 I am a Jamaican aspiring poet, the product of a country which has a rich oral history of storytelling. I have been listening all my life, and now I feel confident enough to try at telling my little made-up stories too. In so doing, I would like to hold the faces around the campfire spellbound; the way mine was completely captured, listening to these far away wonders, dramas and melodramas. So, I hope that these lines can take the reader to a somewhere place. MY PAIN My pain is a million poems told in a million languages, My pain sears the same, with a million variation to the theme, trying their all to anaesthetized itself, My pain is the present and a past that is stuck in the pathway of healing, My pain is insufficient pixel a grainy, hazy future, My pain is more crumpled paper, calligraphy of an inane mind, My pain is the reiteration of pain which is a cursory glanced at to be flipped over to the cartoons, My pain digs a deep hole in a bid to be pitch, black melancholy, My pain gets stuck down there, my pain cries out a monotonous echo. POOR LOVE The poverty of our love is monumental its footing is buried deep in emptiness. someone goes to the open window, curses the vacuum again another variation to the misrepresentation of the misrepresented facts arms around the apparitions of each other, swearing to new lines that rhymes, then plastering it over future deeper hurt as we are about to sink deeper into each other’s unresolved concept, that is still drilling between the granite for oil. Which upon its euphoric discovery charity and compassion with flow unimpeded, ‘ what of etiquette, civility, free gestures, right? someone goes to the open window and asked, ‘too poor right now’, the soliloquy snaps back, ‘costly things: tenderness and affection’. so we rightly had to squeeze down tighter on the coins in our pockets because if love is a fairground the simple trick of tossing a coin in the ring, is a trick we are glad not to learn, but the scars in our deformed kiss will hopefully be straightened out as we extend our rig, as we send down an even deeper drill. YOUR HERO is a developing work a work in progress a self-indulgent act on your part, being stenciled by a still hand after the imaged held steadfastly to by a perfectionist mind, these brush stroke of yours without messing up the floor this the denied caricature, your hero is a hewed justification from a river’s rock, your conviction, a fine brush moving deftly over the erased but still imprinted effigy, until your square-jaw hero emerging like a ‘scratch-and-win’ card, your hero is a customized papier-mache’ punch-out whose piercing silence like a scalpel intent on piercing the balloon that cocoons your hero, your hero is a job unto itself, running faucet a running argument between paint, water and yourself, because to a roomful of doubters, your stand, your testament a prerogative beyond critique… BEAUTY: SUPPOSE Beyond the mirage, in the mirage still, balance on tip-toes, to see someone, someone beautiful to look, an attempt at breathing for a rose because when it shows all of it shows, That heaven, hell, nowhere somewhere hangs in suspension and for a rose this ad-hoc philosophy rolls, a dice on the table top not to explain, but to continue the exercise: IN OUT IN OUT life’s meaning, someone beautiful when suppose, Beyond shadowy oasis, beyond...up on tip toes when blood for coffee, plasma-stained utensils, when for the faintest feeling of someone beautiful, a rose a rose to worry about, held under your nose, among these breathing landmines, bullet riddled buildings, yellow-taped-off -life, When the Ferris Wheel slows, slow slow to grab a hold, when beauty suppose, a rose, beauty imagined something out there this muscular spasm, on tip-toes up on tip toes.
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