Hawkins Hill

i.
Clifton Ambrister

why don’t I have the hook up
why have I instead, the hiccup

ii.
Vanessa Linden

fed up with me yet
with friendship
with needy me,
with neediness

must you shed me like leaves
should I prepare
to be dropped like a weight

like a date from a palm tree
one from an orange bunch

how nervous I am
about depending
about dependency
after having ascended

what I was a part of though
a part of then
apart from now

my father’s enterprise

chicken farm, cattle farm
sheep and goats to raise, to feed

green pigeon peas to fill sacks with
pigs squealing to feed
and to get pork from

mutton to sell
and eggs and cheese

ham to slice and sausage
sugar to weigh

I too used to keep shop
I too had customers to serve
I wore your shoes once

armed with a pen, with poems
once with bow, with spear
we hunted, we gathered

what you serve
you pump into cups
customer’s names on them

wish I were legitimate

I’m your illegitimate child
hungry, crying for soy milk

iii.
Robert Johnson

exposure to what
only the wretched knows

the blows which break the nose

this to write with, to write about
to inspire art

how can I, without exposure to reality
rare, raw,
taste blood
offer it up

such a cup, such a supper

he eats the breakfast of champions
some for breakfast, have champagne
I somewhere in between

walking over Hawkin’s Hill
writing poetry in the dark
a little afraid

he is the scary element
in such areas

timidity is the cloth
of which my outfits are made

my pen in a trembling hand
heart skipping a beat

as I go about
this city streets

iv.
Palm Wine

the left out are having a party
and you’re not and we’re not invited

party we used to have
we can no longer have

because they would crash it
would crush it

crush us like crushed ice


©Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Written between 6:55 p.m.
and 10:46 p.m. Tuesday,
March 3, 2009