The Rasta Cycles

 

 

 

 

 

The Rasta Cycles

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By

Ibanez, sometimes called General D of the tribe of Judah, and Damodar Prasad das

 

Printed in 2021 by Ibanez

But pertaining to events of a twelve-year previously.

 

For more information:

Daniel.IbanezLopes@gmail.com

The Literary Works of Ibanez (ibanezliterature.blogspot.com)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

jaya sri krsna caitanya prabhu nityananda sri advaita gadadhara sri vas adi gaura bhakti vrnda

 

 

I

 

Holy Emmanuel I

Selassie I

Jah!

Rastafari

King Haile Selassie I is the First

Selah

 

The tall ragged man who stands

Rebellious at the crossing

Hitting the side of the van

Whose driver refused to give

Might have been a Lord

In the assembly of Kings!

 

 

II

 

All’s a blazing bonfire burning strongly

Sleepless through the night

About it are seated a hundred noble Queens

And a thousand Kings

Watching its glowing embers rise and fall

 

In a room attached to the dancing hall

Muzzla Molecules knelt in yearning prayer

Calling aloud in a silent voice

I entered because I knew he was there

And wanted to share

He looked and accepted and we knelt in prayer

The chalice burning

Then I reentered the hall while he ascended the stage

To begin his rythmic chanting

 

When Muzzla sang something happened inside

I listened and started jumping

Jumping like a frog

Jumping like a lion

Jumping on the outside

Jumping on the inside

Internal organs massaging

 

When he blazed the cushu years could he feel

His mortal life augmenting

And once I beheld with my eyes

As he made the cushu bubble and blaze

A sacred flame leap from the bowl

Flaming and dancing

 

That night he ran on the stage

His inner man singing

In excess of praise his voice raised

In desperate cries cracking

And the music stopped

A Rastaman dropped

Saying

“This way is not the way of praising.”

Then the music came on

Burning the hours of night

To a sunlit morning

 

Muzzla Muzzla

Muzzla Muzzla

Muzzla Molecules

Muzzla Muzzla

Muzzla Muzzla

Muzzla Molecules

 

Thus he sang tunneling his lips

Riding through sleep in the morning

As I struggled at the wheel to clasp to waking

Watchful Nathi at my side

Kept my head from nodding

That night we ran through the night

Like sparks of blaze from a lion’s mouth

In Sebokeng the kings had gathered

 

Lord Nrsimha roars from the Star

Protector of David, King

Flames dance everlasting they do not sleep

On bubbles of light they surround Him

All turned towards His gaping maw

Dancing, massaging the growling God

For only He gives them life and comfort and joy

Sometimes one bubble zips along the orange rays

To mingle in the universe jostling

Confident in the cold reaches of space

Kindling new fire

 

 

III

 

The pages of the Bible hold an inner meaning

Beyond comprehension in the conscious stream

Knowing ourselves condemned, we live in a world with no God

And all the great keys unnoticed float

But sometimes, I know not how

The connection is made

It is through the meeting which rarely take place

We enter the great story, the dream real

Our every word, thought and deed

The stuff of great legend becoming

Waking from sleep we are born in the world

And we share it with prophets and kings

Knowing each other from times ancient

Raggamuffins of the street

 

 

IV

 

Searching Newtown for a love lost, a memory grown stale

I roamed the dark streets, finding a place like a cave

Where a silent television played

Telling a tale of two men, drunken journeying

Under clouds gone pale

And I drank a beer

Waiting while shadowed people passed near

 

Sophisticated but green

Worn to nothing by dark dreams

By conversations strained to wit

Following talks’ vain twirls no-one else could understand

The cup was running dry, talk growing thin

Biting sarcasm turning more often within

We drank our pleasures to the dregs to find new joys

It was that longing which led my wandering feet to dark shifting streets

Lit by changing robots:

Red

Yellow

Green

In the empty streets at night

Beneath a glimmering rain-washed light

A man packs his street shop

All his goods in bags bulging tight

He hoists them onto a creaking trolley with shop-keeper’s strength

And stows them in a dark room he rents

And he returns, the Rasta with the yellow turban

We sit in my car smoking herbs

Talking in turns

I spoke with King Yellow amidst sweet smoke

What have I to tell?

No tales of glory or trials

But I cling to dreams of beauty, of some noble thing

 

The smoke is white and clean and drifts in curls

Oh Yellow! Oh King! What new discovered joy

In this herb smoking

Once a heady kick mingled with wine

Now I see in it something Holy

His face shines

Beneath a turban wrapped clean

What things did he speak, Oh Lord

What did I see?

 

“Before I was a rude boy, a thief

“Angry when drunk, mad with the blood of meat

“But Rastaman show I and I livity with blessed herb

“I became a man of peace

“And Jah-Jah I-an-I teach, even He gave I-an-I skill

“To make these shoes

“And He gave you wisdom too”

 

 

V

 

I came now to visit Yellow

His face smiling

To share and hear wisdom from an ancient book

Now made alive in speech

And in his look

Beard and yellow turban protruding

 

And there one day

In the yellowing-sun-heat-drifts through coloured cloth hanging

(Flags and arcane crafts, clay pipes, beaded belts, hand-made shoes of Yellow-man’s shop)

Crouched a man dark like a tall bended tree

Muzzla Molecules

Smelling of the earth and we smoked our herbs

Of the mystery of numbers he wished to learn

Though he knew more than I

Who knew them but for the reckoning

 

“Life is eternal, I shall never die

“I shall live forever

“Jah! Rastafari!”

“But why do we see all things in nature perish?”

“They are following man who has chosen so

“For if he wants man can have eternal life

“To live and to praise Jah Rastafari!”

My mind buzzed with the herb, more with his word

Such a teaching I had never heard:

Could it be? Can we be eternal?

Growing to live? Living to grow?

And then Lord Muzzla gave me a ring

He made it of black and white beads on a nylon string

I did not know how to accept it

But in false pride and emptiness proclaimed:

“I wear no mark nor symbol upon palm or wrist”

He smiled and gave it again

And then he gave a warning to all who use computers and match-sticks

Their names enumerate: six six six

 

What does it mean – life eternal?

Is the world all unchanging, time stopped still?

Or is there growth without death, trees eternally tall?

When they drop their fruit do they eternally fall?

His name was Muzzla, the prophet of the South

 

 

VI

 

There once lived a king who wore no crown

Save locks of grey

His throne was raised upon a step of stone

In a hall of crystal with earthen floors

And the stone of his hall was porfiry and quartz

Pale pink and white, smooth and coarse

Transparent, opaque

A golden mist upon a lake

Gold by day, silver by night

Lit by the stars and the moon

Winds of Winter washed the sky blue

The land was abundant with good crops

Reaping Summer’s harvests for Winter’s frosts

And when Spring wakes earth with morning dew

The king rejoiced for the year that was new

And the king was friend to all woman and man

And animals and plants and the stones of the land

This king dined never alone

But always a friend shared his home

From ministers of state to the wandering fly

And yet this king was shy

In that land philosophers wandered free

Resting awhiles beneath the sunfilled tree

What tales learnt the king beneath the tree?

From Josepha the prophet did he learn

Of strange beings whom the sun did burn

With bodies of men and heads of beasts

That sought their refuge beneath the sea

And with wisdom far exceeding man’s

Devised the cunning machinery now at his command

Created by God but not as He

They enslave men by exploiting their greed

And the king was named Judah

Josepha proved by numbers and signs

That this age of man was approaching its demise

Showing that it was the age of the beast

Quoting the scripture and praising the East

Judah then wondered what it meant not to die

A world of endless growth and endless life

 

 

 

VII

 

In those Golden days all I met were soldiers

Prophets and Kings

Adorned with turbans, coloured flags and coloured rings

But it was their wares I sought

Or so I thought

But what new thoughts and dreams

Awoke

Swirling and dancing amidst the billowing smoke?

 

First give thanks before, during and after

And replace with wisdom your reckless laughter

Nothing more delights the mind than the wisdom of Jah

Listen to the song of Rasta

Jah Rastafari is the I-tiopian King

He rules from the mountain over everything

 

One Sunday I drove through a silver rain

To gilt-golden clouds towards a distant place

But fearing the unknown

And having no place of my own

I turned back

To my parent’s house

 

 

 

VIII

 

Of that day it has been sung

Called by Muzzla I came one Sunday alone

The square was bathed silent by late golden rays

The Rastas had gathered to pray

Muzzla who was Josepha, and Issachar and his wife

King Yellow and queen, and the cushu blazed with fire

But I knew not the art and coughed away the fumes

And asked Issachar how to honour the Cush

“This will not harm you, be not afraid

“Draw deeply thy breath, bless the holy place within

“The Cushu shall never cause thee harm

“For tis of earth, water, air and flame”

Then Muzzla who heard placed in my hand

A harmonica of steel to carry the wind

 

And Judah walked that day with a lowered eye

For Issachar of Joseph had taught him to breath in the fire

And they all came to a place where a small crowd had gathered

To learn of the plight of Zimbabwe

As the sun shone golden upon the square of stone

The heavens opened with a shower of foam

Muzzla led them before the gathered crowd

Draped in flowing cloths his bearing was proud

With shakers and xylophone, drums and wind

They mingled plaintive voices, calling for God within

All grew quiet

The trees swayed in the sunshine mingled with rain,

And Judah lifted his harmonica

And filling his belly with the air from the ground

Blew forth through the steel the primordial sound

With closed eyes and deep breath he began to pray

Now breathing the music, now soothing his pain

He felt now his breath flowing out and flowing in

He saw now a star, blazing within

And he waited until moved to give breath to the song

In the ensuing calm, he felt he belonged

 

I played the song with eyes closed

Opening in stillness: the audience remained

And a man held a camera

“We must get the recording!”

“It’s alright,” Muzzla spake, “We have faith”

The seed that was planted would grow in Zion’s field

When I found myself alone I knelt and begged for Grace

And it came with fresh rain

Thus it began, the sprouting of Faith

In a dark and fearful place

 

I was steeped in Thy beauty so that I might atone

Taught the beauty of life and given a home

I was set on the path of discovery

That gleamed yellow like raisins when my eyes were closed

That rang at the door and shone in the window

That rippled the sky like a soft finger print

That glowed from the book, rang in my ears

So I covered my head and forgot all my fears

And then it rained upon me with golden light

As I humbly played with the Holy Israelites

I walked in a dream

And closing my eyes so I could look within

I was filled with the memory of forgotten sin

 

And Judah closed his eyes to look within

To see all his blessings, to remember his sin

For one day in the torpor of heat of late noon

He had gone up into a harlot’s room

To grovel before her

And look aside with a bitter smile

 

I feared that my past would take everything away

Now I knew remorse, mourned for my sin

And thought how lucky were those who were clean

How I longed to submit to the demoness picture cruel and fair

Of one ancient and wily and her feet are bare

 

 

 

IX

 

One more thing difficult to understand

The bright joyful smile of barefooted black man

Standing long in ragged clothes with outstretched hand

Cars drive past

Windows closed against cold

Forgiveness in his smile

 

 

X

 

The Rastas blessed the Cush at my flat

A circle of fire

A globe of water

Fire and smoke

Praising Jah Rastafari

 

Can words make music?

Can they make I to dance?

Can they fill I with joy?

The joy of giving praise?

How did it come that I lived in a place

Ancient and clean, made holy by the past?

Mezuzah in the doorways

Through large windows the light came

Filtered through fronds and flowers

In the wind shaken and waved

It filled a yellow room with space

I had a book shelf too

With tomes unwanted and strange

 

It was a brief time in a valley of Kings

In a hall of stone

Of green grass through the trees

Of Muzzla Molecules running through the breeze

Rain fell in the park

The sun in the sky made a fiery scar

And the Rastas danced in a bobbing circle

 

In a circle they knelt in the big yellow room

Ten or fifteen shared the pipe of nut and clay and bamboo

But for the women: there were two

They shared their own, nourishing the womb

 

A blessing unlooked for

Came by Muzzla’s word

“This is forgiveness”

He said

Upon the gift of the book of the magic of the jews

Muzzla Molecules

 

 

XI

 

Africa is the home of the human race

But Newtown is a shifting shadowy place

Those things that were taken while you changed your face

Can never be replaced

Now they’ve gone and their memory is fading

Gone now’s the sward where he took us

Muzzla the bard

 

My Lord and Lady sometimes reside in the ditch

Smiling untouched

Her mind is fixed upon Him, His upon the Lord

Sometimes they wander together over the blessed earth

He smiling and talking, she humble beneath a tree

Together they bless all living beings

Showing them which herbs to eat, which fruits from the tree

They’re not ever the same, they’re free

They point the way to the Lotus Feet

Soft and black like a cloud

They direct by misdirection

Lightning flashes around the bulbous head

Of Their generous son

 

Long gone’s now the place, the grassy lawn beneath the tree

Where I forced myself into their company

Muzzla Molecules and a young girl of nimble mind

In those days when sages searched for African Kings and Nobles and Majesty

Shrouded by numbing mists of memory

And there beneath the spreading branches of the vanished tree

We sat upon the grass to inhale fumes of weed

When there came a man greying in years

Speaking swiftly in trader’s tongue he came bearing his wares

In some strange good humour I parted with cash

For boxes of incense, destined for ash

And the man pointed to his wife beneath a distant tree

And we said “Let her come,” the girl and me

But Muzzla fixed the man with a hard warding look

“He does not want me to stay, I saw his eye”

So had I

But Muzzla complied, and we pressed him to stay

His wife smiled softly as he began to say

Of the time when he once smoked the weed

Now he was free

He showed us how to pick fruits from the bush

Now the place has made way for concrete slabs and brick piles

Newtown’s shifting display

 

 

XII

 

New year blossoms Spring

New Yellow sunlight morning bathing

Night is for jumping and dance

Day is night for Yellow dreams waking

The shades of fresh green are infinite

Brick buildings in Trade Town are glistening

 

Rasta carries no umbrella, he walks or jumps in the rain

“Mr D comes with the rain!” called Yellow-man and his queen

Water-logged Newtown at dusk where we gathered to pray

Our burning chalice

Seeking with blessed words to open ancient ways

“See the beard. This is King David!”

Muzzla of Joseph said

Of the portrait of Haile Selassie’s head

 

Josepha stands in a dream of ideas

Neither black nor white

But unified

Love

 

And he marched to the song

In Yellow-man’s house, and in the hall

Burning the night with fire and greeting the dawn

“No White love

“No Black love

“Not even Japanese love”

Burning the walls

 

Throughout the night we’d run

Jumping through the howling wind

Renewing with each run the inner breath

Massaging inner organs with the herb’s coursing life

In the still hours darkest before the sun

With upheld flag:

Red

Yellow

Green

Muzzla Molecules would run

In Summer’s hall

Or biting-cold Winters outdoors

With only whipping crackling flames

Burning hot or windswept cold, never steadily warm

Round about Rasta soldiers would march

While I dozed

 

 

XIII

 

With growing Faith came growing Fear

With the splendors of Zion came the shadow of Babylon

With the waking of loyalty came the seeds of betrayal

The shadow of Fear

 

The dread-locked man in the ragged white shirt

A souvenir printed with Great Britain’s Imperial flag

 “Rastafari!” he called, laughing with scorn

I answered “Jah!”

He stared in doubt and flickering confusion

I greeted him, and waited

He greeted, and mumbled:

“Whenever you smoke know that I’m there

“You do not smoke but through me”

He said he was Joseph, and that his colour was black

He said I was handsome

I thanked him and saw in his eyes a shifting emotion

He became somber and looked down, addressing somewhere below:

“You will buy us and you will sell us”

He looked in my eyes and pointed:

“Now you’re becoming stupid!”

And he turned and walked briskly away

“He drinks whisky. He’s a racist” I’m told by Muhlatsi the Youth

Who worked for a season in Yellow-man’s booth

Then I see him again, the Rasta in rags

In a crazy dance in Newtown’s square

White children playing tease him and run away

Staring in wander, he is lost in the game

I seemed to know him when I looked in his eyes

His vision was clouded, dark clouds in the sky

What he saw did not matter, but was it true?

Sleeping dread awoken of future ruin

The fruit of not letting go

And yet I may see him by the cleansing water

For his heart is good

Praise God

Selah

 

 

XIV

 

“This is the Prince of Newtown”

I said to my friend who did not comprehend

“This is his kingdom”

And Prince laughed

 

“Prince of Newtown’s a monkey”

Dubbed the Prince to the rub-a-dub beat

“Prince of Newtown’s a monkey”

And all the ancient Rastas bounced upon their feet

Newtown was the Kingdom of her Prince

Laughing in high pitch with a shriek

He would come and go away

And come back again

Visiting the nurslings about Yellow-man’s stall

Turbaned Rastas and curious boys

Not even the ancient in the fullness of ghetto youth

Could guess his path, the ways he passed through

He passed, the Prince, by from a various age

Dark rough hands adorned with rings

He wrought, with silver bent spoons and forks

And he would sell them, through theatres he passed

And bars where white liberals would air

For he came from a time of political art, a living book of the past

In Newtown’s ferritted talking rooms

Now what’s left of the market in the square

Where artists would grace idle time with songs

Of forgotten truths remembered through ancient rhythm and speech

Where now’s gone that brief flicker in Time and Space?

 

His laugh like a scream heard across the square

A patchwork of leather: The Prince of Newtown

Whose Kingdom is lost

 

“The Prince of Newtown’s a monkey”

 

 

XV

 

Now it came to pass as Judah came to the town

And there were gathered the prophets and kings

That a man approached from a country far

And his name remained silent, he was a man of Jah

And the man travelled never with an empty hand

But carried his works wrought of canvas and paint

And each painting was a moment frozen in time

Glowing yellow and brown, still and serene

So that your eye would linger long on every scene

This painter would wander the street

And bearing his work, each person would greet

Some would say “No thank you,” without a glance

And truly Jahman needed no man’s coin

He provided for others from his own

Upon meeting Judah upon the square

Smiling through the smoking air

The painter talked at length of the things he had learned

“I went not to school, but learned from the bin

“I come from the dustbin!” he would say with a laugh

His inner wisdom had taught him his craft

“I sat for a year without home or bed

“Burnt rubber for warmth, my skin was like lead

“And night after night through rubbish I would sift

“Bringing all the pieces together, until a picture would lift

“Hundreds of pictures would I tirelessly assemble

“Then blow them away, all gone forever

“And in the bin would I find many secret things

“Of plans and rumour of stange tidings

“By piecing together notes and scraps

“I saw the secrets of men, their plans and their traps

“Devious ways I unfurled revealing the Truth”

Jahman took Judah and Josepha

Rolling the paintings, setting them in tubes

Slung over his shoulder the bazooka, they approached the lake near the zoo

 

Someone had spoken in the store

Whatever he said

Muzzla heard the word vibrating in his head

“Repatriation”

And I seemed to know what repatriation meant

 

“I will sleep not tonight, I have work to do”

He would work til the sun glinted upon the morning dew

They came to the painter’s place in the forest damp

Judah cooked the herbs of their meal, ochre fuzzed in a fuzzing pan

Then having eaten their holy meal

They walked to the studio down the hill

Jahman worked with petrol and brown paint

And light projected through prints of forgotten dreams

Now upon the canvas the light did gleam

The solemn face of a princess, a queen

Three locks of hair hung from her crown

She was painted in different shades of brown

Muzzla rested upon the ground from the day’s long march

Though it was for him that the painter revealed his craft

He felt no fear in sharing the knowledge of works

But Muzzla was meant for another Fate

The painter lived plain, as a soldier of Jah

“The police wanted to search my hair

“for the herbs they supposed I had hidden there

“‘Why do you look in my hair? Look in the field’

“I know many things, I’m from the dustbin

“The law of oppression: it is a big thing”

 

 

XVI

 

I came to the Rastas without beginning

And parted without ending

Chanted on bended knee

“Hailie Selassie I

“Jah!

“Rastafari!

“King Hailie Selassie I is the First

“Selah”

That time is like a vanished dream

Internally I am the same

 

The five fronded leaf-plant was the friend of an age

Enfolding my grief and blowing it away

The earthy taste of the clean soapy smoke

Upon the in-breath bursts a flower

To bloom in the soil of the brain

And delight in music and all crafts well made

 

In the blasphemy of youth was the herb a giddy delight

Thickening idolatory dreamt in waking at night

In the ignorance of taking causing a whirl of words

Vile or pleasing, insidious arrows into the heart sinking

Haunting the mind with solitary madness

Sundering from the world

A gaping emptiness, a weekend diversion

A medicine to cure the effects of boredom

 

A search in despair was awoken

A search for something, I knew not what

The search was all in the ocean of fear

But one who searches knows that the Truth is there

Invisible, intangible, eternally Free

Untouched by self-hating dreams

It gleams briefly

In a chime, a word, a gesture, a vanishing refrain

The remembered colour and movement in swirling clouds of paint

The bound, the almost gained flight

Floating in winds beyond the grasp of mind

And it is not touched, though forgotten in wild idolatory

Perversion of images, twisting of beauty

To accomplish the longed-for death of the body

 

 

XVII

 

Was I not once certain that praise of man was false?

Pointing to the bearded face upon the badge of Nostra D

Many years ago, at university I asked, “Who’s he?”

He worshipped a man as God?

He stood smiling in his belief

 

In those days we smoked mixed herb for the kick

No word uttered in prayer, merely tumbling thoughts

The Rastas moved us but to laugh and wink

Sunday dark danced alone on his spot

Years later I would take up the dance remembering the time past

And feeling hard the gaze of those who looked on

“Dan is the most liberal white I’ve ever met” he’d said

There amidst the university lawns

Strange dreams were woven with smoke and words

Snoop spoke of his living dreams

Shaping at will the patterns in the things that he sees

And there sat one whom none could know

For his riddled speech was filled with holes

He spoke of the burning fire where champagne glasses clink

The drinkers laughing oblivious of the great burning

But few of his mutterings could be guessed or heard

He offended the pious for he smiled as he prayed

With Chess Jahman we pondered and smoked by the hour, by the day

“Ben Laden!” He laughed, and “Ben Laden!” again

Chess Jahman was a Rasta for true

Unafraid of gaol, he took another’s place

Gentle and laughing and strong in his faith

 

 

XVIII

 

“See the beard” Muzzla said

Of the noble features of the emblazoned head

“This is King David”

And I mis-laughed

 

Of Him they told:

The bird of folded paper shaped by His hands

Took wing in flight

He brought the symbol to life

In the forest alone he wandered, with animals at peace

Understanding their speech

With gentleness bringing them under command

And he grew to be a man, bringing diverse lands

Beneath the sovereign sway of His ancient crown

From all the world came nobles, leaders and kings

In glorification of the King of Kings

Hailie Selassie I

Jah Rastafari

Of I-tiopia the rightful king

With regal majesty he ruled, and righteousness grew

Little I knew of the ancient lore of His noble house

Of ancient baronies and lords and the tapestry of diplomacy

Which brought Him the Empery

It was all recorded on scattered leaves worn with reading

Received in rough hands by reclusive sages

He hailed from King Solomon

Much is the lore scattered in traveller’s hands

 

Who can imagine it?

The land of ancient churches and kings

Of embroidered cloth and mountainous cities

Palaces of stone, windows of crystal

Lineages and sacraments

And distant wars in the hills?

 

Why credit it? Why believe?

Did I not feel forgiveness? Was I not made wholesome and clean?

What is impossible for God? Can He not come as He would?

In Imperial garb of a Kingdom steeped in Time

Or playing the flute?

Many, many times has He come, so I read in the Book

Of the Song of God and in the teachings of Srila Prabhupada

But now I speak of another strand of Faith

Which in time would cleave my heart

Pulled in two ways

 

So many strands are woven into this moment

By gradual revolutions and countless interlocking events

 

 

XIX

 

Oaths are taken, and then they are broken

I stand mournfully in the rain, forgiven

The time was with the Winter solstice

I saw it as the end, it is the beginning

War is being waged

All the earth dismayed

Led in illusion, forgetting those flashes

Paranoia?

War is being waged

We are glutted and bloody, so we wobble and sway

Mock, jeer and defame

If we could hold precious Krishna in our hands

We would only hate Him and crush Him, or try

Turning to gorge on rotting flesh

Worshipping those who suck on fresher blood, our own

War is being waged

Swuffle of shirt

“Play the game!”

 

 

XX

 

I touched Yellow by the arm and pointed to the burnished sky

Glowing like bronze with the blossom of day’s dying fire

There in serried file

Line after line

In a floating V

Birds long-winged fly South, a prophecy

“They’re marching in knowledge”

Muzzla said

“We’re small to them”

 

When the sky was made purple and blue in the gloam of night

The stars glowing white shed faint light upon the journeying knight

His skin was dark, his voice soft

A beard slight traced his face anciently carved

Like a gazelle

Crouched in the rustle of Yellow-man’s wares

And the blazing chalice and smoke of herbs

There was a sharing of ancient wisdom and lore

The living pulse of the living Lord

I-Key had travelled from a distant land

Greater Zimbabwe

“Great Britain – Greater Zimbabwe”

“Greatest I-tiopia”

From him was I destined to learn

The foundation: Rise before the sun

Before the world wakes the most important work is done

There beneath the glistening lamps on the square

He opened his book revealing traces of vanished Time

Nurtured in the heart of the Rastaman

A land of green hills and craggling cliffs

Of forests and falls

And temples hewn of living mountain and stone

Of houses like mounds with round windows and turf

Where hidden in the open simplicity of a humble church

Because open and unadorned, unregarded by the world

The Holy Arc of the Covenant

 

Silent the ritual

Billowing smoke in the air

Quietly spoken the morning prayer

Ere the rising of the sun

Our work is begun

 

 

XXI

 

I-an-I

Will never look no back

No I-an-I

Will never look no back

I-an-I

Will never look no back

I will never look behind

 

 

XXII

 

“Jah!”

Called Muzzla

With a burst of smoky plumes

Raising his head with a shout to the moon

“They hear me there too”

 

Who will hear the man in the empty square?

With his scrap of paper and his pen

Numbers unfolded from numbers and words

Opening the doors to the eternal world

A science of Cush

The secret of Newtown was hidden under ground

For Muzzla could read the signs lost in Time

 

Now a towering red building with mirrored windows stands

Where rails of vanished trolley trams stretched into empty space

We stood on the platform where men no longer wait

The sunlight rushing away

Grass dancing with their shadows

Dust and worn scraps kicking with colour

The curved roof of tin held by curved steel beams

Air, or space filling the angles and gaps

Shapes in the latticed embrasures: A teaching of Cush

Rises from the river of time

 

“God is boring”

Said Molecules with a laugh

He sees who’s still

“I stop eternal”

We drank water from the Cush

 

“One plus one is one” he said

“And one minus one is one”

A secret from hereafter

In false learning I thought of multiplication and division

We heard who shared not his vision

 

 

XXIII

 

What is that Babylon which we burn with smoke and prayer?

The mad rush of city life, our mad desires, our fears

 

From concourse of smoke arriving home alone

I felt muscle and bone driven by a will not my own

For how else with safety could I find my way

While pedalling the car through city lights at night?

What an aspect everything had:

Books, papers, and coins

CDs, records, and all that

As if carefully placed

Toys in the maze to please the rat

Someone has been here

Searching and replacing

Taking notes

And wandering silently

Watching

Brown cockroach

Here alone I would solemn ritual enact

Lighting candle and cush, sanctifying a small space

Amidst a gathering host

Crowding with eagre greed upon the oily smoke

And sleep fell upon me, lewd dreams numbed

Benumbed too I woke

 

And it came to pass when the three came together

In the light of prayer and blessed smoke

They observed in the distance a woman

Spying them through a lense

Capturing their images

And Judah was swiftly apprehensive,

And desirous to know her hidden purpose, or the end

To which the image of him with blazing chalice at his lips would serve

But Josepha answered:

“It’s not right. You’re supposed to ask. We are people. You don’t just shoot.”

And he turned his mind to ephemeral things

Issachar regarded it lightly and talked of great deeds

But Judah dwelt upon it

 

It becomes disturbing and strange to follow two ways

Kneeling to the Cush; and then chanting the Holy Names

Upon such a day I knelt before my altar to blaze the flame

And supped somehow different, for when I raised my face

I was seen by Krishna, and I knew I was naked

And I heard the same question again:

“Who told you you were naked?”

For I had tasted the forbidden fruit

Of the tree of knowledge of evil and good

 

“This is also Ganja”

Muzzla said

Pointing at my wooden chanting beads

 

 

XXIV

 

“Time’s a long rope,” said I-Key to me

Whom Yellow-man called the man of Bhingi

“And death’s a small judgement,” said he that night

“For those who pass through the greater judgement of life”

 

Dark brown man clothed in a rainbow of light

Carrying his locks in holy cloth, uncovered at times

Sat at table with slowly burning joint

Rings of

Red

Yellow

Green

Talking of things of value, the teachings of Life

“I rise with the stars when all are asleep

“I rise the sun, wake the day, compose myself to pray

“The later you wake the more tired you become

“I wake the day, and rise the sun”

He sat outside and looked at the star

That is never seen by those who sleep

“I wake when eye opens” said he

“Why else should it open?”

 

And he spoke of passing through, of Jah revealing the way

“Mengistu, Mugabe’s ward, lives on charity

“And the broken shards of dreams

“Though he tried, Selassie I never died

“He passed through

“To live in the heart of every Rasta”

Now the wasted lion takes the scraps of the servant

Even he the Rastas praise

The stone that the builder refused

 

“Jah Jah Rastafari teaches I how to pass through

“Death’s the door the hole I reeve”

So said he who had reached the top, I-Key

“Live in the heart, not in the mind

“The mind can be colonised

“But never the heart

“Sunday is the first day of the Strong

“Seven days long

“And work begins on day number one

“But I have learnt that everyday we must work

“If you do not work it means you are broken

“Liberia and Marcus Garvey were sabotaged for rubber

“I do not fall asleep, I do not fall

“Nor do I sleep too sweet

“I sit on the chair, or lie on the floor

“I rest but I do not sleep

“We are a movement, not a stagnant

“Therefore we move

“In a spacious house you don’t stay in one room

“Egypt is my garden, Nigeria my kitchen

“Ethiopia my workshop

“The cushu was a fruit

“It is still a fruit

“Sometimes we add strength to draw strength

“In Zion we sing and chant and dance”

 

 

XXV

 

When Jah Rastafari get ready, we mafee move

We mafee move

We mafee move

We mafee moove

We mafee moo-oo-oove

When Jah Rastafari get ready, we mafee move

 

 

XXVI

 

When will we sit and talk of Marcus Garvey

He who came before?

He heralded the king, taught the majesty of works

Repatriation

 

 

XXVII

 

Muzzla! Recall the day I offered thee a fruit

My hand withdrawing, it slipped from my grip

And danced in the air as I fumbled and groped

The naartjie frail with orange segments

How many lifetimes of toil passed with each furtive bounce

Universes created and destroyed

Before catching hold at last the offering was made?

That day a youth passed by looking for his mate

And you blessed him to find her

When we saw them together in each other absorbed

I turned to you, fulfilled was your word

 

Who will listen to the man in the square?

A flag bedecked tree folded over the chair

“Sabbatta is for the fast, trust Muzzla!”

He held a Cush near his head

“Because they run to the grave the people go dead”

Running from Truth

Running from Joy

“Selassie told I He will stop them from running to the grave!”

 

“Tune me a guitar Judah!”

And he played and sang away

A hundred thousand songs

Recorded in ether waves

 

“Hitler was an artist, but he moved from his spot”

And he jumped on the spot

 

 

XXVIII

 

The mountain is holy where we are free

To build the fire, to cook, pray, and eat

Muzzla gave me a potato coal-coated

To make me clean

 

And then I thought of taking them to the king of all mountains

Towering above monstrous peaks

Like Titans’ bones crashed

When hurled down

Cracking stone and deep valleys

Cooled by long shadows of years

Vast dragons lurk grown hugely in the mist

I remembered lying flat proned on an awkward slant

Tilting over nothingness

I laughed and cried with the shocking thrill

Of the vast expanse and dizzying height

Above the dragon’s thin ridged spine curved threateningly below

Even that towered over the land

And great condors, great birds floated over the perilous space

Clear waters plummeted

And plummeted

Long splashing over ages to the distant valley below

And behind a massive boulder, split by the roots of a tree

Where dappled shadows danced as in a pool, brown and leafy

Or in a rocky gully filled with yellow mountain flowers

Would we send billows of smoke up in the air with song and prayers

And glance during the dark night hours at circling stars in immenseness

Faint speckles of star clouds urging awe at time-stretched distances

Mystical words unknown would flutter between us and the sky

So I dreamed as we drove, Muzzla, Yellow and I

And the second queen of Yellow and his child

 

“All the city is just a dot” said Muzzla

As we drove through the country

 

We stopped first at a small town, the home of Muzzla’s early years

And came to the house of the working man who tended them

Now with different language, mind, garb and name

Stood Muzzla Molecules, gaunt and tall, turban wrapped hair

Rough shod, having trod a prophet’s way

Through homeless streets and dark to hidden recluses of flame

And amidst the strange people of the holy fire

Muzzla stood alone to offer aloud his prayer:

“Holy Emmanuel I

“Selassie I

“Jah!

“Rastafari!

“King Hailie Selassie I is the First

“Selah!

“Our Father

“Who dwelleth in-a Holy Mount Zion

“Hallowed be Thy Name

“Thy Kingdom come

“Thy will be done

“On earth

“As it is in-a Holy Mount Zion

“Give I-an-I this day

“Our daily bread

“And Forgive I-an-I our tresp-I

“As we forgive I-an-I who tresp-I again I

“And lead I-an-I not into temptation

“But deliver I-an-I from the hand of the wicked one

“For thine is the Majesty

“The Power

“And the Glory

“For Ever and Ever

“Selah”

 

In the morning’s chill we stood at mountain’s foot

Sky slate grey

Tall tufts of grassy stalks wet with dew

Beginning toilsome strides bearing a heavy sack of wood

The path was laid to take the traveller abroad

First by long zigzags up the slope

Then hugging cliffs that distant valleys overlook

Round great boulders through tumbles of stone

Up a chain stair to the cold barren top

And crisp pure air

But path and travellers parted that day

In the chill grey

The great sack with its burden pulled us down with its weight

Casting aside bundles and bundles of wood

Woman and child grown weary

Muzzla and Yellow would make camp where we stood

All stood forlorn, Muzzla complained

“It is not that because we came to the mountain we must climb to the top”

Yellow agreed, they wanted to stop

So we left the path and encamped on a slope

In tall tufts of tough grass set the tent and prepared to smoke

 

The great heights of the mountain and its terrible towers

All cloaked in thick mist

Bedewing the grass, soaking the flame with its kiss

Then dropt in an inquisitive troop

The women and children of furry mountain baboons

I remembered the rough bark in the valley of trickling trees

The mountain is the home of the rough shaggy beast

Teeth like knives, eyes jealous with fury

Bristling mane tumbles down slopes with frightening speed

“We must leave!”

Upon the movement, the retreat

The baboons looked

Sat upon tumbled stones

 

Divided by quarrel we were driven from the slopes

Rolled down past abandoned faggots of wood

Through tumbling clouds and rough barks in the gloom

And meeting two travellers light-footed with well-ordered gear

On their way to the top with a favouring wind and a path clear

To lie beneath a blue night, star-laden above the cloud’s sear

“Fear not the baboon,” said they lightly, “and they will never cause fear”

 

At base station defeated in a thick wet mist

Making the fire grow dim, the dough soggy and wet

Yellow-man baked with face set and grim

Muzzla took the cush “making all problems grow small”

They would return to the city that very night

We tried

But behind the wheel I grew ever so tired

Stopped on the road-side, sleep winning the fight

 

And we stopped the next day at the town of Muzzla’s youth

Where he danced and chanted three hours long

All silently watched knowing not what to do

He was burning Babylon alone

Muzzla Molecules

Upon the day long ago died the girl

He once knew

 

 

XXIX

 

We read a holy psalm beneath the light of a flame

I realized and spoke:

“Our suffering’s the same.”

And he cried

Knowing it was true

Muzzla Molecules

 

Rasta goes to no funeral, but to his mother’s house we came

Appearing like flags upraised in a mourning place

Like a prophecy from the rain

The ancient face of motherhood sorrow worn

Muzzla gave the food to my craving worm

With a carved potato to carry the flame

We sat then alone up above the house

A rippling desert of rooftops rolling over Soweto’s plain

“I knew here much sorrow”

Tears mingled with the rain

 

Then we went away, coming to a wall

Where kneeled youths with burning grass

“Fire youths! Ghettoe youths!”

Cried Muzzla Molecules

Causing the waters to bubble with leaping flame

“This is for strict vegetarians!” he said passing the Cush

I smoked past surfeit and became sick by the road

“It’s because of your Chinese food”

We came then to a house where I fell on the bed

Rising with the sun

Muzzla still dancing in the Church of Melchizedek

 

 

XXX

 

Bonds of alliance, a shelter of chains

Against the vast ocean of life with its vast crushing waves

Are forged with sacrificial blood

 

The Rastaman drew his sword to slay

The clouds towered high, burnished pink after rain

In me, my white skin

He saw his enemy

 

What does it mean that I am called white?

“I am not black, you are not white

“Check out the skin: It’s all brown, dark or light

“All men are brown, brown like the earth

“Trust Muzzla

“Keep the Sabbath fast”

 

Death’s but the door, so said the book

To the mountain Kingdom, the halls of the Kings

The halls of the Kings

The halls of the Kings

Where I stood conquered by sleep

“This is our prayer”

But I did not listen, seeing them dance in sacred lines

Feet marching in sacred step of riddim in dance

Night to dawn

For the pleasure of the King

 

The ghetto youth looked at me with anger and doubt

Hour after hour I felt his confused, unbroken gaze

Screwing up more angrily as we caused the chalice to blaze

“This is our wine,” and we smoked

Yet still I felt the gaze

And the night wore on until the break of day

When he accosted me with prophetic words twisted and strange

Of going to gaol

And King Yellow who heard

Merely looked

Noticed

And turned away.

 

 

XXXI

 

Our suffering was the same

The pain of having failed, of having betrayed

Of seeing stars glisten like yellow flowers in the sky

Or the heroic clouds far away lit gold in the East by the sun that sets

And we are far away, numbed, made dumb by the weight of our sins

 

“Fire burn!” Muzzla cried

Passing the boy on night’s street

In fear glancing; in lust; in greed

Waiting

 

Then in day’s billowing smoke revealing a secret:

“What say you of Sizzla Kalonji?” she asked

“Respect to Sizzla. What he says is right.”

“What do you say of chi-chi man?” she goaded

The young girl in my car

The white smoke filling our lungs

He looked at us in confidential disclosure

“They are right,” he replied

“Trust Muzzla”

 

 

XXXII

 

Muzzla was not less the Saint

For the falling away

And coming back again

 

One day Yellow frowned beneath the hanging cloths of his shop

His phone had gone missing, and Muzzla was gone

“Friends come and go,” said Yellow

Some days passed, and I saw Muzzla again

But he spoke strange, as if to say “we are all God”

And for a time he prayed “King Hailie Selassie the First”

Something was missing

But he came back again

Like a Rasta

In his bouncing he’s free

Free to jump in the sun and the rain

Free of judgement dealt in

Or judgement claimed

 

Is it not the eye which is enslaved

Which marks the shifting glance in others

Upon the flesh of a fleeting display?

That was a crooked day

A young girl in the assembly of Rastas

Seeming to enjoy the captured glance

And I, despised for more than being white

Being neither of Rasta, nor of Krishna

And avoiding the home which I held as a dim corner of the mind

Went later, quite stoned, to the working lunch

And sought in unwelcome familiarity, a measure of disguise

 

And towards the end, came the woman in red

With mature brown locks

That glimpse of ferocious beauty

Was enough to make me run away

In my heart of hearts still the slave of imagery

 

XXXIII

 

I remembered Muzzla again in the pain of sin

He walked with bare feet on Winter’s streets

Leading a young girl, buying her roasted meats

But together he and I honoured our meal of herbs

And as the girl slept for a while content

We caused the Cushu to burn

 

It was enough to kneel huddled around the flame

With darkness gathered thickly

And wavering light upon the page

As we clung to our prayer and the bubbling Cush

Making internal organs chocolate rumbling

 

The girl had run away, from a place in the country far away

Now wandering in the city

But Muzzla found her and hid her in secret places

Such were his shelters on the streets for the lamb astray

With the holy prophet of the South she was safe

 

The time came for her to return home

And she gave him her chain of silver

To wear for twelve years, then to give another

And when she had gone

Muzzla walked without the chain

 

 

XXXIV

 

Shall I ever see again or hear the forest search and refrain

More real than waking?

And, upon waking how the song echoed again

But when I woke to grasp it, it slipped away

Like grains of sand

So I fell back to sleep befouled

Soft seductive blank

 

The King who dies not, who never grows old

When the unknown plunges us into grief and fear

By the shadow caused by the burning light behind

No matter our hatred, our turning, He is ever near

Unknown to all the world

Its eternal master and King

And He has walked as a man amongst the living!

So says the book

So says Rasta

Why believe?

Because they march their prayer to all night song

And see with waking eye the rising of the sun

When others sleep they are awake

And the King is known only to those who sing His praise

Though they come from the bin

We are His servants and as such we’re the same

For we die not and are not meant for the grave

So say Muzzla and I-Key and Yellow: The limited circle of the flame

There was a fourth, Nathi his name

 

 

XXXV

 

Muzzla Molecules ran far and free

On the grass in the sun, the wind and the rain

Beneath the tree jumping to the rub-a-dub beat

I could hardly move in an overcoat stuffed

with burdens weighed down

 

I smoked ever sadly after awaking though dimly

To the Holy Name

For now it was but naked greed

Urged on by the sight, the smell of the weed

Eager to grasp at my turn

Amongst those who did not have to wait

For it came

It came while their minds danced in the flames

I looked then to Muzzla

Begging forgiveness over the hallowed flame

And he knew in his prayer what I meant

Forgiveness in his look

 

 

XXXVI

 

Muzzla the child saw the Hare Krishnas in Soweto

Before any other white person would come

Singing, dancing and playing drums

 

Jah!

Rastafari!

King Hailie Selassi I is Almighty God

Selah

Rejoice O children of Israel in the glory of our prophets

May we ever thank the Lord and His beloved and ever-loving servants

Rejoice in their songs of praise!

Rejoice in their works!

Rejoice in Jah!

Rastafari!

King Hailie Selassie I is Almighty God

Selah

Behold children of Jah Rastafari, all glory be unto His Name

Oh Bleck God

Ever living life of your everlasting beloved

Your prophets are your triumphant flag and conch

Flower and flame

Which burn throughout the night and day

They bring with them love and healing for all nations

They bring joy to I-an-I soul

O Holy name

Eternal Rest

 

hare krishna hare krishna krishna krishna hare hare

hare rama hare rama rama rama hare hare

 

 

All rememberance and forgetting are under Your influence

May I crave no fame: I write to remember

I may have gone to Your blessed temple that day

But I came instead to Alexandra town

With its men and women and children

Its dense humanity

And eyes were everywhere

Above

Below

All around in the holes in the walls

The Rastaman sings and dances for Your pleasure

To uplift the ghetto youth

Men, women and children

They bring healing to a wounded bleeding nation

 

“Krishna is a humble youth”

Said Muzzla Molecules

The Ghetto youth

 

 

XXXVII

 

Of Cushum Ben Lord, what they say is true

The herb is a healer

Good for bones, blood, heart and liver

A combination of five elements: Earth, air, fire, ether and water

By our faith, through this, we may live forever

There is no end to the teachings he unfolds

And now his teaching is this: “Stop smoking ganja!”

I do not know why, but this is her teaching

Because I said I would

Because I have already lied

Because I was impatient to satisfy the urgent cry

Because I was late

Because I concealed

Because I was naked

Because I was afraid

Because Krishna says He will show me the way

To please Prabhupada

 

I tried and failed

And blamed the Lord for the bleakness of life

Where to Lord? Where to now?

Now I will bless the Cush

And pray for the healing of the nation

The healing herb

The Holy fire

 

Oh blessed Cushum Burn

Oh blessed Cushum Bun

Oh blesed Cushum Ben

Ben dem

Bless

Ben dem

Bless

Bea dem

Blees

Bless

Ja-a-a-ah

Bastafarih

Selah

Jah

Rastafari

King Heilie Selassi I is the

First

Selah

 

Let word match deed, and deed follow word

Give up the herb

Let not this attachment pull you on a tangent

Give up the herb

You are going to be tested

When you give up the herb

Chant Hare Krishna

And give up the herb

A new life is before you

So give up the herb

Follow His deer Lotus Footsteps

And give up the herb

 

 

XXXVIII

 

I smoked ganja with Nathi but he carried the herb

He lived in alone far from the conflicting worlds

Gathering the news that drifted to his shore

And we could speak of them all as we smoked and of the things we had heard

Krishna, devotees, the material world

Demons and saints

Rastas and Freemasons

Muslims, Christians and Jews

Christ and Prabhupada

His Imperial Majesty Emperor Hailie Selassie

God

The best way to be? To follow our feet

To search

To worship and pray to God

To respect and honour his devotee

And we disagreed

About attaining perfection as a human being

About something difficult to define

God

Everyone is different

We should practice more than preach

Is Hailie Selassie God?

I have said so before

A mantra I learnt from Muzzla Molecules

Have I idolised him?

Imitated rather than followed?

He illuminates the instruction my own heart imparts

The Rastas are devotees of King Hailie Selassie

Can I say they are right or wrong?

I chant His name when I smoke the herb, as I learned

Making it a sacrament

Which I have to leave behind

 

Jah!

Rastafari!

King Hailie Selassie I is the First

Selah

 

And as I came to the end of that time

The curtain being drawn

I was led to the Rasta church of an order strange

Unlike the Rastas, or the Bobos, who danced freely in the hall, or in the rain

It was the church of Melchizedek with its tabernacle clean

A bowl of fruits offered unto the King

And I spoke with Abbamanafesgeddoes

Ever taking money

Ever ravished by poverty

Yet he had something to teach

Of the King who washes His servants’ feet

Red is three

Yellow is two

Green is one

 

 

XXXIX

 

I could not, did not smoke Ganja, but after a rub-a-dub prayer

Rastaman called me

I bowed at his feet

“You are humble. You’re a general” he said, “Pray with me

“In the early morning, in the morning a Prayer

“‘Oh Allah the Great!’”

Then:

“I pray for a flu,” he said

“Why?”

He would not say, waiting for me to overstand

 

 

XL

 

A moment passed me by in our taxi ride

Coming from the court it passed me by

“Never lose your spirit,” Muzzla said

Oh Lord, may I never lose my spirit!

 

Muzzla Molecules at the magistrate’s court in Alexandra town

With some others, in different drabs and colours

Tried for squatting in the government house

“Why are you looking at me? Don’t look at me!”

The prosecutor scowled

“Sorry general,” said Muzzla

His head in the clouds

When it was heard the squatters were arrested and gaoled without notice

The prosecutor looked down, the detective embarrassed

 

And I followed Muzzla like a deer, slim ankles through the stalks

Grass brushing the pathway to the neat houses the government had built

“These were meant for the Rastas, but they were taken by ZCC”

I had heard in court: the contractor pushed the police

 

Home for I was where Rasta-I dwelt

Amidst the colours of the rainbow and music and ganja smoke

Jah Jah city was my home

Wood at our feet, stone above and below

Then Muzzla took me to a stone house in the veldt

Standing tall like a castle

Each stone carefully found and assembled

And atop the roof building sat a Rastaman smiling

Locks on his back in a field of grass in Alex town

“Come for ganja tea when my house is built”

I knew I would not

Then we came to the shacks where the Rastas still lived

Dolla-I the poet, who wore Khaki and carried a stick in his hand

Lived in a shed beneath thorn trees in the veldt

Yellow and green

 

 

XLI

 

The suffusion of light yellow when I opened the door

Glowed like a crystal in the sun

And in the centre the light resolved

Into a slender brown wand

Brown like wood, like a slender carved man

He looked at me gently and softly

“I can stand here all day”

 

I-Key reached the furthest point, the top

Cape Town, when his body had cried to go to Zimbabwe, to home

“Now no journey is too difficult, all other points have been passed”

He pushed forward and reached the highest spot

From which he could view everything as from above

“Jah comes to us when we’re tired, therefore we push the extra mile

“Work the extra hours

“It is only when we suffer defeat that we can be rescued by Jah

“The father rewards the son with the fruit of his toil”

 

And he spoke of his journey back down to the city

“The truck driver pinched the ganja, the ganja my shield

“Placed between us on purpose, to capture his gaze

“Because his eye was on the ganja, I knew I was safe”

And I thought of my longing to make the ganja blaze

 

“Open bottle belongs to cockroach

“Attachment pulls us behind

“When you get what you want you go nowhere

“And when we let go we make the space for something better to come

“I do not close the gap when I drive

“I go to sleep fighting, I say:

“‘The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak’

“Winter is the season of the strong

“People are afraid of Winter, so it cannot be weak

“Winter keeps your fresh, like a fridge”

 

Oh Lord

How gently you woke me

Wind chiming bell

To stay in bed is a comforting hell

Crawling back in

How I missed the chill moon wind

 

The day came when Nathi and I-Key sat at table

To share ancient their knowledge of the Rasta way

Nathi feared it had been seen, his tall evergreen

Growing like a tree behind the shack

“You have been warned from within”

 

Then came the day when I saw I-Key again

Locks shorn, face sombre, he had come from his home

Wife and child and familial bands

Held him down

“It was my locks or my limbs”

Time was beginning to pull us away

Now I remember his sad glance with the words

“It’s a vow of separation”

The locks had been shorn

“Cherish life

“Life is to be cherished like a sacred flame”

 

 

XLII

 

I remembered him again, towards the end

Muzzla Molecules, free of judgement

He, could he see me now

Would look past my sin and my shame

Knowing well of striving, of falling, of getting up again

My greatest sin at his feet came at the end

At an empty house where we smoked, and feeling my sin

I spoke dogmatic words

An institutional cant

 

“We will just go to the park and be”

He said one day, inviting me

With his companioned friends

No fear

No judgement

Just smoking and being like the birds who are free

But I could not go

For I was not free

 

 

XLIII

 

Being pulled by our ways

All I can do is to glance

At the king in rags, a knight errant

His bare chest like bronze in Winter’s setting sun ablaze

Burnished by dust and time

Feet bundled in rags, a worn staff in his hand

A vagrant

A bum

In our house of cards

I saw a prince pulling a trash trolley one day

 

Jah!

Rastafari!

King Hailie Selassie I is the First

Selah