A Muse Less
for D.A.
my poems of you, who wrote them
did I or did you
an honest reflection, all I am or was
out to provide
were you to stand before your mirror naked
do you expect to see yourself clothed
I am not at all uncomfortable
about anything nature has to say
it would be like complaining about
or wanting to edit the waves
when they rushed onto the shore
or up against rocks in stormy weather
in my poems/in your poems
I provide you a place, a way to splash
as you are unable to observe yourself
I have observed you for you
reflected you back, no cost at all
do you blame the mirror
when you stand before it naked
for showing you that you are woman
beautiful, fully grown, as complex physically
as a woman can be
honesty is what I am out to share in poems also
if I have lied I'd apologize
if my camera has suggested that someone is you
who is not you, I am to blame
has your image been tampered with
have I not regarded you with the greatest respect
truth is what I am after
I am not going to suggest
that the emperor's wearing a yellow, finely tailored suit
if he is naked, with his manhood swinging
have I been disrespectful
I thought I'd taken great pains, gone to great lengths
to honor you, to respect you
I thought we had not gone nearly far enough
creatively
with my pen, my darling, I must explore
I do still have a long way to go
before I have dug my way out of prison
I though I'd have freed you too while I was at it
thought you wanted release, relief
from this culture like a noose about the neck
I am certainly tired, disgusted with its stranglehold
so we'll not be making poems together any more
thought you’d have been my muse
partners against the crimes
which history has committed against us
thought we’d have provided a symbol
of liberation for others wishing wings
upon which to fly even about these 700 islands
rather than living stuck upon this reservation
Over-the-Hill
we might all instead be on the hill,
as crazy as could be, unable to be discharged
I want to fly over the cuckoo’s nest
thought you wanted to fly with me
satisfied with your situation
I'd have to bid you farewell
I'd have to say so long
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
5:52 a.m. 31.08.09
Shanell
I only ever connect with you around this time of year and hardly at all in between. How I am robbed by having to live without seeing you as I have had to do. This has to change. Is your invisibility intentional - by design? On the other hand there are those who see you always. I envy them.
I had a friend once in whom I was so emotionally invested I remember having a dream of her, of going to my mirror and seeing, instead of my face, I saw her face. I became so emotional in response I was jolted out of sleep. Never before had I had such a dream nor have I since. I think of you and I think of her. I don't know why.
What have you been writing, my dear fellow poet? Do let me see. Let me read. You may read what I've been writing here: http://bestwordsmith.blogspot.com/
You know what I miss, along with your face and your poetry? I miss your hands. I am remembering how lovely I always thought they were.
oBI.
Aug 30, 2009 at 2:53 AM
[a very happy birthday]
Plastic Balls
for Ariadna de la Torre
how dare you utter such a line
who wrote this script
a play, a dream or life itself
you and I together in it, whatever genre
my offer aimed far shy of direct
though friendly, impersonal ways
learned in a country, if not sterile,
a bit removed or far removed from real
must maintain arm's length
must extend a wooden arm for a handshake
call this sophisticated and it is—artificial
like plastic plants and plastic flowers
plastic to eat off, to eat with
instead of cutlery, instead of bone china
what am I to hold to help you off the bus
your backpack—of what load was I to relieve you
to enable you, to assist you to the ground
what to take from your back or from your arms
and Cuba with impatience, tells The Bahamas
to take her in his arms
“Me!" she almost shouts, blurts out
in response to my, what if anything
would you like me to hold
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
29.08.09
Purple Rain-wet Bougainvillea
for Erica James
i.
who who who can I possibly blend with
can possibly blend with me
lovely ladies I know and meet
out-of-this-world lovely
out-of-this-world in love with some of them
unable to know how they feel about me
but could we blend socially, our bodies
make babies
combination of who and me to leave history
tomorrow and we're gone, offspring of ours
left to carry on, to remind the world
our minds as well as our hearts combined
who to get to--go through like this
come out on the other side
thread through needle, needle through cloth
that man through the rain forest
in Peter Matthiessen's novel,
At Play In The Fields of the Lord,
in South America
who to enter like a country, abide there
who to abide in me
we two, with our presence, our self-presents
alter each other
out of two countries, one bigger one
add to the map, to the globe
children to point to, to point at
spinning upon teacher's desk
on a desk at the back of the class
who with me to alter the world, to alter creation
ii.
Kool-Aid in colorful cups, with sugar added
or limeade made from scratch
limes to cut and squeeze to fill a pitcher
ice to add to it
big wooden spoon to stir it all together
afterward serve it, me and someone,
some woman to blend like this, mix like this
anybody out there to jump into bed with
into the ocean with or to jump like Pocahontas
or like that crew of three in “The Beach”
to fall like waterfall, into the water below
after throwing possessions, rucksacks
no choice but to throw themselves/ourselves
after our minds, after commitment
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
10:19 p.m. 28.08.09
Blue Marble Splash
for L.V.
Jell-O-blue sea to eat
with a small spoon
what a big, alive dish
fish to fish from it
Jell-O-blue sea to eat
with a small spoon
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
6:29 p.m. 13.03.08
Ripe Right Next to Rotten
agent which ripens same agent which rots
fruits vegetables
us
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:33 a.m. 24.08.09
Crowning Moment
for Dayana Mendoza
and Stefania Fernandez
not designed for jumping up and down in
or with them on, crowns of beauty queens
but how can you help but jump up and down
when Miss Universe, last year's, from Venezuela
is crowning anew, Miss Universe from Venezuela
all of Venezuela must be jumping up and down
we in The Bahamas, jumping up and down
happy to have hosted in our small town
upon our tiny islands, this big event
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
11:32 p.m. 23.08.09
Incongruous Us
for D.A.
might have to drop my study of her write where it is
always was a delicate matter, across thin ice
has she fallen through or have I or have we both
who to pull us out
or have we fallen into porridge, into what was too hot
she is a baby really in a woman’s body
ages possibly before her head catches up
with her hips, with her heart, racing as fast as a horse
was her horse chasing mine or was my horse chasing hers
unable to recall who was before, who was behind
unable to blame her leaping from the train, from the flames
in her uniform, with her backpack, full of school books
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
2:32 p.m. 22.08.09
Loving Arms
for Regina-Beth, Yannis & Phillip
It was the globe begun again, being done again,
sacred circle, divine law, wheel within a wheel
forever spinning. Baby circles, out of a mouth, bubbles,
underwater or toying about. Circle of friends, circle of hands,
a circle expands until it can't any more and has to give, or give in.
Jars and tins, covers to remove or to undo. Cabbages, beets from the garden
to make a meal, to keep breasts full, to keep milk flowing until Yannis
is able to play tennis, is able to grip a tennis ball
and whack it with his racket.
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
6:00 p.m. 21.08.09
Neck of An Hourglass
for Clint Eastwood
erect penis, expanding more and more
translated, transferred
through a spout of sperm cells
to offspring, increasing until it is as if
an erect penis, inserted
is in actual fact, eventually
difficult to withdraw
able to hurt you until you holler
after all, however small it was
even small enough to laugh at
unforgivably small
and you laughed
and were unforgiven
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:44 p.m. 21.08.09
Balthus Looks Back
for J.C.S. & M.G.S.
my one opportunity,
my one time to experience, up close, as they developed,
my children
impossible to be allowed,
to be as near anyone else’s children
at one point realized that my daughter was, behind my back,
sneaking into adulthood
would have gone through that door, into a room
or out of the room or out of the window
would have flown without my seeing her go
without even knowing she was covered in feathers
that she had wings
wanted to slow it down, to be as close as you are,
as close as you seem to what's beneath a microscope
needed to be present, needed to see
needed as many opportunities, as many situations
as we could fall into
got carried away a time or two, looking, fascinated
exposed myself and was embarrassed
situations to see, to have her to myself
her and me, until her sister was equally fascinating,
I, doubly in awe, until she turned off
had I gone too far, crossed a line I should not have
got nearer to her than was comfortable
she drew away—one left still to explore with
to investigate as she grew
transition, transformation, transforming me as well
what had I known previously of fathering women
to being father of babies, I was still adjusting
not married inspired distance
puberty approached, I was determined to enlist
one time show, miracle occurring, no place for standoffish
I’d have been foolish
their lives as if my life as well, ring side seat to all my days
needed a similar ticket to this match, contest, to this concert
had to help them all I could, to pass it—through that passage
what a time it was—at times complex to go through
as well as to look back on
though ugly showed its face upon occasion
their mother's jealousy, cultural otherness at times arising
attempts to strangle exploration, expression
wrestled still, wrestle on—a different distance
another place, quite another time
both of them pressed up against 30, like hips
upon a toilet seat or like pilgrims, up against a wailing wall
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
2:44 a.m. 21.08.09
Heartbeat Purple Beets
for D.A.
i.
impact of a woman upon a man
not at all adulterated
artificial the fact that she’s in school
or that for five weeks recently, three hours
each Thursday, she was in a workshop I lead
I was instead in her workshop, in it still
been in it ever since I noticed her body
all her attempts to hide it, revealed
could see it, see her, through whatever clothes she wore
like a doll in a dog’s mouth, she shakes me similarly
able to reach through social construction,
lies, hypnotism, to where we are awake, alike, alive
ii.
blood inside us, leaping still, like predator,
like what is preyed upon, fleeing, twisting, turning
hyenas, warthogs, all with their ways to go
just like us, our days and theirs numbered
what will we do with days, do in them
must eat, drink, sleep, reproduce
beneath our clothes, within our prisons, our social roles,
our blood, nonstop, pumping
our hearts beating, lungs filling up and emptying
must act, must do, must be
without end, fearing our lungs collapsing
our last heartbeat
so many lifetimes within her contained
ancient as the world going round
arms, thighs about me, as natural, as naturally,
as the moon in the night, big and bright
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:20 p.m. 19.08.09
Gabriel
Are you waiting to be adult to respond? Will I, will we have to wait a long time?
Have you been forbade response, I not allowed response, something or other inappropriate about it – my being African and Bahamian, your being European and Belgian maybe - or is it age, 15 up against 55? What relationship has these numbers to each other - one into the other and what chemical reaction?
Why not a word from you? You have my e-mail account. It’s in my poetry book. I haven't got yours. All I have is the one time I saw you, two photographs we took together, your family and you and I in Granada, Nicaragua, that day of the carnival of writers.
You were on the porch of the embassy, among the people gathered there, porch upon which and from which Ernesto Cardenal, then Yevgeny Yevtushenko read. Unable to understand Spanish at all very well,
I saw you and understood immediately, the book of your beauty entirely.
Afterwards, from the middle of the road, where the poets processed and from where we read, I kept trying to find you among the crowd, keeping up or just ahead, along the side of the road. How I searched whenever I lost you until I had you in view again.
Idea to approach you to tell you how pretty you were and afterwards, to provide you a copy of Christmas Lights, containing 145 of my poems and my 23 drawings, were life-enhancing decisions.
Idea to have Indran Amirthanayagam, fellow poet from Sri Lanka, photograph us together, was not mine. That was Jalal El Hakmaoui’s idea, poet from Morocco. He noticed how helplessly and how hopelessly in love I was and thought I needed at least a photograph to hold me up, to hold on to.
In it I notice that our hips, side by side, are pressed together, you and I a couple though with your family, we are a group.
Is there some reason why I have not heard from you, one you can share with me? Must I wait until I'm sixty, until you're twenty?
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:18 a.m. 20.08.09
Crash Land
for S.E.S.
boom
and I haven’t a clue what has shaken my world
what has made a noise--I'm scared, concerned
I cease watching Francis Bacon's biography
listening with one of my speakers up against my ear
might what I heard be the presence of an intruder
but I am not sure until I smell the sweet sweet sweet
of ripe dilly
and I am satisfied that what I'd heard was one
falling upon the one storey back portion of my house
with its tin roof
another one fallen I'll have no use of, no piece of
dilly bursting open in the middle of the night
bottle of perfume drops and breaks
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
3:00 a.m. 19.08.09
Words from the Woods
for Ayla & Antonius
[“Speak to Me!”
said Michelangelo to David,
flinging his chisel at
what he had created,
at what seemed perfect.]
without face, a voice
black face without features
will speak, will tell of my woes
how I came to be made of wood
alive once, was a tree once
or part of one, limb of one
I’ve neck and head and nothing more
outside of memories, a few thoughts
room of similar figures, all shapes, all sizes
some creatures, some women, some men
some pieces of furniture
like a puppy in a pet shop, selected
taken away, added to a corner
upon a cut nail
corner I share with Amos Ferguson
with a woman from Scotland
high school art teacher
gone back home, left a picture
I wish I were back in the forest
growing green leaves
rain falling on them, on me
fingers, toes of an organist make music
in the forest I was happiest
alive, I was happiest
dead though not buried
wood in a museum, resembling a man
with black face, without features
poet, this poem permit me voice,
words, as they were in the beginning
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:54 p.m. 17.08.09
Miss Namibia
for Happie Ntelamo
[Inspired by her words in Nassau recently,
heard on ZNS TV, about being reminded
of how her people have suffered]
chains to pop
pressed down to pop up
chains to break
prisons to escape
like what Samson accomplished
or what David did
a few inches gained
a few feet or a few yards
or to move some obstruction
out of your way
to enable you to get into
or to let in the light of day
is as much or can be as much
of an achievement as when
on July 20, 1969, Apollo 11
landed upon the moon
one can at times on earth,
achieve as much, can go as far
in a few inches, in a few feet,
in a few yards
depending upon the adversary
how formidable the opponent
depending upon the force
of the resistance to what you,
with determination, accomplish,
achieve
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
8:47 p.m. 18.08.09
Balloon Heads
for Duke and Lisa Wells
interesting, strange
to be meeting someone
you’ve dreamed of
or seen in a magazine
in a movie or on a T.V. screen
in the flesh, in pants
in clothes too perfectly fitting
in slippers, two feet bare or almost
shy to allow my eyes
to fall down her body, too thrilling
do it surreptitiously
a time or two
wonder what laws I break to look,
to see, to behold her even clothed
in public, at an exhibition, at another
whose is she
possess who/possess what I look at
is she free to possess, mine to possess
her husband possesses a camera
possesses with a camera
has looked at other beautiful women
has snapped their pictures, their necks
pictures like picked flowers
she and I together in pitch darkness
when she snapped my picture
I one of their air heads
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
5:21 p.m. 21.06.09
Do Undo
for D.A.
circling her pussy like a honey bee
like a cup made of petals, colorful,
fragrant
before I entered, crawled
down on hairy belly, on hands and knees
things deep within her to plait, to knit
in darkness
delicious what I have to fix
what I have to accomplish
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
2:29 p.m. 18.08.09
Small-town Eyes
for D.A.
something about that girl
that bangs against my brain
hard to believe she is only seventeen
at 17, for Janis Ian, not a pretty time at all
though about it, she’s written
one of the prettiest songs of all times
this girl I speak about
I’ve been writing about
for about 6 weeks, since I met her, since I saw her
two eyes struggling with two hands
struggling with overlapping sides of a skirt she wore
something substantive to hide
been passionate about her, curious about her ever since
invest hours imagining
making her a citizen of my imagination
its anthems are of her,
its flag for her to carry
she can lift it though it’s heavy
as heavy as my pen which, since I met her,
I’m unable to put down
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
4:18 p.m. 17.08.09
Thighs Full of Black Birds
for D.A.
my pen from my ink well, I have inserted in her
and have discharged poems, impregnating her
she is large with my songs
I sing and she stretches, she swells and she grows
what of when my songs within her, accumulated,
accumulating, translate into thighs apart,
as wide as she can stretch them
jaws apart, as wide as mouth can open
to scream as loud, as long as she can
what of when she gives birth to a poet
or when she is born again into one
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:11 p.m. 15.08.09
The Key of Light
for Anthone, Marissa & Mona
songs are as evident as bruises
that something across the ages
down the ages occurred
that turned individuals
to song writing/into song writers
song writers/these songs
across the ages, screeching down
skid marks upon the runway
where they landed
from heaven arriving
provide us uplift
in a world gravity-bound
by gravity, weighed down
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:43 p.m. 28.06.09
Eye Wash
for Anthone, Marissa & Mona
growing up in my father’s bar
what has it done to my mind
oddest times, oddest thoughts
feel I’m corrupt, sullied mentally
can I be cleansed
can we wash our dirty thoughts
like hands or feet, our dirty faces
our minds fill up with feces
awful luck/step in mess dog left
grass to wipe soles off
wipe the smell away
seek a way to wash mine/minds
free of filthy dirty thoughts
with what/in what way
to renew/do we renew mind
songs/poems/praises/prayers
with language minds were sullied
with language cleanse minds again
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:35 p.m. 29.06.09
Breadfruit Trees
for L.M.M.
I’ll put something on you you’ll not soon forget
flavor of forbidden fruit you’ve never ever tasted
not a bit not a bite of it to be wasted
breadfruit in my neighbour’s yard used to fall to the ground
growing up never knew they were edible
a grown man when a woman made a meal
of breadfruit for me
fruit from our neighbour’s breadfruit tree
always ended on the ground
used to look at them, curious to know what they were
were not for me or anyone I knew to eat
until that woman, that meal of breadfruit she cooked
and served and herself, how I miss these
what she could make of the dust of the earth
of the trash of this world
I’ll put something on you you’ll not soon forget
flavor of forbidden fruit you’ve never ever tasted
not a bit not a bite of it to be wasted
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
10:42 p.m. 15.08.09
Our Lips
how many times
must I have kissed
her pussy lips until it was hairy and after
one kiss not enough to guarantee
a frog would be a princess
had to kiss her kiss it kiss there
as often as opportunity arose
guarantee that she’d be elegant, sexy
twisted
lovely as she is, she does not know
what to do with memories
she is not entirely able to digest
or to process
feelings she is unable to express
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
3:15 p.m. 16.06.09
Our Dancing Days
for M.S.
honey, I feel horny, you’re on my mind
I’m full of memories, centuries of them
how unhappy I was when we left Eden
have you your wedding dress, one made of leaves
how memories linger, cling to us
wet clothes, we two caught in rain
what are you caught in, who near by
to free you, like I used to
you used to free me too
couldn’t have you, couldn’t see you, used to suffer
want to see you now, hold you bare
in this hot summer weather
we’d be as sweaty as lovers
sweaty as our bellies together sometimes were
when we danced
who are you dancing with these days
or dicing with for silver
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
5:58 p.m. 15.08.09
Leaves Shadows
for D.A.
i.
while I am still hot for her,
attracted to her, must leap upon her
leaps upon me, mercilessly
treat up against a tree
naïve never more knowing
innocence never more dangerous
shadow of palm limbs, palm leaves
upon the earth, upon which she stands
across her jeans, her top,
pink, with spaghetti straps
with head turned, she tempts
with eye contact
daring, not fearing
little, but about to be large
can be large in one minute
able to leap from where she is
in an instant
I sense it and tremble
I fear and invite it
what has she
in her purse in her hand
she can be hellish
as well as heaven on earth
ii.
ready for what comes
dressed to undress
to be addressed by who knows how
who knows what she’s capable of
what she would or wouldn’t do
as much a part of nature
as the tree behind her
upon which she leans
dates upon the ground about her
purple, ripe,
match wine-colored top she wears
with dark-blue, almost black jeans
she is so relaxed, my heart
like hooves of horses in a race
girl like her with a look like that
blood rushes about, races about
this hot August morning
I am taken by this picture she took
dressed to go out, to go in
dressed to kill, like they say
how can she with so little effort
have so much impact
I am a weakling, she is so strong
I am a victim of an arrangement
a flower among leaves
breeze blows through leaves
and my heart shudders, trembles
poet stutters because overwhelmed
iii.
I’m gpnna go in,
I’m gonna take my gloves off
take her purse from her hand
take her rough jeans off
shoes which fit, which suit her so well
I must first remove
with or without consent
she gives consent
even if society doesn’t
invites erotic gaze
ripe enough to pick
how many coca plums has she had
in a lifetime of Sundays
flesh on her bones, her body
fleshy as guineps to look at, to feast on
I want to tell her
I heard what she said
can hear what she's saying
with the cut of her hair
with earrings on, hanging
I love and know the language
of bare arms
what elegance, how seduced I am
by her thighs in her jeans,
her legs apart, her toes in her shoes
how they’re turned in
she instructs and I listen
she orders without words, with eyes
her body knows languages
learned over centuries
I with my pen, hurry to catch up
to keep pace
iv.
I’d have to uproot all the palms
all the plants, scatter them
fling them about
to show how crazy I am about her
would she run for cover
would she understand, empathize
forgive a negative expression
of emotions
too extreme to contain
or to express in any mild manner
driven wild by subtle gestures
arms, legs, heels, toes
way she’s clothed
what she covers, what’s left bare
what a signature of femininity
of loveliness: darling woman
darling plums I’ve never had
she must be full of these
and bee honey
cup or two to catch some
take some, taste some
v.
thunder of summer
shakes the firmaments
rain falls, long strands, long hair
she’s cut hers quite short
I shiver in the rain
holding back, what if she leapt,
let loose her forces
opened her flood gates
vi.
I want you, she seems to say
do you want me, she seems to ask
how well proportioned
short woman, full grown
woman for me
awkward way she stands, she’s turned
just right, so right
so turned on, light dances over her
dances among leaves
shadows and light
form stripes, strips, shreds
she is whole still, she holds still
holds my attention,
holds her purse in her hand
behold a woman like this
know I am a man
Eve in Eden, wearing clothes now
are there any animals left to name
left to tame
I could go wild with her
were I to enter this picture
vii.
inquire about town, about palms
about this place where her picture was taken
in what city on earth
what tall building behind
is she dressed for dinner
is she out on a date
is it an afternoon for pictures
is she away from home
and must have snap shots
when she gets back
how long after she was born
this seductive looking
this moment in time
this spinning earth
she upon it
as if upon a potter’s wheel
with hands in wet clay
he guides the outcome
this day to celebrate
having been created by divine hands
divine plan
she is what her maker intended
I’m only looking
an admirer passing by
who had to stop to marvel
and sing and long
and sing along
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Written Friday, August 14, 2009
between 1:14 a.m. and 2:43 a.m.
Waves Laugh
for A.W.
watery wouldn’t do, couldn’t do
old man unable to hold his water
not that old yet, not useless
been in love with her a while, mild all along
what if I ordered pepper, spices
added these to burn my mouth
when I took a bite, licked a bit
I’d lap her up or let her last, make her laugh
where is she ticklish, I wonder
how delighted I am when we are near,
when she appears
she’d pop up and how happy I’d be
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
11:25 p.m. 24.07.09
Anne Rice
for A.H.
books and books of horror bull
for someone, not me, to read
other things to fill up my senses
how obsessed she must be with this subject
with these thoughts
does she, like Stephen King, drink perfume,
other things, anything
to fuel her imagination
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
11:38 p.m. 13.08.09
Twinkle Where You Are
every poem, an apostrophe, addressing a blank page
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
8:50 a.m. 02.08.09
Lap of the Whirl
for L.M.M.
used to shell her like peas
and she used to like it
and she used to let me
and she used to shell me
and I used to let her
would let her again
what way I wonder
to get back in the field
orange-colored onion sack to fill up
could run into wasp nests
could happen upon worms
but what joy to be had
like nothing else in this world
might have to resort to prophylactic against itch
this worrisome result
what world is she in
we’ve been apart so long
will we never meet again
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
12:04 p.m. 13.08.09
Odd Fellow
for A.A.
unable to convert it into verse
if by some miracle I did
what difference would it make
miracle of life must be enough to marvel at
her ability to be caught in rain
and not get wet, in snow and not be cold
amazing her ability to remain unmoved
how moved I am
seems not to matter one way or another
how crazy I am
want what she gives and more
nothing short of an affair
she’d not hear of it, think of it, imagine it
elsewhere since we met
I just a sort of puppy, pet
to provide a saucer of milk
not a person in the way she is, in the same sense
executive, professional, successful
an artist, no body in her eyes
like someone without smell
though in love with her, what does it matter
like someone too fat, too old, too odd
to be considered at all
for romance or marriage
as if Joseph Merrick, Elephant Man,
chased by an English mob
savagely poked with sticks
they’d have killed him
had he not turned and screamed
I am not an animal, I am a human being
he too a poet, sensitive as I am
suffering as I am, wanting her to love me
it is what Hemingway’s son, Gregory, said:
“I just wanted him to love me!”
and repeated,
“Yeah, I just wanted him to love me!”
out of what mist will my wife come
into hard fact, into my arms
how can she miss feeling what I feel
I embrace her, I hold her as if holy
he treats me like a queen, she says
of a man she’s about to marry
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
6:04 p.m. 12.08.09
Lavender Walls
for D.A.
i.
want to forget her age, who she is
apart from this picture, this page
face how she affects me, react to that,
to nothing more
must act in self defense
she happens upon me, hops upon me
as against me as that 8 year old female,
French girl who never wore underwear
who'd leap upon the poet at seven
of whom Rimbaud wrote
kicked and scratched he'd return to his room
after wrestling, after tangling with her
taste of her backside he'd have bitten
in his mouth—a kind of reward
what reward from a picture of her
in white short shorts
ii.
weight of a woman, wait for a woman
as right as she is
woman in bed, woman to wed
just the right amount of ounces, inches
amount of flesh,
amount of fresh fish for my appetite
fry one each night for the rest of my life
God Almighty knows who I'm to meet,
made for me: what duet, what two instruments
out of wood, shape harpsichord, double bass
what is it though about this woman's weight
haunting to see
grey T-shirt, cut off, show her belly bare
her navel orange
short white shorts, show wheat-brown thighs
shaped like a woman I dreamed up
this picture’s real, can weigh her in two arms
in bed already, need not carry her anywhere
pillow cases on two pillows, butterflies cover
what a weight of woman, how she fills my senses
hadn't a clue she was so wonderful to look at
girl-child a week ago, woman fully now
full grown somehow, happened over night
woke up—what to behold
are my eyes lying to me, is she fooling me
able to mesmerize easily
leaning against her bed head
behind it, behind her, lavender wall
bare feet in bed, I in a spell
don't know what to say, don’t know what to do
see her, something happens to me
I am unable to name
what to do to claim her, if possible
I have words, wish I had paint brushes
a painter's brush strokes, I'd trap her in these
already captured by flashing light,
by a camera clicking, already pinned
as well as liberated against her room wall
slave to beauty, to subtlety
fancy bed head and her body, similar mahogany
she is flesh and warm and woman
stand upon my body, able to withstand her weight
drawn to her, to who seems hauntingly familiar
missing rib I've been looking for maybe
what God made it into while I was sound asleep
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
6:34 a.m. 12.08.09
Guatemala Waterfall
of D.A.
girl in the waterfall, in a shower of nature
water beating down behind, around,
all over
smiles, grimaces to withstand its rush,
its wetness: outfit she wears is soaked
light blue wet, turned dark blue
pants rolled up, sleeveless top
in these and in shoes and socks
in Guatemala, in a waterfall
being baptized
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
12:36 a.m. 12.08.09
Rose Petals Drop
for D.A.
Am I permitted to imagine with the top off the jar as it were? Are you out of the bottle - out of the jar or where did you come from, outfitted as you are?
I want to get out of my outfit, tight fit, straitjacket. Yumm said the wolf, seeing Red Riding Hood in a little red dress, looking like a meal.
On the other hand, I am so full, want to bring up what I had for dessert. My belly aches. Wish I'd had her rose petals instead - one at a time until I was transformed, until she was too.
Hanger for her red dress or drop it on the floor or fling it across the room - like some do mango skins, banana peel: no bins to put them in - drop them as they go when summer comes.
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:42 p.m. 11.08.09
After Lunch Apples
for D.A.
invited to lick her, looking is liquor
drunk at the thought of such a pleasure
looking to divide her, licking to divide her
divide her to make us one
two-headed monster, moaning for mama
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
9:04 p.m. 11.08.09
Full Moon
for C.C.
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
by T.S. Eliot from “Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock”
full eyes full cup of tea full lips
want a man to fill me with balloons
want one to burst in me
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
12:48 p.m. 11.08.09
As Day Collapses
for Philip Smith
as if the sky were falling
when night begins to fall
the sun begins to set and he must run
as if from under it
must get indoors before sunset
before it ended atop his head
as if in dread he flees
not wanting to be trapped
when the roof falls in or caves in
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:55 a.m. 10.08.09
Root Hairs
for M.S.
we used to drink Brandy
and how the world would whirl
with us in a whirl, in a world within it
as close as if pinned together
keeping each other from falling down
from falling off
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
7:01 p.m. 09.08.09
Silk Worms Weave
for D.A.
claw at thin air, there has to be a poem, lingering,
hovering, just outside the doors of my senses
I must open them all, I must draw her in
out of her clothes if I have to, by her hair if I have to
if she must come kicking and screaming
into my poem, wild and wacky someone, into a cell
she is not such a one, she dresses up,
she fixes her hair
all elegant and lovely she appears
even if a little late for the show
another show starts when she shows up
my heart quickens, I light up
we exchange secrets
eye contact, a flash of smiles, she blushes
what is it that we've arrived at, understanding
one name like hat or an umbrella
another name like an item of underwear
embarrassed to touch it, to use it
a beetle, similarly, has these layers of wings
or a ladybug
innermost ones, hidden when they alight
saved for flight, silky, transparent
wings upon which they go between
earth and heaven
she as if arriving upon earth when I see her
where is she normally
from where and by what means does she arrive
where was she before I ever saw her
only just set eyes upon her near the end of June,
a month and ten days ago
all about in my senses ever since like perfume
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
3:18 a.m. 09.08.09
Page Seven
for Thea Rutherford
[Written after reading
Kwame Dawes’ “The Letter”
in The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review]
you have to turn the gun upon the target
so many poems are shooting at nothing
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
11:54 p.m. 06.08.09
Cat Guts
for H.L.T.
going to have to shake like a dog,
wet, don’t want to be, to free myself
of her ideas—words to restrict me
her sensibility and mine, not one and the same
need the heat at the equator, need the cold at the poles
in need of freezing as well as fire
whatever wishes to come from my pen
whatever it wishes to express, I let it
just as my body must, whatever oozes
so many juices, so many substances
our literature needs to grow up, needs to free itself
from ropes and chains, shoes and socks
caps and gowns
literature in need of wings
harbor birds above the water, fishing, scrapping
not prepared to die of constipation
or suffer from it ever again
bowels in a knot, with a pencil, with assistance
loosed it out, fart and shit as freely as I breathe
plaque in veins and arteries, must not accumulate
in the body politic nor in my own body
what a bloody mess
when a murder is committed
when a body’s left
in a road somewhere
in a room somewhere
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
6:25 p.m. 05.08.09
