Still and Maybe More: a Trilogy / patrick rahming

Saturday
afternoon fights
with/over broken rum bottles
still leave
gaping wounds
and little black children
crying
still think Santa Claus
is white
after two years

To grow
civilised men
feed
upon the foresight/hindsight
of artists
who have the right
to paint
……………sing
…………………….tell
the truth as it hurts
…………………………them
Politicians, materialists
and other anarchists
have the right
to silence
artists

Study the thought
and wonder
……………about the sameness
Study the past
and wonder
……………about change
Study
……………to find
……………the difference.

……………

The image
of Bain Town/Grassroots
which sat boisterously
drinking
in a hundred bars names Briteley’s
or eating boiled grouper
served by
(perhaps) the last, fierce
big-bubbied Nango woman
has climbed the hill
and descended
and seeped under the door
like the smell of boiling guava
into the Houses of Parliament
where boiled crab and dough
is now served
……………under glass.
It looks the same
two years after
the fireworks
it looks
……………smells
…………………….tastes
like boiled fish and grits at Kentucky Springs
like boiled crab and dough
at sunset
in Stanyard Creek
like okra soup
by the dock
in Rock Sound
it looks/smells/tastes the same
but changing

……………

Two years of bleeding
Two years of searching the horizon
for friends
Two years of
more
……………open palms under the table
more
……………empty pockets on the streets
more
……………advice from the United Nations
more
……………dreams and schemes
……………to become reality or fail
more
……………chances to break away
……………and leave
……………or stay
more
……………efforts by the knowers to be do-ers
more
……………knowledge of the ignorance
……………and the meaning
……………of poverty
more
……………pride in being
……………whatever it is we are.

Birthdays
are meaningless
except to measure the process
of maturing.
Two years old
and growing.

One comment

  1. Reply

    Dis make me won boil fish all over again – enables me to recall when I and the environment out of which these foods came, were younger, newer.

    This poem allows me to go back to a time when my taste buds worked better as well as my eye sight.

    How very fresh these foods seem to my senses. Things seem to have turned gray since – emotionally and actually.

    What a time this poem captures and allows me to access. I am very grateful for desires and emotions it puts me again in touch with.

    What very fine art – a very fine poem. It makes me nostalgic for a Bahamas which was. It is critical of a time which now paradoxically seems quite delicious.

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