Thursday, July 30, 2009

Rolling Over In Bed
for N.T-B.

I missin you bad bad bad
how many lovers have you had since I left home

unable to get back
as if the weather was bad, as if the seas were rough

something between us keeps us apart
madly in love still, more madly in love now

absence they say and the heart beats faster

mine's thumping like a drum pumping, like you'd not believe
to reach out to you, reach all the way to our nest of eggs

are they warm, life stirring in them
don't know when I last set eyes on you

I can't wait to lay hands on you,
strip you of all but hair and there
and your skin, the color of ground nut meg

I want to smell you, I haven't in a long time
starving to love you, to have you,
to give you all the gifts your arms, your limbs can hold

without falling apart, without fainting away

unable to wait for us to go astray, to stray away
from the crowd in the room around you
hungry for poetry

hungry for you and me to speak broken English
to holler if we want to


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
5:44 a.m. 30.07.09
Max Roach Sticks
for H.L.T.

i.
his sticks vibrate as fast as wings
as if with them his wish was to fly away home

humming bird’s wings when his sticks flew
or he’d use them to strike back
at something threatening

tease it, play with what is venomous
tame what can kill, what has killed others

as quick as matador with cape with his sticks
life and death, what he’s playing with

ii.
surrenders as if a gun was drawn on him
raises his arms, sticks in his fists

like weapons to fight with
sticks with which, upon drums he made music

were you to get near enough
enemy of man, enemy of his, of mine

enemy of mind, he’d whack you
until he disarmed you or until your gun went off
or until you ran away

entered a realm, a room where angels were
not expected who could do what’s impossible
work miracles

not expecting the supernatural

I’d heard of Max Roach, had never met him
even though I must have heard him drumming
for saxophones, drumming for trumpets

jamming with Herbie Hancock, with Miles Davis

iii.
as quick as you had to be with a sword
he is with his sticks

who does he fight with, is he fighting with

when he drums, in battle with who/with what
and would not surrender

or is he rehearsing for some opponent
bound to show up

threat to himself, his family, to the family of man

but he is armed with two sticks
two sticks which he uses quick

sticks with which he can tackle mosquitoes, flies

turn away a plague, threatening to engulf a city
claim several hundred thousand

what is it he’s out to reverse
with his drums, with his drum sticks

iv.
cooking in the kitchen, mixing that, mixing this

eggs broken, emptied out into a dish
he beats, he whips

egg white, egg yolk
integrated until air fills a trillion bubbles

onions and red peppers,
a spatula and hot fat,
breakfast to fix

he knows what to whip and how
who to whip to dress for Sunday school

v.
is it like rain falling upon leaves
upon petals of a great variety of flowers

petals of many colors, wet in/wet by falling rain

his drum sticks, his drum sticks tips
upon that, upon this

like rain drops, without discriminating
falling upon sinners, upon saints
upon umbrellas raised

the sound rain makes, he makes

it falls upon a tin can, a tin roof

upon a paper cup
upon the roofs of the world

he beats his drums, they speak in tongues

Max Roach in his upper room
makes Jazz music

makes me some, makes you some
some to go, some to stay

carried away when his sticks fly
like birds in the sky

I see a rainbow, I know I’m safe
I know I’m saved


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Written on Wednesday,
July 29, 2009, between 8:55 p.m.
and 10 p.m.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Heart of Cuba
for Ariadna de la Torre

“Me!” she said, in response to
“Would you like me to hold something for you?”

to enable her, beside me/just behind me
to get off the bus with her backpack,
with another weighty item in a bag

she wanted me to hold her, us two
to hold hands

our two hands, one swift fist
help her off, help her down
help her to the ground

on four feet to where I lived
returning me to where she’d met me
that day, that afternoon

already linked like old friends, old pals

hold me - not that, not this
or bull shit or side-stepping

direct, fearless,
instead of timid to, determined to connect
add herself to myself

and I feel necessary, worthwhile,
appreciated, needed

wanting all my life to add up
someone to be added to
to be a plus on this planet,
in this world


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
24.07.09

Monday, July 27, 2009

Bucked My Toe Without Being Aware

I don't suppose I ever did get an opportunity to look at you –
to take a picture of it all. Maybe there is a poem lingering,
lurking somewhere - already collected in brain and bone marrow.
Maybe I'll write it tomorrow.

Yesterday's session was fun. Did you enjoy it?
You did brighten up the room with your yellow skirt.

How sassy those high shoes made you seem.
You even avoided addressing me
like a student in high school.



© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:49 p.m. 27.07.09

Friday, July 24, 2009

Scary Monsters
for Llewellen, Heather, Cortney,
Sonia, D’Anthra, Olivia, Philip & Karen

monster to wrestle with, always arising
monsters without, monsters within

what of when my monster is myself
what bow, what arrow to use then

to slay who is asleep in my own bed
or snorting smoke, fire, fumes
through my own nostrils

when that monster is Goliath upon a hill
or as tall as one, I must choose stones,
I must with sling, arm myself

or should I just let monsters live
go on about my business

too focused for monsters to matter
to be distracted by them

one can without end
be locked in battle with monsters
crossing swords, flying sparks

or rolling round upon the ground
wrestling to get the upper hand

or to prevent knife or dagger
ending in the neck or chest or gut

is there not elsewhere,
apart from altercation, friction, tension
other things to be working with, working on

should I not leave my monsters, the bogey man

to Superman
, Batman, Spider-Man


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:39 p.m. 08.07.09

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Waterfall
for H.T.

what working or not working
water down pouring without end

unlike rain which commences and ceases
who saw when it started
who will be here when this faucet
is stopped up, is stopped off

is anybody trying to fix it
is something going right
or has something gone wrong

antithetical to a volcanic eruption
but this too it seems resulted
from something rupturing, something broken

great big pipe somewhere
how many plumbers required to repair it
is the water wasting,
needing to be redirected where

is there somewhere where it is collecting

is it water like in a fountain
cycling, circling, recycling

all the water through the pours of earth
through our pores, quench thirst
sweat, pee, water to bathe in

salt water to wade in, to fish from, to drown in

ships upon oceans, however large
are but toys upon the ocean

Titanic going down,
how many hundreds upon it in icy seas

ice melts and this water falls
and does not stop, does not slow up

over the edge, the ledge,
rapid water foaming, boiling, steaming

what is clear, is white looking, white to look at
white as clouds are, as weighty as clouds

though they float, seem weightless, they’re massive

greyer and greyer and thunder and lightning
colliding and rupturing, rain falling torrentially

but the waterfall gushes down, washes down
at a speed unimaginable

to do what with, to be awed at, in awe of

some are dammed up, converted into HEP
who can harness this fall which thunders down,
is mist

it should whisper but its secret is for all to know
for all to hear and to take note and to take notes


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
10:37 p.m. 23.07.09
Dinghy Boat
for Victoria Gyamfi-Kumanini

as if I wanted to sink the ship
of our relationship

just a dinghy, just a skiff

great big weighty bolder I rested in it
as if expecting it to
or wanting it to sink


or to capsize or break into bits
like fiddle sticks

wanted to add the marble we're on
our earth and with it, with her,
row back, row black to Africa


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
5:31 p.m. 22.07.09
Grip My Pen
for M.B.

when I, in response to her
get this feeling of not knowing
what to do with myself

unable, any longer, to do but so much
share but so much with her

now that we must be sexually apart
sexually cut off

I’d, with that anxiety, write a poem
to come to terms, come to grips

with what, with whom
I can no longer grip


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
10:04 p.m. 21.07.09
Arawak Argument
Inspired by Angelique Nixon,
by Gina Morley and by
Marion Bethel’s poem,

“On A Coral Cay”

unprepared/am I prepared
to digest, and if possible to digest
am I prepared to assimilate

the layers of conflict, layers
of human endeavors interlocked over time

upon/across these rocks,
seas washing them, hurricanes blowing
battering them

a group blown away, another washed up
or blown onto these shores

what all/who all in the Bahamian belly
what all/who all is me, is we

Tino Indians, Arawaks, Caribs
Columbus, his three ships

Conquistadors, slaves and slavery
and slave ships

Eleutherian Adventurers, loyalists

abolition, Colonialism, governors
Woodes Rogers, Blackbeard, pirates

rum running, forts, independence
Junkanoo, flags, anthem

Lyford Cay, P.I., Hog Island
out islands, family islands

drug running, illegal immigrants
Haitians, Cubans, Jamaicans
tourism, Chinese

all a dese is me, all a we is one
a bunch a junkanoo

mix all dis, all dese up
conch salad fur me, fur who ta eat

who I gur spit out like fish bone
what I gur puke up
like when yur get poison

or diges’ it all an’ have a good shit
let der body decide what it gur extrac’
from all a dese ta make a Bahamian
ta make Bahahmas

who on der map an’ who off der map

play chess or checkers,
what piece lef on der board and who off
who get check mate

dis game need ta play to der end
declare who win or if der game draw

cus I’een know bout a lot a tings
y’all say or dey say I belong to
or belong ta me

what aieen claimin’ me
or what I’een willing to claim

dey need to or we need to
whip what we callin’ history like cream
blen’ tagether what could blen’ tagether

like when yur making carrot juice
get der juice out,
make what yur could make wit der fiber
or trow it out

we have so much hangin’ roun’
we don’ know what ta do wit’

chew it, eat it, drink it, spit or puke or shit

piss or do sometin’ in response
but so much just sittin’ dere

starin’ at it, it staring back
like we too stupid ta tink or ta ack


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:40 a.m. 23.07.09

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Alight Upon My Sleeve
for D’Anthra Adderley

was it Plato who claims, who wrote about
animals and small children
having no knowledge of danger

that is until a hand is placed in fire
or soft feet are injured
crossing broken glass

she hears me growl
she approaches me anyway

comes near enough to hear
to be heard, to be embraced

what a woman, new as petals
just appearing

one wonders about what’s delicate
about what’s beautiful
emerging in this harsh world, daring to

“This world was never meant,”
says Don McLean of Vincent Van Gogh,
“for one as beautiful as you.”

this is true for her too, I’d say
but she might be as tough as bark of trees

or there might be guardian angels
protecting what’s lovely
what possesses petals, wings

what a dress she wore last evening

as she turned and walked away
how my quick eyes wrapped her round

to undress her or to clothe her
with swift affection

“How perfectly made she is!”
I concluded and sighed


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
2:02 a.m. 21.07.09

Monday, July 20, 2009

Sticky Pencil Write a Poem
for Barbara Kanam

it is largely about her arms
wanting her large arms about me

how turned on I am by her heaviness
by the weight of that - of this

fleshy, fresh woman - how easily
she lifts herself, her parts

caries herself and I am carried away
playful, teasing woman-girl

whirls herself about, twirls my fate
upon fingers, toes as she turns

this way or that - one way or another
carried away from I set eyes on her

tied to her ever since - singing,
dancing, seducing this poor soul with a pen

lead in my pencil still, were we to meet,
her sharpener to sharpen it in


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:36 a.m. 15.07.09

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Two Sides of A Skirt
for D.A.

how can I help but let my eyes fall,
eyes follow arms, to hands, to skirt

to the split in it, you close swift
wrestle with, to avoid revealing
bare thighs

was it the intention of darting eyes
is it usually or always

to glimpse what hands try to hide
to beat you to it as it were
get to peep free, a free peek

a pretty woman’s flesh, a patch of it
snatch of it, enough to sweeten,
to spice a life

enough to put in blandness, to eliminate it
like sugar in tea, or honey in tea
or like nutmeg in cream of wheat

no end to collecting inside the senses
what might reverse a sense of isolation
or of exclusion

two sides of a skirt, of her skirt
to close like a curtain

I want to be inside the room with her
when she shuts the world out
to undress, to bare her breasts

address her with kisses, a dress of kisses


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:12 a.m. 10.07.09
In Two Pools of Light
for Olivia Russell

amazing eyes, able to take in
worlds and whirls
me and you, yours and mine

able to make all the world hers
with her eyes

as if with eyes
she were able to hear, smell,
taste and see

how large they go
how large they grow
when she’s interested

greedy eyes, I do not mind
being devoured by

like drowning in two pools of light
when she lights up
when she looks up

what wealth of life in her invested

she makes who is without such fire
seem poverty stricken
suffering some deficit
deprivation of life, of light

what delights strike against her senses
I’d wonder

what affects her to her core
like windows, doors, opened
as wide as could be, for birdsong
every other element of summer

to enter the house,
echo in bone marrow


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
10.07.09

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Deep Is the Word

where is language lodged

in the mind or in the body
in the teeth like filling

or embedded in bone marrow


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:04 p.m. 15.06.09


Carriage Horses

I have something to tame you with
to make us a team
to tie us like blood
make as strong a bond


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:35 p.m. 21.06.09
Canticle
for S.F.

envy your man
able to follow the river wherever it runs,
wherever it flows

able to follow the wind wherever it goes,
wherever it blows

what Thomas Merton says of the Lamb
when that white flame of the Holy Spirit
is lit inside you, which does not smoke

that instead of some red, smoky flame
like a house on fire, needing urgently
to be extinguished, to be put out

along with white flame which does not smoke
a canticle is placed in the heart

with which, says Merton, you are able
to follow the Lamb, wherever he goes

often times I wish I were able
to follow a woman or have one follow me

able to go with romantic love
wherever I went or wherever it went
however it or I bent

did it once or tried to
what should have been flexible
what should have bent

instead, in the end, in an instant
was broken

I’ve been trying to put myself
back together ever since


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
3:05 p.m. 05.07.09
Grape Juice
for S.F.

pale girl to go with
where can I take her

take her clothes off
where to from there

boyfriend and she to get between
got between us

get him back—get it up—give it to her
until the grapes were free of their juices

bare feet in the batch, bunches to reduce
to skins to dispose of


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:35 p.m. 03.07.09
How Fresh Still
for M.B.

should I feel guilty
about wanting to hug
about wanting to kiss
about wanting to be intimate
though we are still, spiritually, intellectually

am I without principles, irresponsible
to have an urge for intercourse
desire to make the two-backed beast
be one like we used to be, our two bodies

mentally, spiritually, fortunately
as well as socially, we never separated

break bread, loaf what done, what bake
one thing

pull dough apart to put in separate pans
pour cake batter into a dozen openings
fill a muffin pan

Are we twins? Can we be separated?

do you realize the impact our having met,
our love affair, has had upon
the national literature

the literature of the Caribbean
is about to have upon
the literature of the world

that yeast, leavening the lump
more and more it swells

you make me rise like the moon
in the sky


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
10:50 p.m. 04.07.07
Screw or We’re Screwed

what or who are we undoing
when we do what we do
when we do what we feel we must
when we do what advances us

who or what is being undone, unraveled
who or what is being unwound
when we wind


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
12:10 a.m. 12.06.09
BWSI

how can one with such a shaky gun
be the sheriff


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
2:51 p.m. 23.06.09
So Elated they Ate It

Anna mated with an orangutan
and boy were they happy

jumping up and down when spring came
when their offspring arrived


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
2:07 p.m. 30.06.09


Taut as It Gets
for R.C.

any idea who she’s been to bed with

with a belly like that
it could not have been a girl

she must have slept
with a hive of bees


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:04 p.m. 13.06.09
Unlike Sappho’s Dawn In Gold Sandals
for Llewellen, Heather, Cortney,
Sonia, D’Anthra, Olivia, Philip & Karen

a poem would come jogging by
across my page on muddy feet

I’d wake up then to follow it, to start my day

one sweet wrestles with another sweet

to sleep or to be up, out of bed
to be fully alive or to be dead, stiff

a poem would come jogging by
across my page on muddy feet

for me to follow, to start the day
urging me to get up, to go on

a poem pulls like a bicycle chain
like a tractor or bull dozer pulls

the force which pulls the planets round
pulls the minute hand, the hour hand

makes the clock tick, the watch tick
makes hearts beat

lungs empty, lungs fill

a poem would come jogging by
would cross my page on muddy feet

I‘d wake up to shake my fist at it
as it runs off, runs on


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:36 p.m. 13.07.09

Monday, July 13, 2009

Whistling Saw
for Michael Jackson

certainly passed, any further possibility
of singing, of dancing,
of moon-walking any farther or ever again

if his brain’s no longer in his head, in his body
if his brain is no longer in his brain box,
in its jewelry box
if his brain is in one ice box and his body’s in another

raise the hood and the engine’s missing
such a vehicle unable to run

whether he was fully dead or not
whatever little juice of life might have been left
enough to lift a finger, lift an arm or leg

someone from India or Christ himself
on the way to save the day, the king of pop,
the pop star

too late to restore life or sanity
with his brain missing, with his brain gone

beyond any possibility of restoration or reparation
a mummy already, a figure fit for a museum

far from live, from life
miles from us, left to mourn


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
11:56 a.m. 07.07.09
Metre Taxi

is verse in metre or not in metre
like the difference between
cab ride with the metre running
compared with cab ride with the metre off

no idea how much it will cost
how much it is costing
until you get where you’re going

how much, you ask
and the driver pulls a figure
out of his hat or out of his head


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
8:51 p.m. 25.06.09

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Whose Shoes
for Frank Chipasula & Barbara Kanam

sharing her with him now
wanted to keep her to myself

helpful though when other men
are also fascinated about your wife

reassured she’s lovely, worthwhile
remind you of your good taste

others to compete with for affection

even if/even though
you have her to yourself/for yourself

you know that there are others who
wish
that they were in your shoes
and in your bed



© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
5:48 p.m. 08.07.09
Field Hands
for Vanessa Linden

unscrew, undo
anything to help you with
to help you do, to help you lift
today

anything to help you close or open
zip up or unzip, I’m available

my fingers to add to/to add with yours
your toes and mine too to add together

what is possible, doubled by friendship
what it crochets, sews, knits

able to pick twice as many bails of cotton
bind twice as much hay


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:35 p.m. 11.07.09
Days Add Up Add On
for Victoria Gyamfi-Kumanini

people to collect, add to my neck
other body parts, grafted onto me, onto mine

like my father did plants, fruit trees
operation, after which, what was apart, was separated
got together, went together, grew together

want her skin added to my skin, her eyes added to my eyes

were someone to ask me what pretty was
I want to have her near enough to me, near enough always
to say, here is pretty/beauty at its finest
here is beauty which cannot be surpassed

there is more to her than what I see, eyes meet
eye want to get to know her, I want to know her too

how crazy, how silly seeing her has made me
how wacky desire is, imagination is

will this be another wild goose chase for emotions,
for imagination, wishes which will end as empty as when
rain falls and you’ve nothing to catch it in

will my poem, like a sieve, leak or will it contain her
she is as fine as sand sifted, falling, collecting in a pretty heap
all the rubble left behind upon the sieve to dispose of

glass bottle, shells, seaweed unable to get through
not wanted mixed in

what would God have made her from and on what day
what words would he have said to bring her into being
words I try my best to echo, try my best to hear

must translate into music, into words
what looking allows, what seeing allows

must taste, must see - she’s gone straight through me
I am changed - solution I was, she added to it


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
11:35 p.m. 11.07.09

Friday, July 10, 2009

On A Rocking Horse

whenever I'm allowed an erection I ride it until it wilts


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:37 p.m. 10.07.09

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

Fine 5 Pounds for 5-Pound Words
for Louis Dames

5 pound words in the 5 Pound Lot, flying
like cocks in a cock fight

never an option, fight or flight
necessary, in the 5 Pound Lot, to stand your ground

arm yourself with 20 or so 5 pound words
know how to fling them, how to hurl them

until police come, or in their faces,
in their presence, hurl them too

who will arres who, police hurl
5 pound words too


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
5:56 p.m. 05.07.09

Sunday, July 05, 2009

Turkeys Eagles
for J.C.S. & Missouri Sherman-Peters

to work in the bank
to live in this world
because you have to look tame
I wear my locks in my brain

to emphasize what is in her head
rather than what is on her head
she’s shaved her head
quite nearly bald


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
3:55 p.m. 12.06.09

Friday, July 03, 2009

In Response to Your Desire
to Know About the Weather
for Juliane Okot Bitek

all the leaves
for all the drops of rain to fall onto

even in sunlight on a day in July

fingers of the rain upon a million leaves
my favorite musical instrument


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
5:48 p.m. 03.07.09
Wake A Ship Leaves
for Nathalie Wood

on board that cruise ship
desired hard dick inside you

spray paint poems upon cave walls

holler them in a hollow, in the dark

hear them echo, reverberate off walls

holy place to violate
with the noises poets
with their poems make


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:43 p.m. 03.07.09
Marijuana Smoke
for M.G.S.

don’t fit, don’t try to

others have to force fit, to force it

I am the outfit
some night, some light,
sunlight, some might

choose to wear


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:52 p.m. 03.07.09
Tongue of the Ocean
for Nathalie Wood

why had I before now
not thought to eat you,
to make you go wild-mad
with tickle of beard and tongue
my fingers opening you

this before I, with manhood, opened you
drilled a channel for love

a passage in a history book
chapter in a prayer book


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
2:55 p.m. 03.07.09
I have 23 drawings I call "Which Craft," I wish NAGB to own. I wish $15,000 for them. These drawings, reproduced with various colour backgrounds, are included with 145 poems in CHRISTMAS LIGHTS, one of my three recently published books.

I call them "Which Craft". They represent going mad. I call this section of CHRISTMAS LIGHTS, "Tongues Of Fire" but of one thing I am uncertain. Do they express Christianity or is it a 23-minute practice of witch craft?

With them, I did go through fire, resulting in, like Shadrack, Meshack and Abednego, like the apostles in the Upper Room, being born again.

At the time, I was pursuing a degree in Performance, in Speech and Drama with something firry to express which my chosen instrument, my body, could not say.

These drawings were guided by music on a classical station I'd listen to in Memphis. In addition to this temporary lapse into drawing, almost simultaneously, I began to write. What I wrote, two years later, appeared as my first book, BICENTENNIAL BLUES.

At this point, I virtually abandoned theatre. Without completing this degree at Memphis State University, in my seventh semester, I withdrew. I returned home to The Bahamas. I published my first book, taught English Language and Literature for six years before returning to Fisk University and in a year, completed a degree in Dramatics and Speech but I'd become a writer.

By 1986 I'd already published BICENTENNIAL BLUES (1977), 43 POEMS (1979), ICE CUBES (1982), ACTS (1983) and in 1987 I published FRUITS FROM AFRICA.

"Which Craft" were a turning point or a cross roads - but these terms are too weak to represent what occurred. What I was before I expressed them and who and what I became after, represent such a translation I should have changed my name and actually I did.

I have my father's name. I used to be called Junior. After "Which Craft" I was not Junior any more. I'd chosen my craft in which I've been sailing ever since over life's seas, however calm, however rough.

These drawings though, were shaken from me like a storm passing through a tree, relieving it of fruit and leaves. I was but limbs shaking after. That I've survived, that I am as intact as I am, I have only my maker to thank.


Obediah Michael Smith
bestwordsmith@gmail.com

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

A Library or Two

one library where books are stacked
their pages and their backs
in neat rows upon shelves

another library entirely
the books we have read

expanding or not expanding
or nonexistent

inside our hearts
inside our heads


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
12:28 p.m. 30.06.09
About “Light,”
A Play Written and Directed by Deon Simms
and put on at The National Theatre of the Performing Arts
by Track Road Theatre
June 19 and 21, 2009

Light spoils the spell of “Light”. It was the same though when the Shirley Street Theatre was a place to watch films.

When people came late or when, during a film, people came and went and the doors opened and into the dark came light, annoyed and distracted, heads turned along with my own.

It is like what happens when a dream is interrupted, one you want very much to be in and to be having and you must wiggle your way into the meat and heart of it again.

It is this same problem with which Richard Wagner wrestled, putting on his operas at his famous Bayreuth Theatre. What was his solution? Not to admit anyone once the spectacle commenced.

To begin this review complaining about light seeping in indicates that for this reviewer, “Light” left not very much to complain about.

In the foyer, during intermission, speaking with a friend, close enough and kind enough to treat me to conch fritters, I mentioned being annoyed by light being let in when people came and went. He is a choreographer. He was once a dancer at La Cabaret Theatre.

Without at all hesitating, he explained how at La Cabaret Theatre, people leaving went first through curtains and then through the door or the reverse when entering or reentering. I remembered it well. It came back suddenly to mind.

The spell in the theatre is cast and it is the thing in which the audience is contained. Unintended light entering with people entering or leaving and the spell can shatter like glass.

I had to have been soaking in “Light” as well as soaking it in. Just before intermission, there was this smell of something cooking. It was about to make my mouth water. What was it, I wondered? Was it in the play – connected to it – to do with it? Was it coming from the world on stage or from elsewhere?

Here were two worlds in conflict – like dreaming and being awake. It turned out to be the smell of conch fritters interrupting – intruding – ladies in the lobby preparing to do business.

The announcement of intermission was another trick upon the audience in response to which they laughed at themselves. The tallest actor in the play came onto the stage with a rifle or a long stick across his shoulder. We all braced ourselves for what was to happen next – for what was to hit us.

He had us and he knew it. Our attention was undivided. In response to our hearts beating in anticipation, he said, “This is not another scene. It is time for intermission.” This was certainly confirmation of the grip of the play upon us. We were certainly under its spell.

“Light” was or is life in The Bahamas, in its capital city, put on stage – the gang-related conflicts and what and who fall out when they clash. “Light” reflects events many of us hear about but do not know first-hand. It is a mirror held up to these happenings and to these times.

Dion Simms, the playwright and director, and his wonderful cast of actors, allow us an up close view of these criminal matters, these tragic events which are more and more becoming the culture within which or too near which, we all must live.

“It is a real play!” I found myself repeating over and over to myself at one point as it unfolded.

Along with complaining about unwanted light being let in, I nit-picked about the entire play being presented or performed in front of the stage curtains – upon what would be the apron of the stage. It was explained to me how the cast and crew had to make do. They would only have been allowed into The National Theatre of The Performing Arts a day or two before the play opened for its two-day run. This is far far from ideal.

What is ideal and what is as it should be would be for the play to inhabit the theatre – move into it as it were – like a family moves into a house and occupies it. There they were, every scene, from the play commenced until it concluded, like a family confined to – restricted to having to live upon the front porch of a house rather than being able to occupy it fully.

All these odds and the play still stood and the play still stands. The courage of Track Road Theatre, I wish, at this point, to applaud. Against what odds and with what determination they make theatre in our town. A town wanting to be grown up but is not.

What we are and what we have is the social chaos – the broken families and broken homes the play is about, our young men chased by and in the hands of the police, being interrogated or locked away.

I am grieved that we haven’t the spaces, functioning as they should, to house such art and to provide employment for professionals in all areas a proper theatre requires. The recently completed, Performing Arts Centre, at The College of the Bahamas, might be such a dream come true. I hope it is.

“Light” is certainly not light. It shines a light, it spotlights what needs a closer look – what needs to be closely examined by us collectively. It provides a perspective and a depth of insight probably not otherwise available to us generally.

It is a work of which, with minor modification, we can be very proud. Because it is well written, it can travel or it can be recreated in theatres around the globe.

What “Light” captures is truth. It is not pretty. It reflects our humanity or our lack of it.