Upon the Mural by St. Omer at Jacmel

                                              Dunstan St. Omer's Mural in a Jacmel Catholic Church.

Some time ago, I was asked by a friend ( who had forgotten that Walcott had already written about it) to try writing a poem on this mural.It wasn't one of those poetry-on-demand that many in society expect of writers. But I can't remember the reason why my friend asked. It had something to do with some St. Lucian Art incentive/ endeavour. So I was more than happy to attempt in being a part of it. One must give thanks for these little graces and opportunity. I begun the poem but after criticism from the friend, I was unable to complete it. So I thought I'd share it. I may get some assistance here.

Snuggled in this night like a crescent moon,

O dark child, you are the light of so many lives.

Dear Black Madonna, lilium inter spinas,

Darkened by the soot of our burnt-out faiths,

Blessed are you. Roseau has waited for you

With its hands of light-clenching bananas,

The diving dove above your head has made

A falling Fleur-de-lis of itself. It knows of your glory

Immaculate swan of Europe, O dark elephant of those

Who have so long been kept from the light.

How right was Dali about our need for you!

To those, who have whispered Patois desperately into the ears

Of God, like a conch-shell hoarding eternal sounds of the unlistening sea,

To those who have trapped the sounds of stars in chac-chacs,

Who have assembled our broken lives into mosaics, all in praise,

Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your

Womb-deep sweetness.

Here, we are not followers of galaxies, we could care less of Polaris.

We do not interrupt the unending pilgrimage of stars

For nativities. Our jalousies stare upon virginities

With cynicism; our world will not pause for your birth

O Dark child. Some woman shall hang her son’s shirts

To clothe the cold wind; we may strum our joys

Upon the protruding ribs of some dancing, barebacked drunk.

A new-born would place its bottom upon the hands of its mother

Like fallen fruits. The Little Dipper has darkness to scoop,

To allow our dawns, and will not care to lead your gifts to you.

This is just another birth, Black Madonna and Child,

Just another assembling of the unfitting pieces of some faith.

E pur si muove.