Posted by: tsopr | February 18, 2014

Nicholas Damion Alexander, Jamaican Poet

Nicholas Damion Alexander, Jamaican PoetNicholas Damion Alexander is a teacher of English and Philosophy. He is also a poet. His works have been published in The Jamaica Gleaner, The Jamaica Observer, Caribbean Voice magazine, sx salon, The Caribbean Writer, Poets against war, Auckland Poetry, Lake City Lights, The Weary Blues, The Rusty Nail, The View from Here, The Cynic Online, Snow Monkey Online, Poets Online, UnitedWorld Poets, The First Cut, Cartier Street Review, The Black Collegian, Angelfire, Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge, The Black Collegian, Nazar Look, Truml and the anthologies: So Much Things To Say, Meditations on Divine Names, Spectral Lines, Men in the Company of Women . In 2008 He was awarded a fellowship with Calabash International Writers’ Workshop. He has also been featured on e-Buffet’s online magazine: “Postcards from the people of Earth”, B-Gina Review, Squid Inc.

Featured Poetry of Nicholas Damion Alexander

After Rain

After the rain: the gnawing of crickets,
sun-scorched leaves.

A bird harrowing far away inside
the drier hemisphere of your mind.

Earth wet with the after rain
dankness of blessing

Snails sliming slowly through the thick
forest of this cerebral haven;

their silvery trail said to hold healing within.

You watch it grow like shrub
in the fertile ground of your heart-

days well spent, shivering in the dew
and drop of Golden Hill’s schizophrenia-

the glitter of this bipolarity
lighting dark days.

My Mother’s Salt

My mother cooked with salt,
flavoring our lives
with the spice of her choice . . .
A white grain from the sea
that added new worlds of taste
to children made of mixed spices.

My father loved his pepper
heating up her pot
with its red flames,
that little masculine bulb
men use to show bravado
about nothing.

We ate of Mother’s salt
all of our lives till we grew
old enough to insist
she travel to the sea
of her spice, away
from the red heat
of our father’s pepper.

Today, fifteen years on
my mother has stopped
cooking with that spice
as white as my father’s skin.
And we have grown accustomed
to his hot spice,
hardly remembering
her love for little white grains
drawn from the sea.


Inside a leaf, there’s a star,
Inside a star the reflection
Of leaves glittering silver droplets of rain.

Inside the snail’s shell a world
Of mystery unfolded, a mystery
Of esoteric secrets unlocked.

Inside the lizard’s trombone, the battle
Cry of victories established
Upon the war grounds of history.

Inside a pebble, the pain
Of generations dead, dying
And still unborn to a world of suffering.

Inside the mist, the purity
Of nature floating over nature,
Unpolluted by the smoke of cities.

Blood Rain

Today the rain dropped like a woman
whose water has broken…splash!

A heavy gush of liquid pelted earth
and all around the city, feet dashed,
while I sat counting the lines like sand
on the shores of a beach-

each a distinct nation giving birth
to another; new minds to teach

the ways of a world gone insane,
rushing to its doom-a flood

of anxiety streaming in the hearts
of citizens who fear the sight of blood

and yet, are plagued by its crimson stain;
walking the streets on days like these

when the rain in droves starts
to surge behind a catastrophic breeze.

Valley Song

The valley is a wonderful spectacle
of color: pink poi, red hibiscus,
golden sunflowers; all arranged masterfully
as if by an expert florist.

When the sun shines sincerely
on leaf surface, it sparkles
like a coin; giving the valley a sheen
synonymous to piety.

You marvel at the miracle that is Nature;
the awesome opening of the flower
the brilliant bleat of the goat-

a sound that energizes the valley
like the splendid scrapings of crickets
straight through the night.

          (for Mellissa)

This is Rome, converted home of the gods,
seat of the Papacy, and of the Renaissance,
place of the Leaning Tower
and the sword of Antiquity,
artifact of artifacts, house of the divine
imagination, where heroes wrestle gods,
push boulders up infinite hills.

We pray, hands clasped,
in Michelangelo’s depiction
of St. Peter’s Basilica, marveling
at its baroque architecture.
Then, off to the Sistine Chapel
to view the outstretched finger of God,
the magnificent Vatican Museums;
then to the Coliseum,
to witness the spectacles
of Classical Mythology:
gladiatorial contests, mock sea battles,
animal hunts, executions
and battle reenactments.

There’s a sense of history here
in this partially-ruined monument
devastated by earthquakes and stone-robbers;
today used as fortress and shrine-
a symbol of the resilience of its people

and our love,
a monument shaken
but surviving the ruins of time.

Old Paradox, New Verse

A heavy mist rises
out of the valley
like gun smoke, rifling
the air, setting off a time piece
of timelessness.

The sound of dew dripping
from leaves, but no dew felt.

This unmetered rural wetness
that meets me most mornings
ever since I’ve transported
to this mystic realm.

This meditation, this poetry.

A thousand unspoken words
inhabit these fat, yellow-green leaves;
these long limbs.
These crooked Einstein branches.

The figure in the cane
whose greetings each morning
without language haunt me.
The sunless days and moonless nights
are the old paradox
of my new verse.

Copyright © 2014 Nicholas Damion Alexander


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