Thanks to John Robert Lee for including two of my poems in his first curated Poetry Portfolio for Acalabash, Becoming Beshert Dreamers and N Words Etymology. Read them here. The latest versions of the poems are below.
Becoming Beshert Dreamers
That true lovers hearts do lie in the bosom of
Eternity. Dearest, I marvel such great love.
– David Guiste (RIPE) (Along the Winding Ways of Green)
He said my colour-wheel eyes were wet-season rain
but sand and dry-season sun spilled from my lips
when they parted like the cadmium Red Sea:
My carnelian skin Castle Bruce village earth,
my cool touch Diablotins mountain breeze
but molten like water.
We made offerings of conch shells,
secrets spiralling from deep; placed
blue lotus petals at each other’s feet.
Tired,
we said nothing
much,
gave nothing
much,
took nothing
much;
we traced pits of scars, gathered our breath
like heirloom seeds, pretended not to hear
the growing murmurs of ghosts.
We both had dreamed
the dreams
of the lonely and weary.
My granny once said be wary
of those too scarred and scared to be their
own lone universe;
their keloids may grow
over their memory,
she said.
But aren’t we all partners of mystery?
Infinite in our knowing and being known?
We tumbled—turned over
and over time,
cultivated courage pearls together,
apart, not
only to uncover other
but ultimately
to uncover selves.
It may be hard but fine to lie
next to spiral shells picked
or gifted—unknown.
N Words Etymology
For Terrence Bernel Maloney RIPE 4th Sep 1958 to 18th Nov 2006
Revelation 5:5 King James Version (KJV)
5 And one of the elders saith unto me, Weep not: behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, hath prevailed to open the book, and to loose the seven seals thereof.
When Terry danced he followed
No tight predetermined clear choreography
No geographic map on floor gliding his feet light
No straight line steps No self-conscious restraint
No care who looked, whispered, shouted out Names.
Yes—I, enraptured,
stood trance still; eyes darting, tracking his blurred, almost holy, hovered movements;
jerked angular arms and legs; dread locked head loosed, self-possessed, shaken slow
side to side, then rapidly up down; utterly wild wild wildly precise piece of uncoordinated
motion; feet freestyling freedom, spreading peacefull all over
the West Indian community centre room.
I had No understanding then, who or what I was watching—didn’t know I didn’t know.
A conscious Rastaman; a man refusing a spine intent on fusing— a life defining him
still. Terry died soon after I moved back home, in search of my own freestyle release.
They said the Catholic church ceremony could Not contain the rousing celebration
of his free spirit. Congregation paid their last respects in the pulsing currency he
would appreciate; they laughed and danced his coffin in and out to reggae music.
I still have the Negus Roots mixtape he made for me. Terry chanting rewind rewind. Recently
I played it loud while driving slow to wherever; windows down, No dread inside, hair dreadfull
Natural coils, Natty, Not Nice N Neat—beautifull untidy—the way I want to see it these days—
face feeling sea wind; smiling, singing, swaying—whatever. Mixtape times, so many years ago
Now. Naive me back then. No idea who or where I was, Nor the meaning of Names I was called.
Today, I researched the definition and etymology of Negus, and other Nice N-words; words used
to define me, jerk me emotional, still. I try to innerstand a little of Terry’s unconscious conscious-
ness—searchin out freedom’s ancient fractal fragments; deepdreaddance N roots
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