Leave your feedback Share Copy URL https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/weekly-poem-storm Email Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Pinterest Tumblr Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Weekly Poem: ‘Storm’ Arts Nov 16, 2009 9:51 AM EDT By Kwame Dawes Kingston settles on your skin, the grit of wood-fire and exhaust on your body; you know sin, the pleasure of untrammeled lust. Kingston is green in November, so much rain; the water creeps to the surface. I remember the taste of june plum seeds. Most of my friends are dying— the thing is they know it, and the others are busy nursing the dying: God’s cruel edits. So many saints frighten me and I grow silent, disease has a name: HIV/AIDS. We are caught up in a breeze that grows to a growl crossing the water, dragging the belly of the sea—a howl shattering the black evening. I stand in the storm, let its battering break me; I know now every form of death; no more mystery here. The eye passes mutely; and while the earth vomits and shingles cartwheel around me. I doubt it all; the conspiracy of death. I will live to see the wasting of my flesh; my last breath will be in a calm season. They will know my sins, every betrayal; those I killed, those whose voices begin whisper to me until tears come, until I pray to slip away like night, a frail man limping towards morning light. Kwame Dawes is director of the South Carolina Poetry Initiative and the University of South Carolina Arts Institute, where he also teaches as distinguished poet in residence. He also blogs for the Poetry Foundation and serves as programming director for the Calabash International Literary Festival, which takes place each May in Jamaica. Recently, Dawes teamed up with the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting to create a multimedia Web site called ‘HOPE: Living and Loving with HIV in Jamaica.’ The interactive site pairs his poetry with music, essays and video from people living with the disease and their caretakers. A free press is a cornerstone of a healthy democracy. Support trusted journalism and civil dialogue. Donate now
By Kwame Dawes Kingston settles on your skin, the grit of wood-fire and exhaust on your body; you know sin, the pleasure of untrammeled lust. Kingston is green in November, so much rain; the water creeps to the surface. I remember the taste of june plum seeds. Most of my friends are dying— the thing is they know it, and the others are busy nursing the dying: God’s cruel edits. So many saints frighten me and I grow silent, disease has a name: HIV/AIDS. We are caught up in a breeze that grows to a growl crossing the water, dragging the belly of the sea—a howl shattering the black evening. I stand in the storm, let its battering break me; I know now every form of death; no more mystery here. The eye passes mutely; and while the earth vomits and shingles cartwheel around me. I doubt it all; the conspiracy of death. I will live to see the wasting of my flesh; my last breath will be in a calm season. They will know my sins, every betrayal; those I killed, those whose voices begin whisper to me until tears come, until I pray to slip away like night, a frail man limping towards morning light. Kwame Dawes is director of the South Carolina Poetry Initiative and the University of South Carolina Arts Institute, where he also teaches as distinguished poet in residence. He also blogs for the Poetry Foundation and serves as programming director for the Calabash International Literary Festival, which takes place each May in Jamaica. Recently, Dawes teamed up with the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting to create a multimedia Web site called ‘HOPE: Living and Loving with HIV in Jamaica.’ The interactive site pairs his poetry with music, essays and video from people living with the disease and their caretakers. A free press is a cornerstone of a healthy democracy. Support trusted journalism and civil dialogue. Donate now