Morning, Morning Angel Mine

Four in the morning
you turn me over
to speak into me some new knowledge.

Today's lesson is about life more abundant
and sweet singing
about why we move so
to the kumina of the Congo
"All a we a one Bungo"

Why we sing so to the Yoruba of Brazil
Gilberto, Gil, Nascimento, jobim
riffing down the lips of a stone flower
wonder which notes register keener
wild woman crying or wild violins.

Mornings with you Cherubim I wake
to hear you whispering all the promises you make
when we are on the earth plane and awake.
Soft in the hours of nectar
you whisper to me of promises kept
and promises keeping.

They fall about us like angel feathers
swept with the lightest of brooms.
Airborne now are our promises
in this lit and sanctified room.

What they cannot see
is that their reality
smokes dimly at the periphery
of us. What we are about is
liquid jewels for wine

Carnelian star apples
ruby bird cherries
celebrations in a sealed space
sacred and divine.
Their striving horns
emit dull sounds and fall
as lusterless still lives,

What we are about
is outside of imagining.
Today's lesson is about
life more abundant and
sweet singing

Golden apples and
sweet cups brimming
spirit and rosemary wine

Old wine skins cast off
into the flow
of the regenerating
Rio Nuevo
upon your lips
the taste of new morning wine

Morning morning
Angel mine.

by Lorna Goodison

****

Because I have had enough of Andrew Marvell's overrated poetry in class.