I made the rising moon go back
behind the shouldering hill,
I raced along the eastern track
till time itself stood still.
The stars swarmed on behind the trees,
but I sped fast at they,
I could have made the sun arise,
and night turn back to day.
......
You're in this dream of cotton plants.
You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds
Fall with a sigh. You take another step,
Chop, and the sigh comes again,
Until you yourself are breathing that way
With each step, a sigh that will follow you into town.
That's hours later. The sun is a red blister
Coming up in your palm. Your back is strong,
Young, not yet the broken chair
......
Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops
De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots
Dis poetry is designed fe rantin
Dance hall style, big mouth chanting,
Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep
Preaching follow me
Like yu is blind sheep,
Dis poetry is not Party Political
Not designed fe dose who are critical.
Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed
......
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
......
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
......
All the hot summer days I am found, sleeping late in my bed,
Dreaming of dusk and getting beauty rest, before sunset red;
For I'm an opal night owl, my scent blooms open all night long.
I am called Mirabilis jalapa, or four o'clocks, adoring birdsong.
I am yellow and deep pink stripes, beloved by hummingbirds,
And grape sun butterflies, when time seems to go backwards.
I keep a daily appointment with destiny, at about four o'clock,
As I love pearly moon more than sun, when dancing in my frock!
Summer night, bright stars and the Moon;
All, in tiredness, look into where their secrets lie
And drinking water seems to be boon
To all livings, or ambrosia nigh, -
Beneath the shades of coconut leaves
Or, half-opened homes all rest in haughtiness
Of the century's hottest summer,
And enjoy mangoes those it gives.
Although the summer lashes it's hammer
Upon the candle-like minds,
......
Backdoor wide open
A cream moon is coming in
Softly, like a dream.
Beyond red sun, pearly rays
in a lazy, lilac night.
Howling wind whimsy
'midst the fantasy flowers
in plum, pink and green.
Silver moon, always welcome
......
An April night: fresh and clear
Loneliness seemed to be grim.
Above the moon, there's nothing dear
We laid wasting time at brim.
The brokenness of shadows of leaves
Wanting fairness in resonant air
Teemed; and along furrows, sheaves
While resting, did they little care.
As if, sunk half the moon, we saw
Into the skies, half above horizon;
......
When night comes down and I sleep
The mystery of vixen throat utters
'Fairly lay until I worsely weep'.
I think- - the whole once may stir
The uninterrupted atmosphere;
And peep through holes of window
To see if there is some ghosts beside;
I ask myself what's going on
And thereafter, a long sigh from
Resonant bushes, far off home-
......