romancing the goathead (14)

romancing the goathead

herds of headless goats flock along
samaru’s back roads & byways; ooze an
ephemeral obstruction into the streets of
sabo, stopping traffic until they pass,
fearing nothing & no one save my
friends & i with beer in the belly & the
head of a goat on our breaths

isi ewu, isi ewu make una bringam; i go
chop am.

red tina, her original calabar curves &
giggles hint of seasonings much sweeter
than otasi, of meat much softer than that
rendered by potash or simmered in the
redgold mustiness of palm oil. she
ministers to us with bowl after sizzling
bowl of succulent eyes, tender ears, &
erotic headflesh piled high, burning the
fingers, the mouth; burning a fiery passage
to the groin.

isi ewu, isi ewu make una bringam; i go
chop am.

the soul of a goat assaults my brain
through the nostrils, riding on a chariot of
steam. what sorcery is this?

my ears grow long & pointed, my brow
sprouts horns, my loins covered with a coat
of fur – my feet, cloven & fleet.

& i bolt into the night, loins heavy, my
yellow eyes blazing beacons, seeking out
promises fulfilled behind the curtained
doorways of samaru.

isi ewu, isi ewu make una bringam; i go
chop am.

i awake at drawn in a spare bedroom in a
strange house. i have walked in my sleep
but fear retracing my somnambulant trail.
i dress, leave quietly through an
anonymous back door craving the sobering
effects of a morning walk & a
surreptitious reentry into privacy.

on my way home, i noticed goats grazing
apprehensively, eyeing me from
proletarian beanfields; who bolt & run as
i approach.

how fearful i must seem to them, with last
evening’s beer growling in my belly &
the head of one of their brethren on my breath.

© Joseph McNair;2009

for mamman vatsa (13)

requiem for a soldier poet

for general mamman vatsa

something lurked behind his verse, some
irony within, & compromised, was forced
to act for better or for worse.

soldier? poet? which nature came to fore,
prevailed which force behind the plotting?
which made the plan mature?

a soldier makes of death a game; can kill
without remorse. a poet, tho’ is pledged to life;
at minds & pathos aim.

a soldier poet can sway, choose death or
life if power might be gained; even wager
his life to win the day.

bullet or poem, which one is the way. but
should a poet come to power thru’ the
barrel of a gun?

something lurked behind his rhyme; some
enemy within betrayed him; alerted his
targets & gave them time

to sniff around, investigate; put two &
two together. some disabused themselves in
time; for him it was too late.

plot expose, his plan accursed his reckless
gamble left a bloody poem, his body; a
riddled corpse, his verse.

© Joseph McNair;2009

the bass flute (12)

the bass flute

for charles “doc” austen

easily drowned out by instruments of comparable
register, the cocky clarinet, the brash bassoon or
supercilious english horn, its transverse timbre doesn’t
carry in a crowd. but standing alone or amplified, a
marvelous solo voice issues forth from that “j” shaped
head joint, & when the player’s lips brush rightly over
the embouchure hole, when the air flow is angled & true,
a deep whispery tone & woody color results that tells a
compelling story; makes the ears hear sounds &
meanings that may not even be there.

my life song could be told in that voice; in those tones –
its overture no windswept epic, but a sober hymn to the
desert-like landscapes of my life, stripped of grandeur
but lavish in the most painful kind of humilty. & yet (as
with all godly things, be it snowflake, mountain or
human heart) it is perfect. change one note & it would be
diminished; displace one chord, one phrase or one solo
run & its structure would fall in on itself.

my lifesong begins with an intense legato, its opening
theme played smoothly, with no intervening silence.
hear the bass flute insinuate, in the partials that dominate
lower register fundamentals, the blues that infuse its
sweetest tone, attack, interval leaps & phrasing,
harmonically complimented by the conflicting promises
of greatness, heartbreak, joy & profound sadness
bouncing back as echoes from life’s multiple reflecting
surfaces.

hear it presage & confirm my ups & downs in the
keening high notes that swoop like a diving falcon down
into its lowest, richest & woodiest tones. much like how
i fell from the sky, down into the lowermost
region/registers of addiction & despair like a hapless,
exhausted bird caught out in the cold, whose wings
became too heavy to fly; how i laid there in a whiteout
& stayed there until my whole world came to a stop.

play on, bass flute, work yr trill keys to stabilize an
unstable middle register; to trill between otherwise
impossible notes. tell them how my miracle came; tell
them through yr technique, yr timbral trills, glissandi,
flutter & slap tongue, how i was auspiciously saved by a
random cosmic dump, a proverbial fecal storm that
overwhelmed me, that covered me up completely, but
like the insulating power of packed snow, warmed me
up & saved me.

tell them again with yr pitchbending, yr whistle tones &
multiphonics, how i dug myself out, broke through,
stinking but alive, to live again, to sing again, to even
love again, though it took years for the smell to fade.
play on bass flute, play yr silverplated finish off. strain
the tongue if u must to sustain yr solo; to sustain my
song. life is good now. i can look back on it with
stopped down telescopic hindsight; with the distance
that some call wisdom. even my present is in sharp focus
& when i close my eyes i can always hear u playing -- in
the shadows of days, in the whispered secrets of night,
behind the incessant background noises -- yr soft
rhythmic darkly joyful song.


© Joseph McNair;2009

footnotes (11)

footnotes

woman is a footnote to history.
in her life are explained its passages;
from her womb come forth the makers

of event & ritual
of heroic deed & mischief
of gods & common men

she is the tie that binds culture
to generation after generation.
(blest be the tie that binds!)

modern mother africa
why suffer yr daughter so?

make her the mule bearing on her
back the burden of

yr malnourished children
yr chronic misforture
yr aborted dreams?

make her the drudge & menial
tending from cockcrow to sundown

yr faltering fires
yr niggardly provisions
u soul-killing labor?

make her choose shamelessly between

harlotry & starvation
harlotry & ignorance
harlotry & oblivion?

modern mother africa
it is yet through the eyes of art that we see
yr daughter’s beauty, her inexhaustible
strength, her courage & nobility.

can’t u

pamper her, a little?
adorn her from yr
hidden stores; spoil her
with a touch of kindness?

can’t u

reward her for her efforts,
help her find fulfillment;
prepare her for happiness?

how life now from day to day mirrors
only the

follies & misdeeds of yr sons,
the abuses of yr foreign consorts;
yr own helpless indifference.

what manner of mother will she make?
what manner of culture will pass through
her words & doings?

when the finger of history moves,
recording this era on the ruins of time

she will yet be there
as will her children

to footnote its cryptic & incredulous script!

© Joseph McNair;2009

jelly, jelly (10)

jelly, jelly

jelly, jelly, jelly
jelly stays on my mind

jellied yearnings seem a bit insipid now.
yet another fallow moment passes:
my mind lays flaccid, idle in a growing
season.

my eyes – not nearly as fit or firm as when
younger – bulge just the same; touch,
caress fervid fecund figures with delayed
tumescence.

eyes that need much more stimulation now;
more than memories of fading fettle,
of sugar & juice boiling in cauldrons
of coitus.

it must be jelly
cause jam don't shake like that

& there are these odd other longings.
not the cravings of priapus, full of
gelatin or pectin – but tender compassions
that thicken & set with time rather than heat,

aroused by desire older than sight or even cell
memory. a yearning for union – a oneness
missing from the couplings of pelvis & ego;
an absorbing unity, a clear, ecstatic cosmic jelly

strained free of fruity soul pulp & passion –
my refracting spirit swells!


©Joseph McNair;2009

the blues (9)

the blues

the blues jumped up a rabbit,
rabbit ran a quarter mile;
that poor little furry bunny
scared like a baby child.....
taj mahal

the blues derive from feelings–mostly fear,
which ooze from fissures in composure's mask.
blue concupiscence makes the muscles err,
blue consequences take the soul to task.
the blues are found in spaces 'tween the cells;
the longing of the soul for its delight.
blue bodyego screams as passion thrills,
blue syntax of perception makes it right.
the blues rush in when separation leaves
a breach that only god or fear can fill –
blue grace an unction for this soul who grieves;
blue solace soothes & gives respite until
boy blue decides to live life on its terms
& trade the blues for faith true love affirms.

© Joseph McNair; 2009

self sagas, pt 1 (8)

selfsagas part i

neonate nescience: notime nospace nothought noword
nosubject noobject – nothing save the nonsound of
growth & nonsense of newborn life in primal paradise
materia prima eden of innocence & ignorance the ego
sleeps in the round an infant's sleep; will neither rouse
nor roil until an image intrudes “outside in" a solitary
image comes a light in the darkness but the darkness
knows naught a luminous likeness floating anony-
mously on the surface of the sea of self then another
comes & others rushing gustatory gate tactile terminal
nasal passage riding retinal roadway aural avenue
walking skipping dancing a kinesic balance beam a
trickle then a flood perceptual flotsam troubling self-
waters the ego stirs – an undulation a swell on the
surface – opens is an eye that focuses dimly
accommodates poorly is a lens that dilates constricts
constructs artlessly from the floating debris a primitive
"outside" a skeletal inside selfsense is a serpent
swallowing then regurgitating its tail is an eye that
when brushed caressed stroked again & again by
sensory image transmogrifies shapeshifts from orb to
serpent to halfhuman dragonself extending out & apart
images a sharper outside encounters objects learns to
feel feels in parataxic episodes pain rage fear tension
appetite feels polymorphously perverse pleasure from
all orifices & surfaces feels a body feels contained in
skin & separate from the sweet & sour breast from the
mother goddess & the wicked witch the nascent ego
experiences loss knows sadness fear anger images loss
knows anxiety experiences gain tensionrelease knows
pleasure images the same & learns to wish

© Joseph McNair;2009