Chronicle Writers

Tales of Being Black in Bristol , Part 3

by Malcolm Massiah

Poet Malcolm Massiah, born and living in Bristol, England, speaks from his experiences in one of Britain's lesser known black communities.

Malcolm says: "The poem Rhyming Alphabet was written around the late eighties and the first part, A-Z, was quite a spontaneous poem and completed in fifteen minutes. However, the second part, Z-A, took almost an hour a couple of days after and was far more challenging to produce.

"The Eve of Saint Agnes', which I wrote as an attempt to be 'literary', was inspired by my 10-year old niece."

01: RHYMING ALPHABET

AN Alphabet in poetry
BECAUSE I want my ABC
CHINKING, chiming all in rhyme
DEFTLY simply passing time
EDUCATION is an art
FOR true wisdom to impart
GRADUALLY gathering in the mind
HARD to lose - yet hard to find
IS it that reality's
JUST a crazy, trippy dream
KISMET? Destiny? Or Fate?
LIFE is such a schizoid state.

ME - I want an ivory tower
NARCOTIC love with equal power
OPIUM, oil, mushrooms and grass
PEACEFULLY letting hours pass
QUADRAPHONIC future sounds
RAPTOUROUS rhythmic beats abound
SYNCOPATING, mind pulsating
TUNES mellow for minds gyrating
UNDER vibes of wondrous drugs
VOYAGING deeply snug in fug
WISHING there were two of me
XEROXED souls for eternity
YES this is a rambling rave
ZANY! Where's the Dope Brigade?

(c) Malcolm Massiah 1993/1999
Bristol Black Writers Group

ZOETROPED - that's how I feel - or like
YARN upon Dame Kismet's wheel
XANSTHOPSIC mellow is the mood
WHICH jaundices not my attitude
VERSIMILOUS is what I am
ULTIMATELY just a man
TRUE to myself and the chosen few
SENSE in everything I do
RAGAMUFFIN dress in style
QUIXOTIC natured - versatile
PHILOSOPHICAL to my lot
OUTSIDE the hip - a wack crackpot

NOTHING really bothers me
MY fate is up to destiny
LOVE may come and love may go
KISMET takes me through the flow
JUSTICE - What's it all about?
IT'S not fair without a doubt
HAPPINESS is relative
GOD is only putative
FOR the deepest of insights
ENTER darkness and see the light
DESTINY is at your hand
CRAFTILY pulling at your strand
BEFORE you go to bed each night
ALWAYS hope to see the light AMEN

(c) Malcolm Massiah 1993/1999
Bristol Black Writers Group

'Twas on the eve of St Agnes' Day,
When young virgins minds fly astray,
Stacey lay her body bare,
To January's freezing air.

She cast her liquid ebon eyes,
Up to the boundless starry skies,
Hoping to find in that heavenly place,
The image of her true loves' face.

Would he be fair with eyes of blue?
And would he swear to love her true?
Or dark-hair'd and romantic be
Her man for all eternity?

Then, floating on the icy air,
She heard the haunting, midnight bell;
Clutching firm her silver pins,
Her paternoster she begins.

After saying her wistful prayers,
Naked in the midnight air,
Mischievous Morpheus kiss'd her lids,
And into deep slumbers Stacey slid.

She heard her heart beat pounding loud,
And found herself on cloister'd clouds,
Gracefully gliding 'gainst her will,
T'wards a speck of light that drew her near.

Along the cool sequestered vale,
Floating like a phantom there,
Stacey heard a soothing song,
From some unseen celestial throng.

The dread-lock'd virgin's slender form,
To the radiance mysteriously drawn,
Trembled in a naked fear,
As from her eyes shed pearls of tears.

A glowing warmth came from that light
Of incandescence radiance bright,
That magnetized the virgin maid
Who prayed on that St Agnes Day.

Stacey felt her heart descending
As she traveled never-ending,
Along the perfumed Elysian aisle,
To the lamb-like juvenile:
There went Stacey for the grace
Of Agnes, and her true-loves face.

When she reached the virgin girl,
Whom sword in hand greeted her,
Stacey cast her dark eyes down
To the nimbose, golden ground.

The mortal virgin's quest was told
To Agnes, midst her ovine fold:
Traversed she had through time and space,
For a virgins glimpse of her true-loves face.

Agnes waved her sword and the scene was changed:
Stacey was 'mid a grassy glade,
With Agnes and her flock of sheep,
Upon a Caledonian heath:

"Your true-loves face cannot be seen,
Not e'en in your wildest dreams,
But Wolfius shall guide the side
Of the groom that ye shall bride.

You'll meet him when the skies are gray,
But 'twill seem as if ever May,
For gazing in his hazel eyes,
You'll find a demi-Paradise.

He'll have a noble brow as if 'twere a kings,
His body be bathed in highland springs,
And petal'd are the crimson lips
You own sweet mouth some day shall kiss.

He'll be a bonny hero, strong and brave,
Virile, handsome, young but sage,
With a candid mind and a heart of ruth,
He'll make all your dreams come true!

But, ye virgin of little faith,
Fortune's spun her Wheel of Fate,
Until ye find him ye shall be
Endlessly plagued by dreams!".

Stacey gazed in grim surprise,
Into the martyr'd maidens eyes:
Agnes swung her sacred sword,
And Stacey dropped down through a hole.

Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground,
Stacey tumbled ever down,
Through profoundest, darkest deep
Recesses of spellbound sleep.

Now she sank in outer space,
Dreaming of her true-loves face,
Stacey writhed in scintillations,
Through a million constellations.

Sinking down through several spheres,
Her ebon eyes streamed with tears;
Then heard a sudden crack
Ere all her senses all went black!

(c) Malcolm Massiah 1988/1999.

 Permission to reprint granted by the author.
(c) Copyright Malcolm Massiah.

All rights reserved. No responsibility for errors, omissions or opinions stated in this work are assumed by the editor and publisher of The Chronicle.