Trapped In a Poets House; A god’s mind.


It’s pitch dark; a journey over the slender crescent,
Books stand in line as if ready for war,
Words daunt the whites of the walls,
The floors are sea beds to a river of ink,
Feathers from quills embark on journeys across the vicinity,
To and fro from an escritoire that is an oak tree,

Music plays from an ancient piano that is a humming bird,
The atmosphere is vivacious but subtle,
As if a rainbow were to erupt from a volcano,
Ghosts of stories swig from goblets…
Filled with crushed berries of fiction and reality,
Served from a platter of metaphors.

The rooster from the old man’s clock sleeps,
The three brothers stare in disgust,
Hour, minute and second encased in a shrine,
The sun and Moon stand guard,
Time is not of the essence,
For these Ode’s are the sheriff,
And age is an outlaw.

Thoughts swim in this sea of ink,
And as the sea washes up on the sand that is vellum,
Words form. Fine in print.
Valour emanates from every scribble of the letters,
So much so that the gods rage with jealousy,
That in the tapestry, Pluto skims with great interest,
And is found missing from the constellations;
The imprint of adroit literature.

– Smyekh David-West.



Quiet Worship


Something in the black man’s stagger
That way the earth crumbles under his feet
The way his eyes say my soul has seen everything
That big sway in those long arms
The strength of legs built like the roots of an oak
Something inside the black man is on fire
And I am a moth teased by the flame
There is a silence in his spirit that kisses at mines
There is a treble in his voice that makes me blush
I am small next to my man
There is something about the way he stands
That makes me fall

Something in the black woman’s chassis
The means by which I come through
And by which I must find peace
With eyes that search my soul, every fragment every piece
The strength she possesses are as deep rooted as the pyramids of old
That through her soft and supple skin she beholds kings and queens
That when her tears do fall, my spirit is moved
 And it’s with that peace that it kisses at hers
There is a stupor in her voice that dragoons me drunk
She’s the jewels in my crown
For without her I do not glow
And what is a king without his queen?

-Nina Austin & Smyekh David-West.



I’m a lover of fine art,
The detail that comes,
With the texture of fresh silk,
Writings on the wall,
That have more meanings than graffiti,
Outright art.

So I’m trilingual,
Because the painting I procured yesterday,
Was seventy synonyms in itself,
Composed in a little cottage in London,
By an Egyptian wanderer,
An artefact that translates symbols to words.

A depiction that’s painted,
With the colourway of the rainbow,
It was colossal, 
But By God, it was plain to see,
It gathered a flock of onlookers,
Discerning with great intent.

This was what swayed feline buttocks,
That made men thirst with lust,
The effect of a pen on paper,
Or a paint brush on canvas,
A subjective story of the mechanics,
The flutter of a writing hand.

But this isn’t poetry,
It’s a song that’s painted,
On canvas that’s your mind,
It has no one meaning,
Just as my attire isn’t just a kilt,
It’s a Scotsman’s robe and an Italian’s garment,
I’m a lover of fine art and so is your imagination.

– Smyekh David-West.