St. Lucian for Beginners
(For D.W.)
Fred D'Aguiar
I
Day starts blue-black, shoe black.
Instrumental warm up by solo birds
Dotted about the stellar dark.
Sky waits untrodden for one of them
To flick all feathers and hollow boned across it.
In this soft light I might see wing beats
Leave a trail, chiaroscuro. Feather
In my cap. Feather I blew on
For embers of a past; that whistles
When I blow on it so I sound
Not unlike the bird it fell from.
Bird I become by such small acts.
II
Dog lying on the couch objects.
My glorification of flight omits the small
Miracle of crossing a yard at full pelt
On four coordinated, furry legs
To retrieve a stick and wait tongue-tied
For me to launch that stick as before
With an over arm bowl, more a throw,
Less a bowl than a swing, pelt, fling.
And barking comes, not from the throat,
Nor mastery of a reed, or grass blade
Or fingers in the mouth or tongue curl,
But from the stomach where speech rests.
III
Forgive me, Buddha, I took you for a dog.
I see you have returned, heavily disguised,
God. But you need a bath and I must
Give you one or else faint from the whiff
Of your doggy life, your holiness.
Can you see me alright through
All that hair over your eyes? How
Should I address you? Your two-syllable
Name reflects nothing of your majesty,
Your Majesty. All your barks, despite
Their ever so careful modulation,
Remain just that, not a patch on a bird.
IV
I could have come back as a cat
Or rat, then where would you be
But at the pharmacy for your allergy
Or at the hardware store for a trap?
I toyed with my return as a Japanese
Beetle, iguana, or marabunta.
A dog's shape keeps me close to you.
Sure I smell one way that intensifies
But you stink at various times of the day
In more ways than I can count. So
My fine-haired friend, do not point
At me. Take a long look in the mirror.
V
I took you for a god but you curse
Like a man, worse even. Someone
Should wash your mouth with carbolic
Soap. I would if all I had to fear was your bite.
God or not, the shape you take brings with it
A freight of problems that has nothing to do
With your hallowed condition, just as it does
For me without the holier than thou excuse.
You see cursing may well be what man
Does best, second only to his capacity
To play God with the planet, species
And each other, that's how close we watch you.
VI
I catch myself talking to the dog.
I need to get out more otherwise
I will find myself talking to myself
In some public place too late to avoid
Stares and the wide berth treatment.
Birds flutter away before I can get
A word in edgeways. They sing,
Listen to catch their breaths and sing
Once more or they sing without
Ever listening, pausing only to catch
Flies, believing there is nothing out
There that would benefit from their song.
VII
Sing of fire. A falme that is a bird,
Bath, whistle, clean, fultter, puff, air, smell.
Fire that does not burn - as W. would have it
But replenishes, wash over me with your pelt
Freshening song, oh feather, glory, hallelujah.
I do not wish to be saved, just refreshed
In my given skin and creak crack bones.
To sleep through the night without worry
Waking me before the first twitter from birds,
Even before the earliest evasive move
Made by worms wise to the siren trance
Inducing song that brings them into the open.
VIII
Wise up, what! If that were so we would
All become bags of bones and loose feathers.
Like us, worms must surface for air.
And when they push up their pretty,
Little, meaty heads, we do not bite
Them off, we grab them and pull
Ever so gently, so as not to break
The delicate, silk thread of their boneless
Meat bodies, and only when they are
Fully out, head and body above
Ground, and wriggling in air as if drowning,
Only then we throw our heads back; swallow.
IX
Telling it brings a song to my throat
And a tickle in my belly. There is a moment
When the worm lies flat in the beak,
Half-way down the throat, when you
Have yet to swallow and could just as
Easily gag on what is ambrosia and
Death sentence rolled into one;
When the head is back and the throat
Fully extended but the worm just lies
There like a noodle, and a noose inside
Ready to tighten and strangle you.
Birds must choose right there and then.
X
That is, no choice at all: to do nothing
And very soon become nothing, I mean
Gag, choke and keel over with the tip
Of worm hanging out of your beak
For some other bird to pluck from you,
Or, reach up to the heavens, extend
The neck that extra little bit
That you thought you could not do,
Opening a gap between the vertebrae
In your neck and introducing air into
the gap, almost, where gristle should be,
Extending beyond reason, and swallow.
XI
At the start of every day we bring ourselves
Thus to the brink to carry on, and step back
Daily from the precipice. I say draw ourselves
Away from it because I have never in all
My flight found a fellow bird in a condition
Of having failed to make the extra diameter
Throat stretch, and therefore dead, worm
Stuck in its neck, unless all the dead birds
I happened upon lose the worms from their beaks,
Unless death forces those worms down,
Or else once the birds die the worms free
Themselves, wriggle away, astonished.
XII
Astonishing escape from the jaws of death;
Headlines. Brought about by laying their bodies
On the line. More like, forced to lie there
With one of two outcomes. How can this be?
I feed with a flock. We all sing, eat, sing
Some more, Not one fails in front of my eyes.
Even if I am too busy singing, cocking my head
Back to swallow - when I see nothing,
Can see nothing, cannot even breathe,
So much is required of me - that I may
Miss losing a comrade and then not see
As well the pillage of the body after the fact.
XIII
You see how odd it sounds to suggest
Such a sthing? Listen to yourself trying to salvage
The reputation of the worm above that of what
Birdds do to them in a cycle of natural violence.
We birds put up with cats and birdshot.
Hunting season comes our way without fail.
We fall as scattered feathers, nose-dive
When we catch bullets. Rest in the watery
Mouths of beagles that retrieve us from reeds.
Spare a thought for us as much as the worm.
We are hunted for sport. I swear before
Your god, I never eat worms for sport.
XIV
Or should that be ate? In the past tense.
Present tense speech for a past tense life.
For something that happened some time ago
Through recalled as if happening as it is told.
Partly because saying it makes it real once
More, more real re-lived because more
Aware the second time around, if anything.
Too much in it the first time to even know
What was happening, so that the second life,
The life of the thing considered piece by
Piece, may well be the best prospect
For peace in a life under consideration.
XV
The clock speeds up. I breathe fast.
A fine tremour ruins my grip during these
Repetitions, rehearsals, visitations.
Yet it is ground already trodden, soil
Already turned and a crop harvested
Some time ago leaving straw in its wake,
Husks, empty shells, or so I think
Until I actaully get onto my hands
And knees and almost touch my forehead
To the ground, head down, tail up in
Supplication as my revised revisions
Beg to be dignified. If the truth be told
XVI
I forget so fast I have no choice
But to go back, remember as if
For the first time. In which case I
Experience again, more deeply some
Thing missed the first time round
That I must sift a second time
Or else lose to oblivion, and oblivion
Dear ladies and gentlemen is never an
Option, even if it is the last card
In the pack and the dealer grins
Knowing he will soon run out of cards
For you, even as he tires of your nod.
XVII
Bird or beast. Bird and beast.
Flesh, spirit, invention, idea, person.
Words only and then only words when read.
Beware of the man who talks like a god
Or the god who thinks like a man.
And the dog that believes its bark
Is its bite. And the bird enamoured
With a diet of worms. Even the worm
Who believes today, this dark blue,
Shoe black, blue-black morning is
His lucky day and no bird on earth
Can outwit him, so pushes from soil to air.
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