Friday 13 September 2024

Four Poems by Joe Kidd

 




THE POET AND THE BOTTLE GREEN 

 

High noon and springtime when no man cast a shadow 

The gull high above and the worm in the cove 

Wind blowing the dragons flying over the village 

I stood at the cliff overlooking the stones 

The destination of currents in the salted air 

There on the black rocks below the ledge 

Sat the young man from Swansea who was talked about 

Fire red locks the aura surrounded him 

Pen in the right hand, bottle in the left 

Black Mountain wool, the fabric of his cloak 

Raised in the language of the ancient kings 

And whispering the tune of Myfanwy 

In time as the bottle was emptied and dry 

The pages as full as the ocean before him 

The young poet sat staring at the border of home 

To the sound of the infinite thunder of waves 

It was then I foresaw what was to occur 

The parchment rolled and into the flask 

Re-corked and kissed with a solemn salute 

This athlete of words gave a mighty heave 

As if a log he was tossing forth 

While the pipes were lamenting a loving loss 

Now both disappeared, the boy and the bottle 

Into time and space their trajectory led them 

The poet into hearts and history dwelled 

The bottle a mysterious carrier of dreams 

To this day I am haunted by the lot of this treasure 

Does it float on the surface between the worlds? 

Does it lie on the floor of the echoing sea? 

Was it rescued by a young lass strolling barefoot in the sand 

And read through her tears broken hearted and forlorn 

Not realizing the source of such energy released? 

I share with you this story, anonymous no longer 

As true as the book you now cradle in your arms 

That the Son of the Sea gave back to the water 

The secret of the poet and the bottle green




MA SALAMA SITTO 

 

now as I sit in the middle of the courtyard 

glass and concrete raining from the sky 

the ground beneath my body rumbling violently 

smoke and fire burning everywhere 

my neighbours running blindly through the street 

fathers screaming, mothers’ endless wailing 

blackened bodies lifeless on the corner 

others blown apart among the rubble 

this is not the dream that I could wake from 

this is really happening before my eyes 

I tried to stand, to walk, to run for shelter 

but my thoughts could not convince my legs to move 

I could not recall the impact or the inferno 

but my heart was telling me I was still alive 

 

Sitto, Sitto, please wake up 

she lay face down in a pool of blood 

her shoes were scattered across the road 

what could I possibly have known 

or understood beyond the fear and pain 

the softness of the hand that once held mine 

now turned to stone, broken, cold as ice 

this beauty that had taught me how to kneel 

and pray for Allah’s perfect peace 

this voice that sang so softly as I slept 

and lit the votive candle at my bed 

from the north in Tripoli she travelled 

to meet the boy to whom she offered grace 

I remember the days before the blood and hunger 

before the sound of rockets filled the air 

when days were filled with dandelions and flat bread 

 

tonight I have no home, no food, no family 

before tomorrow’s sun, I surely will be dead




El Vaquero 

 

el vaquero held hands with a long haired latina 

she said "gracias" when she was finished 

singing of love in a soaring soprano 

her feet bore the miles she had travelled 

through streets of punishment and devocion a la libertad 

 

yes, they were one for a moment in history 

under the moon on its well-worn path 

they smiled and opened their mouths 

with her fingers she dipped the cornbread in butter 

her dress was black silk with roses of sienna 

he tasted the desert on her neck where her earring dangled 

she sang - "padre nuestro que estas en los cielos" 

as he reached up to pick a raven from the sky 

now filled with lightning and cleansing rain 

 

"the beauty of time is that it has no master" 

she whispered, as he ran his finger across her lips 

the wind was a vehicle to carry them there 

there - where they listened to the entrance bells of heaven 

there - where life formed in the womb of the universe 

there - where el spiritu santo has no end 

there - in an instant of clarity eternal



Here Lies Beating a Heart of Stone 

 

here lies beating a heart of stone 

cast in the image of one awake 

whose breath is the waters of a flowing river 

the small and the great on the banks observing 

one who demands not and neither seeks 

the shimmer of a pebble delicately mined 

then forsaken aimlessly from the steps overlooking 

and there it will sleep for a lifetime or two 

as time rejoices and replenishes its stream 

this wheel that turns, this honour imagined 

on every star in countless galaxies 

the courage required to live in silence 

to acquire distance and detachment 

now as the universe contracts and expands 

the urge to speak, to sing, to scream 

revelations that we are ignited and burning 

and this heart is a furnace that welcomes visitation 

unable to deny or diminish or destroy 

a journey so short as to be measured 

by one who casts a gaze into clear water 

to find a stone shining in the sediment below 

oh sweet chemistry animated 

spirit fertilized in this garden of flesh 

at once a seed that has taken its root 

invisibility bearing fruit, yes but the print upon a surface 

remains undetected for a thousand years 

now identified as the wanderer who walked this bridge 

and offered the evidence of such existence 

beneath an overgrown path, nourished and green 

lies a document formed on a day of remembrance 

by a presence alive regardless of passages 

precious metal forged in the heat of one passion 

that brings us together alone and divine 

we are here, we are now, and we wait for no one 

and nothing will stop us as we pour forth our love 

thissensation is our vehicle, we are the visitor 

and smooth is the silk upon which we merge 

true is the urgency and the comfort we share 

in the freedom that binds these hopeless endeavours 

that this too must pass, and yet live forever




The Poet And The Bottle Green - is a vision of the great Welsh poet Dylan Thomas

Ma Salama Sitto - (translation from Arabic is Good Bye Grandmother) - is the experience of warfare from the eyes of an innocent child

El Vaquero - (The Cowboy in Spanish) - describes an encounter between a cowboy and a Native Mexican sorceress (the language deliberately floats in and out between English and Spanish

Here Lies Beating A Heart Of Stone - is an actual mystical experience of mine while on retreat with the Jesuits







Joe Kidd is a working, award winning, poet/songwriter from Detroit.  In 2020, The Invisible Waterhole, a collection of spiritual and sensual verse was published and  awarded by the Michigan Governor's Office and the United States House of Representatives.  Joe is the current Beat Poet Laureate for the State of Michigan 2022-2024, and Official Poet of the Government of Birland North Africa.  He holds an Honorary Doctorate from International Union Peace Federation.  With partner Sheila Burke he has toured Europe, North America, & Caribbean Islands, featured in international anthologies, magazines, websites, festivals with personal appearances in 33 states and 14 countries.  Joe is a member of National & International Beat Poet Foundation, 100 Thousand Poets For Change, Society of Classical Poets, Michigan Rock & Roll Legends Hall Of Fame, much more. 

 

Official Website: 

 

 

 

 

  

  

  

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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