Vivian Smith: Two Poems

Fear

(after Joaquim Paco d’Arcos)

Fear isn’t fear of the pirates on the river

or of typhoons at sea.

It isn’t being afraid of gun fire at night

on the river teeming with junks and betrayals.

It isn’t the terror of hanged men

in white moonlight

in the mango groves of the Black Sand.

Fear isn’t the terror of war, famine or plague

or of the sores of the lepers on the Island of Saint John.

It isn’t the suspicion

that death is waiting for us

continually

and will carry us away.

Fear isn’t the spreading sadness

when evening falls

and the setting sun

makes the sea of muddy water look like blood,

until the land and the sky

and the islands are swallowed up in shadow

and the mountains are obscured

with nothing remaining except darkness,

and cries crossing the night,

coming from I don’t know where,

going where I do not know.

Fear isn’t the dread of traps

or daggers

or the red kisses that deceive

and slowly take our lives away.

Fear is the dread that you might go away

leaving me completely alone.

Vivian Smith

Hymns to the Sun

All those poems written to the sun,

I started reading late in bed this morning,

odes, celebrations, hymns of praise,

they seem the product of another age,

cornered in their hall of history.

This is this year’s bleakest winter day.

I leave the car park in the icy dark

and take the escalator up one floor.

And guess what finds me speechless at the door:

a bucketful of sunflowers for sale.

I’ll get some later when I’m back in stride,

headlines warning of another gale.

They fill me with a quick determined pride.

This unexpected bonus will not fail.

Vivian Smith