BALDHIP Magazine: Issue 08

Richard Georges

Divination / Tortola

the poet working is a special kind of obeah;

a neat pile of broken pencil leads and inky nibs,

in the page’s corner wet; memories, a name opened

in a thrush’s mouth; an orphaned feather;


a song and a world blooming in the throat;

a stirring of bones, a clearing of souls


through a loose bundle of sage leaves ablaze

in dark rooms; a special kind of open –

like black bibles, church doors, and irises.
The ibis spreads its wings and shadows fall


like rain —light scattering from darkness
It’s own religion, its own, its own


imprisoned page, its only way of seeing

things (the world), its only way of being.