beaumont House
to bum 4 shillings for lunch

in Paradise now, in suits now
never gave me back
what he borrowed
what he owes

I want it, with interest

$40, I suppose, would cover it

on top of which
I’d permit him my 3 books free

that is if he can read

ix.
get off the bus
because the music’s playing

because I do not like it loud
do not like it playing

get off the bus
because the music’s playing
so the music’s paying

I thought the buses were running
for passengers/because of us
we who were paying

so the music’s playing
so the music’s paying


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
Written between 10:36 a.m.
and 10:56 p.m. on Friday,
December 19, 2008