Category: Poetry 6

God Save Duh Queen

Ide AMARI Thompson Down home Down home  This mussie a jokeBui, this een No ant’emTo duh majestyof dese islands. This is enn no slave song No cry to our freedomAn’ like the las’ Mailbot rushing...

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Perspective

Jason Henry

the breakbeat boosts
her belief
that she has to live
in Portland

she’s yelling over
the speaker system
and my concern that
she’s running from something

she’s running from
something that
Portland’s silence will only hide
for a time

we separate and sojourn from
our stubbornness
for some soup
and sativa

the odd couple rock and wine
and I laugh to myself
that they’ll do this more
in Canada

than they ever will here

prophets are never
loved in their hometown
and neither are scientists

when the cold
smothers you to death
you will remember how warm
water pipes can be

after it bakes in the
Patrick City sun

the dance floor
is a blood sacrifice
and by Levitical law
our sins shall be washed away

for as much as we
bun out Babylon,
many of us here tonight
under the sanguine moon

have visited foreign gods
and taken their gold
for our own;
Selassie hides His wrath

for we are a wicked people
and God is a jealous god;
we are his children,
the sheep of disaster

he wants what’s best for us;
we miss the irony

anyways
baby girl and I have resumed
as the reverb
slaps the spliff we share

she reiterates her point,
I don’t like repeating myself;
she asks me where would
I want to live

“Portland”

happy resentment rejuvenates
her presumption
that I am a difficult man

I am merely projecting
my fears, baby girl;
but I don’t know that,
not yet

I wouldn’t tell you
how I felt
if I hadn’t already
suffered a similar fate

I wouldn’t warn you
about what you may
be missing
if I didn’t care

“but I like Negril too”

you already told her
what she wanted to hear,
shut up

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Mi General

Randy Baker     for Upton It’s odd when I think of it.We used to live ‘round the wayfrom Tappa Zukie’s yardand now when I picture you,my mind plays that song of his.We would hear it echoing from the sound...

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Night Walk

Kay-Ann Henry

On nights, the moon is much too lovely
to ignore and my room becomes a 
cocoon that stuffs and suffocates, 
I take a walk.
I’m looking for the lady whose skin 
turns blue in the moonlight. 
After two croaks, I see her 
in all her antediluvian glory.
Suede Clarks, Anita Baker crooning
from the record player,
a devoted night routine to the moon.
She has me transfixed in space, 
time and retrograde.
My whole body is humming 
whatever tune that’s so wonderfully 
placed around her lips. 
Oh, how I envy that song. 
I, too, long to be a thing in her mouth.

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