Willow Walk

looking backwards

at end of journey no place left to flee

but still we crave what lies beyond the reef

not knowing yet all of the modes of grief

each tacks their name upon the waiting tree

you tell us simply wait and let time be

leave urgency and haste to the old thief

too soon we'll mourn each swiftly falling leaf

and far too soon will curse the hateful sea

right now the sun fills the whole world with gold

there seems no barrier to clearest truth

all of our senses proclaim highest noon

no one will speak of days both dark and cold

or tell us all the sournesses of ruth

but now we want to hide in a cocoon

welcome all with happiness

the task we find is never to set straight

those who come limping to the summer feast

in search of all the savours we released

 

we do not snarl or tell them they are late

their style and manner we have not policed

the task we find is never to set straight

 

rather our duty's to keep wide the gate

and grant full favour even to the least

admitting all until the night has ceased

the task we find is never to set straight

signal and metaphor

we miss the moment and we fail to speak

so time itself slips out of weary hands

not subject now to anyone's commands

 

only an infant stands upon the peak

and gazes out upon the sunlit lands

we miss the moment and we fail to speak

 

the mighty river starts as muddy creek

so we are told but no one understands

that oceans set the limit of the sands

we miss the moment and we fail to speak

so keen the blade

the scope of vision comes down to one leaf

no time for moonset in the distant bay

that was a moment lacking in all grief

 

an age ago we thought it plain relief

to break the silence letting each one say

the scope of vision comes down to one leaf

 

not one of us would claim to have a beef

with those who had not yet quite gone astray

that was a moment lacking in all grief

 

it was so easy then to play at chief

and turn rejoicing to the sun's first ray

the scope of vision comes down to one leaf

 

in simple times the problem with belief

is that it makes the whole of life a play

that was a moment lacking in all grief

 

to tell the truth i name myself a thief

who has abstracted memory of a day

the scope of vision comes down to one leaf

that was a moment lacking in all grief

a time of legend

a thousand stories wait still to be told

we pack our visions up and wrap them tight

this is the season when we pan for gold

 

your task to herd the lost sheep into fold

and do so swiftly for too soon comes night

a thousand stories wait still to be told

 

at height of summer not a one fears cold

but you alone are left to warn of blight

this is the season when we pan for gold

 

give us the measure and we shall take hold

of all the matters set within our sight

a thousand stories wait still to be told

 

you seek to have all good things tightly rolled

into the pattern while they are still bright

this is the season when we pan for gold

 

not one thing happens that is not controlled

or so we hope as long as we have light

a thousand stories wait still to be told

this is the season when we pan for gold

state of exception

our hopes come down at last to merest chance

that is the way when we are led by pride

easy to speak when on the winning side

 

you think it simple when we first advance

the laggard is the one you most deride

our hopes come down at last to merest chance

 

but when we run and you note in one glance

how many of us had no chance to hide

and all the anger when they knew you lied

our hopes come down at last to merest chance

Shanty-town Law

John Maxwell

Truisms and clichés become truisms and clichés because they express rules of experience – the probability that certain behaviours are almost bound to have certain predictable effects. ‘Marry in haste’, one says, ‘repent at leisure’.

Recently in Hartley Neita’s collection of stories from old Gleaners, there was the tale  of a man in St Mary who was so bothered by the plaster-cast on his broken ankle that he decided to cut the damned thing off. You know what’s coming, don’t you?

At the end of the process he found he’d amputated his foot.

According to Carl Stone’s polls at the time, most Jamaicans enthusiastically supported the Suppression of Crimes Act and the Gun Court, (1974) and the State of Emergency (1976). Before we were very much older, most of us were appealing piteously to be rid of these magic bullets, which had been guaranteed to make us all safer and happier and would probably cure teenage sex,  bad breath and incontinence to boot.

Will we never learn?

We disregard common sense warnings – from the Bible to John Stuart Mill and Mark Twain to Louise Bennett, to go whoring after instant solutions that sound good if we don’t think about them too hard.

For instance, the call for indefinite detention is an echo of the legislation for the Gun Court declared unconstitutional not too long ago. Removal of Judges’ discretion reflects the so-called ‘Rape Act’ provisions of 1964, found not too long after to be oppressive and counter-productive.

I could go on, but why?

in proper haste

there is no colour left on this old day

and meaning cannot wait for rising moon

truth is conveyed to us by a buffoon

 

you make  a choice and then you have to play

life turns on what is not truly a boon

there is no colour left on this old day

 

the very silence knows that what you say

is matter for some summer afternoon

but we are in the realm of swift lampoon

there is no colour left on this old day

the rot of reason

we give in fury what we won't in fun

but don't expect the answer to be loud

nothing we do can halt the moving sun

 

eye after eye the consequence will shun

of following the ever-fickle crowd

we give in fury what we won't in fun

 

so soon we find the full effort is done

and every corner of the field is ploughed

nothing we do can halt the moving sun

 

nobody thought that we would have to run

so very far nor that we would be cowed

we give in fury what we won't in fun

 

nothing we say would serve this time to stun

unwary minds nor to displace the cloud

nothing we do can halt the moving sun

 

you know from this the wheel was fully spun

for one brief moment all of us were proud

we give in fury what we won't in fun

nothing we do can halt the moving sun

fundamental education

we lean on memory which best should speak

truths are left open for the world to view

and not a thing we learn is found brand new

our simplest urges have been branded cheek

this is the way when you offer critique

to any of that old and famished crew

whose lives are based on noise and ballyhoo

but honesty's a sharp tool for the weak

now all our signals have to be sent clear

with not a scent or symbol of the crypt

that might annoy or otherwise distract

our solemn purpose is to keep out fear

obey all orders and stick to the script

while leaving to you knowledge of the fact