Adieu
for Keva Bethel
1.
what though of deep laughter
is that from a child's belly
is that the laughter of a little girl
or is that or is there
a woman deep inside her brewing
or already brewed
I'd bring my mug for her to fill up
she has before-
with laughter- with more than laughter
sighs, other noises, with singing
with things she'd ask, with things she'd say
she can make my mug overflow
whenever she wishes, with dark beer
in Belfast, a boy allowed his first pint
is initiation to what is good in life
she is out in the ocean where I am
where whales and sharks swim
ready as we are, whatever happens happens
us too, we are dangerous too- plus two
though polite, we can strike if/when necessary
we know also how to/when to switch off lights
2.
with the heart filling up
it is almost time to cry
learning more and more of Keva
whom I thought I knew
turned down being Ambassador
of The Bahamas, to the USA
because: I promised Michael
[her brother, the bishop]
that I'll take care of him, she said
how well we know and how well
we do not know those to whom
we are attached
even our parents- even our siblings
even our children
at my own mother's funeral
I saw people
I did not know from Adam
I did not know from Eve
washed in tears
here I am holding back tears
heart so full of- so filled with
the beauty of this, I could sob
I will eventually or before eventually
or very soon after eventually
my upper back aches so much
I feared I'd not have made it
I thought to remain in bed
but I had prayed to make it
had asked God to make it
His will that I be here, I am
though I cry, I happy
though I happy, I cry
where it's at, place to be
for me, if not for Dee who,
in the middle of Thursday
has to be at St. Andrew's, in school
here in Christ Church Cathedral
the stained glass window,
above the high altar, is reflected
in the church's marble floor
recall when, without fail,
I used to attend 11 a.m. Mass,
every Sunday morning
Keva used to be here,
Nicolette, her daughter, with her
every Sunday morning, for low Mass
3.
to be able to add
to the beauty of this world
as ugly as it is
as ugly as it is inclined to be
to be numbered among
the beautiful people
when you could, with knife, alter
or could have, with knife, been altered
or with gun shot or gun fire, in an instant
what am I writing,
a presumptuous friend, interrupting, asks
as if unaware or just to be playful,
just in jest
what I am writing, is one thing
what I am writing with is the point of it
suppose I am writing a poem
I know I am writing with tears,
in silence
it is with love as well that I write
for words and light and death and life
and for time, without end,
swiftly passing away and we with it
4.
however did I get
on your wrong side, your left side
I only ever wanted
to be on your right side
whatever did I do
to cause you to turn
on the wrong side
in Madagascar
they dive for octopus
to disable them, to end
their struggling against them
diver underwater
shoves an arm in
pulls up, pulls out
octopus on the wrong side
is no longer alive
we must not be
we must not turn
on the wrong side
or turn each other
on the wrong side
turn the world on the wrong side
when we do, if we do
upside-down
what should be right-side-up
dead what should be
alive and well
artificial what should be real
5.
necessary to know
when to step forth
when to step back
when to add
when to subtract
when to retreat
when to advance
in the battle of life
when to ignite fires
or candles
when to put them out
or blow them out
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2011
Written between 10:40 a.m. and 1:48 p.m.
on Thursday, February, 24, 2011
55
for D.B.A.
always the dregs of herself and Sunday
what I am allowed, what is saved for me
are the dregs of myself what I offer up as well
offer her as well
what is left of the day, what is left of me
is it the best of me or what is worst
old and sick instead of young and strong
instead of lingering, hanging around
as swiftly as she alights
upon the limb that I am on,
flies up, flies off, in no time she is gone
I look older than I am
she let slip out the other day
and I was livid to know
she took such a look
she had such a view
my daughter who is 5' 4’’ though
she thought from her photographs
that she was more that 6 feet tall
is her judgment correct
I make no secret of my fear of death
or that I fear I'm dying
55 already when we met
inside this anatomy, this body of mine
to go about in
like an old watch or vehicle
it does not run like it used to
my legs nor my heart nor the organs which sit
which rest upon and within
the area formed by pelvic bones
my waist, my body's second floor
bones right about there, like rafters
like steel beams, built to last
I am nearly as old as this house I own
as this house I live in, built sometime
between when Cynthia and Kevin,
sister and brother whom I follow, were born
sometime between 1948 and 1952
does my age show like the age of my house
show of age is but one aspect
age to carry is another
and another day to add, to carry
until the minute that is added,
that is too much to bear
or even a split second added
and nothing left to do but collapse
like a camel or donkey which, though strong,
can hold, can carry but so much
and the legs like props, knocked out of place
or like table legs and that's that
that is where a story ends
how far am I from done with my days
or are my days from done with me
is this the time for sweet romance
or knowing that I am on the way out
going down like a ship, sinking, inevitable
does she see me as not sea worthy
unable to, once again, cross the Atlantic
my ocean-going days, like Columbus'
like Columbus' ships, over and done with
days of dining and dancing
on the deck of the Queen Mary, behind me
queen that she is or is she a princess
I want on a deck, wet with our juices
want her to be my queen of hearts
want to pluck her out of a deck of cards
want to pluck her like a chicken
want her clucking like a hen in heat
whatever befalls me- before it is all over
is twilight time not also called
that magical hour
am I past being able to woo her
I've written her several hundred poems
just to get to what base
am I on first yet or on second or third
what would it take to hit a home run
will fucking with a condom be my reward
I want to box with her with my gloves off
I always take them off to hold my pen
to write a poem, to sing her songs
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2011
7:46 p.m. 20.02.11
Harp Strings Pop
for D.B.A.
i.
have I ever offered to clean you with my tongue
to claim you with my tongue
after you had defecated
is such a thought- is such a thing romantic
honey is there anything
that we have not tried
if not in life, in poetry
when will between your legs
to me, no longer be off limits
want to claim your limbs
like I used to in my youth
climb trees, claim trees
clinging to limbs and branches
as I climbed, sitting to rest
or to relax upon a limb
or within the crotch where limbs meet
baby what about you would I not want
what with you would I not want to do
when dark fell or with blinds closed
with clothes off - on the floor
or on hangers in the closet
until time to dress - for last caress
instead of what we have now
what we share now
yearning, longing, you resisting
withholding from who upon earth
you should be kindest to
who loves you best
whom you should love no less
how can you imagine that I'd harm
who I'd give my life to protect
why do you withhold from me
the holes designed, ordained
for me to enter
I want to lick your ass
and lick your pussy
these to delight in
I'd have no need to call you names
it is the lack of closeness
why I'd cuss you, why I'd complain
Dee and me on earth
what are we doing in this whirl
inserted in you,
earth and all the universe
would spin the other way
for a day or a week
ii.
why don't you instruct me
tell me what to do to be pretty
to be as pretty as could be
I did get to clean up
last time you dropped by
little girl you babysit, with you, remember
I got to go down, got to pick up
put in plastic bags
all the garbage dropped or thrown
in my yard and over my fence
in front where buses stop
where who wants to catch the bus waits
did you notice that I'd cleaned up
picked up litter to make the path,
the yard, fit for your visit
you'd called to say
you were on your way
why don't you tell me
when I am not pretty enough
when you want me to be prettier
why don't you tell me
how pretty you want me to be
instead of waiting 18 months
to tell me that I look older than I am
how cruel as the grave was that
do you not wish me to- want me
to measure up - do you not want me
to impress you, to win your heart
is it your wish actually
that I lose, that our affair fails
that it failed to materialize
is it your wish that I,
that we disintegrate
unravel like a sweater or scarf
though you said you do not
or did not ever want us
to come apart
you make me want to let go
and die and not hold out
and not hold on
iii.
Jesus how wise she is
with her idea of more water
I was thinking about a river, she said
about how more and more poems
by me about her come, keep emerging
it is just like our being unable to step
into the same river twice
but since and just recently
some thinking person added
the river is not the same nor are we
it is exactly this that is true
about her and me combined
we are from day to day,
from hour to hour not the same either
we begin to be able
to entertain conversation
things we could not before
erotic things and other things
to which her response was to shut off
she shuts off less now
does not shut down when
I need her running, rolling
she and I, together, climbing,
hills to go up and to go over
no time for holding back
or holding out or holding off
my God, how able she is to assist
in sustaining us
a miracle that she and I are attached still
free to express what we feel and think,
as we do, and still not sever ties
not break apart
how we'd rage without the page
being ripped, there for me to write on
whatever transpires
we do not separate, harp strings pop
music though is not ever interrupted
always something left to describe
less to describe, more to describe
shades of our love are infinitely varied
bitter bitter bitter or sweet sweet sweet
I owe her a gift for how beautiful
she was to me lately and is to me now
deeper now than our relationship
has ever been: falling asleep on the phone
in conversation, with me like we used to do
like we used to be
six months more in touch like we are
will take us where
how much deeper into each other
into life together
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2011
Written between 3:50 p.m.
on Wednesday, Feb. 16 and 1:31 a.m.
on Saturday, Feb. 19, 2011
The Wickedest Slam
for Beenie Man
who all ahead a me
haul ahead a me
holler ahead a me
my turn when
myself in hand until admitted
until I'm able to enter your room
until I'm able to enter you
how long before I am long in you
before I'm opening you with this
opening that with this
silver suit to shed
outfitted in what
is made of snake skin
to charm me in, to win me with
to draw me in
I'm drawn to you
hopelessly in love
was it first sight or soon after
your bits
especially that bit,
hand upon the car before you
stooping to dance the butterfly
to do the butterfly
what hips and how they roll
use mouse to return to watch you
feel you, have you, take you, keep you
must have returned to this two hundred times
in two days, since this gift was shared
woman of mine, I'm unable to touch
unable to get near, provided me this
provided you, I did not have to-
did not need to hunt you down
find you for myself
lady in my life, young yet, in school still
Saturday or was it Sunday
when this spilled out
I spilled milk twice that day
and can again
how carried away
you inspire me to get, to go
I want to free you
of your silver suit I love
see your skin I love more than
I can love any outfit
what is it about you
that I'm attached to
that attaches to me
oh where on earth can I find you
in what country
in whose arms
impossible I know
to find you unattached
and is love alone resource enough
is a poem sufficient to lure you away
to draw you away
how easily I am intimidated
by who would take up arms
resort to violence in competition
I know the roughest men are after you
have most likely gotten you
without a doubt have had you
my love and me, where can we fit in
insufficient of anything to be competitive
how far can I get with a poem or two
what all can I get if I wrote you a song
Beenie Man baby, star of his video
you are the wickedest slam
I have for long been dreaming of
found you but how far away you are still
what contact is having you
on my computer screen
having you on YouTube
and on my mind
you do not know at all that I exist
had I several million, I'd invest
one or two to find you
to locate you, to have you
if I find you or when I do
I want to keep you
keep yourself for me
if you can hear me, do that for me
I know the video camera man's
in love with you
how can he help but be
you in his lens,
dancing like you can, like you do
do you love him too
happy and grateful
through him, allowed to see too
a bit of access
but far from sufficient
wish I were God
to be able to fill up
any one he chooses
to breathe breath
into all the girls
into all the world
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2011
6:45 a.m. 22.02.11
Cross Over
for Michael Eldon
& Keva Bethel
[R.I.P.]
i.
Wafer of Sun
sliver of life he lived, has lived
has been living
since slipping into a coma
six long years ago
even normally, life is but slim
but unconscious upon your back, in bed
for years, tissue thin indeed
what of the gamut of emotions
was he able to engage in
he and Pope John Paul II fell ill
both admitted to hospital one same day
the pope, dead- the pope died long ago
bishop Eldon held on
to what though was he holding on
with what was he holding on
upon what was he, all this time
hanging onto, hanging on by
reduced to what he had been reduced to
what further reduction to allow him
to be declared dead
was it the pillow out from under his head
or the mattress removed from his bed
necessary to let life give way to death
to permit this exchange to occur
entirely naturally
induced by any hand, it would be murder
coup de grace, mercy killing
for which Dr. Jack Kevorkian
is at present serving time in prison
must just wait for life to give way to-
to make room for its sister, death
or is death the husband or wife of life
bishop Eldon finally crossed over
passed through that membrane
ever so thin, but how long it was- it took
to break through
there upon that boarder, upon the shore,
pondering, do I go on living or do I die
decided to die this morning finally
his diocese, for 6 years,
waiting to mourn, it can now
waiting to bury him, it can now
awaiting his release from his body, fully
that attachment, that pin, to be pulled out
to liberate and to release him
new access to him, new access to us
upon his back in bed, he was of limited use to us
he will be of unlimited use to us now
already he has, with his death this morning
inspired this poem, this mourner, this mourning
now the hymns and songs
will be written and sung
now the sculpture, now the art possible
like so many sighs after so many
holding their breath
what is the breadth of the divide
between this life and the next
between light and dark
was it the 20 or so minutes of twilight
prolonged, that he has lived
stretched out over 6 years
the sun of bishop Eldon, this morning,
went down
it had been there, sitting upon the sea
like wine and bread, like body and blood
like Christ for whom he stood in
for most of his life here on earth
ii.
Pause
where to go for poetry
in response to this, in response
to death
this and that other one
the bishop, her brother, inspired
to add together
dead adds up or is subtraction
added to subtraction
I am bad though
I do not go too near
I withdraw for the dying
to die in peace or because
I fear death, fear being too near
a man or woman drowning,
fear being pulled down,
drawn under
these two people though
were parents to me too
Nicolette and Eddie's mom
mommy to me too
used to press up against her
for goodness, for warmth
for guidance, for light
even when unspoken, I followed
Oh, boy,
Keva died today, I just heard
radiation, such treatments
hasten the arrival of death
or prolong life
was it David Thompson,
Prime Minister of Barbados
who went off to the USA
not long ago, for treatment
and soon after died
these operations,
expensive as the dickens
and what do they do
push us earlier into our graves
did not expect she'd have gone so soon
heard she was ill not long ago
her brother in a coma
the bishop in his bed,
more than 5 years, passed away
just the other day
was it not Monday of this week
Saturday, and his sister,
hastens off to catch him up
to join hands, to journey with him
how mysterious such things are
living and dying,
coming into this world
going out again
oh, when will all my own aches and pain
add up to having to leave this world
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2011
Written between 7:30 p.m.
Monday, February 7 and 9:19 p.m.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Water-fountain Music
for Keva Bethel
"Hadn't seen you since you added the foliage,"
said she
what I eat, what I drink, air I breathe, become my beard
weight to bear, load to carry
worry not at all, at present, about appearance
my support, it seems, does not come from how I look
dress up or not, I get left alone
except for those who love what a poet does,
what a poet knows
I'm going where a poet goes,
with followers or without,
words flying from my pen and from my mouth
my beard’s from where my words come from
I make pens sprout, I grip them in, grip them with
my green thumb
"I hadn't seen you since you added the foliage,"
said she
stroking what she spoke of: I her pet, her kitten,
poet takes off his mittens to tap into poems
boxer removes his gloves for a street fight
in such a brawl, he draws blood with a blow
with another, a broken nose, with another, he breaks teeth
this poet does not like the smell of defeat
as stink, as unpleasant as smelly feet
"I hadn't seen you since you added the foliage,"
she added
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
Wood & Mirrors
for Antonius Roberts
i.
these are trees the rain has grown
these are the seeds, nature,
her brothers and sisters have sown
the grain, the veins the water made
xylem and phloem
and up to all the limbs and leaves
little, tiny palms, open to sunshine
what he does with wood
wood does with him
with grain in wood, he draws
what wood has to say
is what he has to say
are the remarks he makes
knot in wood, knot in rope
ball of rope on a ship or a boat
knot for the neck of one
not deserving to live
drop through trap door
necktie to hang in
to hang from until dead
what is a dead man doing
hanging, with his tongue hanging out
in our living room
hanging around about
our pretty expensive furniture
what in the woods- in the world
have these trees seen
what scenes have they witnessed
are they blind
could they feel or fear
sense or smell
could they hear
what events in history
along the way to nationhood
art to bring out-
aught to bring out
the worse
as well as the best in us
tell the truth,
cover nothing up
ii
weight of wood
to have to lift, to have to drift
a craft across rough seas
sail alone to depend upon
ancient times
before the tide of what is modern
more convenient
washed up, washed in
washed us up
for Columbus to have done
what he did in 1492
what all was he without
what were his limitations
what allowed him-
enabled him
along with courage
to do what he did
to get where he got
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2011
Written on Friday, January 28, 2011
between 3:40 p.m. and 4:16 p.m.
Spitting Image
for D.B.A.
i.
with what accumulates
in my mouth as well as in my mind
like water in a well, after waking up,
prior to getting out of bed
liquid filling my mouth,
filling it more and more,
with what I would not dare swallow
with what at times overflows
sometimes you wake
and it has escaped, has stained
your pillow case
instead of holding it, having it
accumulate and accumulate
between sleep and wake
between sleeping and waking
between being asleep and being awake
I suppose, daydreaming
or daydreaming, you might say
it occurs to me
or the possibility arises
to let flow out of my mouth
this liquid I let
accumulate more and more
until I can no longer contain it
until some accidentally spills
or I, by accident, swallow some
and I leap up, run to the bath room
to the hand basin/face basin
and spit it all out and with tap running
with tap water, wash it away
wash it down the drain
thought I had a while ago
was to, with this, paint your portrait
or to, with this, from my mouth,
spit your portrait out or not spit
but while there in my bed,
head upon my pillow,
upon its pillow case, release it
let it flow, form your portrait
form it automatically
with spit overflowing
do it with the freedom with which
Miro painted, made his art
with whatever occurred to him
or entered his mind
or entered his hand
similarly accumulated in me
similarly stimulating me
I could, with whatever emits
from my body, whatever fluids
whatever juices, along with ink
make poetry, make portraits of my baby,
of my lady, of the love of my life
nothing is too base, too grotesque
for what or who is heavenly
to transform
even spit from my mouth
even what I, when awake, spit out
can be transformed
as I have been since we met
and we merged
the earth has not been the same since
the universe was altered
when we set off or hit it off
or when I swung and missed
ii.
could kill for her or die for her
or I could have - could I still
could I anymore - would I any more
with your newly discovered
lack of commitment to inspire me
to spur me on
killed for you or died for you
still might not impress you,
might not get you to deeper
or to deepen commitment
on the boarder, on the fringes
of what I thought
was an affair between us,
shared between us
an affair we were sharing
were in together
I, up to my neck in it, drowning in it
you up to your knees,
intending to go back
or to go no further, not now
unless you fell in the well
like Uncle Lou: like I did
iii.
from whom am I
expecting response
satisfactory and adequate
from a small girl
is this not to court
disappointment, letdown
what I want of her, expect of her
only a woman can deliver
and not just any woman
only an extraordinary one
only extraordinary ones
what sort of woman
will this girl be
and when will she cross into
fully-grown-up land
will it be before this man
wanting a woman-
in need of one, is underground
is in the earth, is eating dirt
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2011
Written on Sunday, February 6, 2011
between 12:45 p.m. and 7:05 p.m.
