Amos Ferguson Gone
for Erica James & Antonius Roberts

i.
no more have we
Amos on Amos Ferguson Street
painting on card board,
painting with house paint

as if the veins, the arteries
we’re contained in normally
ruptured, the paint tubes burst
and his art and his name seeped into the wide world
into what's world wide

artist famous around the world has died
passed away at 89, a day ago
dead and gone, and we have Dawn

watch her from up here, watch her from behind
envy somewhat how naked she is, how bare

how courageous she is to engage the tourists as she does

smack in the way, in the path of tourists passing
from and back to their ships, see her art and purchase

there is demand, she paints constantly
cigarette in one hand, her brush in the other

Amos has been brushed off the earth, bumped off

a grave is opening, I know, even now, to swallow him
hymns will be sung to send him home

we paint, make art, write poetry
because we are restless here, uncomfortable here

in the rat race or on a treadmill

where is there in this world, comfort zone for an artist
on a street with his name

ii.
Amos has left us to carry on
he certainly brought us a long way,
came a long way, went a long way,

he's passed away a day or two ago,
heard it on the news today

knew it was inevitable,
visited a few times when he was low

used to visit with my two daughters
when his wife Bee was alive still

they were in their teens then,
they're both 28 at present, approaching 30 fast

time passes until there's no more left
no more bread and no more wine
no more air and no more time

feet rhyme with feet
along with steps they make, they take

Amos will join Bee in heaven
to hell with Paradise

iii.
in Amos’ footsteps must carry on
truth to trumpet for all to hear, to all the world

over on Exuma Street, far from down town
far from Cable Beach, Atlantis or Lyford Cay

need it elevated, need for it to be elevated
to have status
what will become of the street where he lived

what of the house off East Street
where Sidney Poitier lived
or where Lynden Pindling lived

why is it that these places are not made more off

a lot of things though, a lot of persons too
are not made enough of in our culture
in our nation's life

how history is told, how it is remembered
things which occurred, lives lived

what of Clement Bethel's house

what of monuments to these persons
who served well, contributed much

we must make art of monument making
have artists make busts, make statues
in marble, in bronze

saw a painting recently
of calypso singer, Ronnie Butler

I make poems to commemorate
who pass away, who've impacted me

I'll die too, I know, before too long

iv.
Amos Ferguson gone
is Sidney Poitier going next
greatest Bahamians yet, before we've met

Derek Walcott, next month,
November 11, coming to town

there are some giants, over the ages,
attached to these rocks

Christopher Columbus, Ponce De Leon
Woodes Rogers, Black Beard

Lady Simpson, Duke of Windsor
Sir Etienne Dupuch, my mom and dad

James Weldon Johnson
Sir Milo Butler, W.E.B. DuBois

Bishop Eldon, Clement Bethel
Marcella Taylor, Tony McKay
Joseph Spence, Max Taylor

I labor to be added to this list
along with Nicollette

with such tiny feet
she makes such giant steps

honey bees make honey
silk worms make silk

clams make pearls
what poetry Walcott makes

friend of Seamus Heaney,
Robert Lowell, Joseph Brodsky

Mervyn Morris, Lorna Goodison
Fred D'Aguiar are my good friends

v.
I gur tell Amos bye
I gur tell im hello
I gur ask him, how do

is he near or is he far
hovering about here
or is home elsewhere

do these descendants of Africa
our elder relatives, elder statesmen
upon passing, abandon these islands

ancestors of ours, brought here as slaves
do they, upon wings, which death provides
fly back to Africa, to its west coast

our dad dismantled our pigeon coop, once, long ago
our neighbour said our pigeons in our coop where hers

so our dad, fed up with her complaints
smashed up our coop

wood we had hammered together, he knocked apart
whatever it took to get her to shut up

she seemed satisfied
but how unhappy our pigeons were
horrendously disoriented
hovering about what had been their home

among the pieces of wood, nests they had begun
in some of them, eggs

where is Amos Ferguson's home
now that he is free,
where are his eggs
where is his nest

is home for him, Amos Ferguson Street

where in Exuma, he was born and grew up
or where in Africa his grandpapa was seized
and in chains, brought to these shores

unable to, in life, go back or look back

look black until you looked blue
little or nothing was he able to do

helpless but not hopeless
he painted his way out of darkness
into the limelight


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Written between Tuesday, 4:08 p.m.
20.10.09 and Thursday, 12:25 a.m.
23.10.09