Chambers of a Beating Heart

By Roger Smith

From the captivating creative mind of Roger Smith comes his second collection of poetry which draws inspiration from the world of literature, current events, and matters of the heart. A rustic rhetoric and vernacular helps pull and twist readers through the veins and arteries of an intimate experience bringing them to the forefront and beating organ of poetry and humanity. The rotating mind of a cancer survivor, the erotic loins of a Christian in conflict, and the overwhelming tennis match of rage being a Black Bajan-American husband and father in today's society. Chambers of a Beating Heart, is an amalgamation of daily life interactions and thoughts that plague everyone, through the eyes of a seasoned poet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Smith
• Release date: May 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310801365

Roger Smith

Roger Smith is Senior Lecturer in the History of Science at Lancaster University, England. He is the author of Trial by Medicine: Insanity and Responsibility in Victorian Trials (Edinburgh, 1982) and co-editor (with Brian Wynne) of Expert Evidence: Interpreting Science in the Law (Routledge, 1989).

Book preview

RIGHT ATRIUM

The Chamber of Hopes & Aspirations

Prayer is not asking. It is a longing of the soul. It is daily admission of one's weakness. It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart. 

― Mahatma Gandhi

Upon Creation

There was no hatred

no racist,

no displacement, just temperament

and sin wasn't a thought,

or an action active,

no adjectives, verbs moving or

movement making its move

to twist ear,

towards idle minds and playgrounds

where we wouldn't

remember to hold his hand

or keep his word.

there was merely a noun:

empty space, emptiness, vacancy called

void.

no magic trick

Mr. Copperfield,

no scientific evidence of asteroids colliding like balloons pop

and big bangs

bringing forth the beauty of the heavens, the Earth, the sea

and all that in them

is, because the omnipotent orchestrated

such.

No switches turned on Mr. Edison

no pathfinders or cub scouts

clicking rocks,

clicking stones,

twisting twigs,

tapping the back of flashlights to

get em to work,

tapping the back of flashlights

to get em to work,

to get em to ignite like candlelit

dinners or poisonous pocket

flicking

flick, flicking nothing before he spoke

four words:

Let there be light,

and so it was.

the sun born from the father

who gave us his son,

who gave us the separation of

evening and day,

the division of land and water,

the partitioning

of seed and the fruit.

The seed planted like an idea

and the fruit grown

into humanity.

Before Rembrandt was a thought,

he

dipped fingertip in prestigious ink

and painted a skyline

full of stars,

which we pollute our visions from

taking in the beauty of.

Without toxins,

he created life meant to fly high,

without weapons,

he created creatures to roam,

without envy, jealousy, preconceived notions or erratic emotions,

he created man and woman.

without judgment of color, gender,

or such and such's outfit

he created man and woman,

without hatred, racist, or displacement

just temperament,

he created man and woman

and without worry of running out on

responsibility,

he said be fruitful and multiply,

and in magnitude

such was done

before the evening and the morning of the sixth day.

and he gave us dominion

over everything he created for

life,

and God so loved the world that

He gave us his breath,

his masterpiece, this creation,

and it was good,

yeah it,

Was.

Today (9-11-01)

three days ago was my twenty-third birthday,

and today,

today,

one hundred and ten floors,

crumbled.

twin buildings,

(built together, raised together,

breast fed by lady liberty,

and nourished by the same waters

as the rest of the empire state, thought and

sought as new york landmarks,

marked

now a territory of disaster)

were reduced to flesh fused rubble.

as the story of tragedy

unfolds

and is told by millions lamenting

at Madison Square Garden,

the Knickerbockers are in shock

as Giants shrink, Islanders seek water,

the Rangers ready weapons,

meanwhile we all eye’d the Jets, which looked

down at roaches scattering over bridges in dismay,

a desire for sustenance, answers, and revenge

brew a thirst

for Bin Laden’s blood and

multiplies like a vampire’s wish list.

hearts harden, knowing

mothers, daughters, and loved ones alike

will never be home

again.

our finest and bravest,

lost the structure of their lives,

saving the unstructured lives, of others unlost

til the buildings lost structure

and fractured the minds

of those within, and around the Earth

who were listening,

watching, and crying along with one another.

images replay continuously of metal bald eagles,

made, built, and filled

with the hearts of Americans,

swollen and torn,

were stolen and flown into the city that never sleeps

though will snore for two weeks,

snooze for two months,

be comatose as the toll raises to

six thousand, two hundred people

unheard from,

sixty-two hundred I love yous

cancelled—

and the media shows coverage

of humans, smothered

in dust, ashes, and the flesh of others.

NBC shows leaps of faith, while

CBS shows leaps of hope, while

ABC shows leaps of fear, and

they all were equivalent to the death showed by

the puddles of blood and tears on every single station nationwide.

death is not a television show.

death, is not a television show, so

respect the lives of lost souls, fallen heroes and everyday workers.

last night, i went to sleep thinking about where i would go

to buy the blueprint album,

today,

i feel for my city,

i’m somber in the hurt of humanity, i

cried in silence with the mute button

compressed, reaching for power,

for a better tomorrow.

Watch Your Agenda

They are always watching and

listening to you flaunt your pen

across pages, mind across the

airwaves like a murder of crows

seeking shelter from the incisors

of winter.

They read with cold cobalt eyes

destined to confiscate your freedom,

or quill which would cripple you

yet more so your viral influence

of passionate chaos.

They write laws as you write stanzas,

as they pass articles you perform

at venues they are not allowed

with their suit and tie.

They cringe.

They are creating a special house

for you with dimensions perfect,

parallel bars, a cozy bed with built

in toilet, and unlimited access to

your peers, colleagues, and those

before you they quieted.

They are in awe of your pipe bomb

intellect, your sub machine gun free

verse, your running rhyme strapped

to your chest, strapped to your voice

as it seeps into every Amerikkkan

via auditory warfare.

They breakdown the jenga like walls

of your laundromats and lounges,

emptying every ounce of alcohol

like intoxications from the speech

within, so your vernacular is once

again, a double agent hidden agenda

working to expose you as they

finally get to ask a laureate,

are you poet, or a terrorist?

Fine Tuning My Visions of You

i saw you.

poetic queen of Nefertiti,

like bronze complexion and cappuccino,

living a complex life.

single parent,

though mothering a nation

with words dripping from

lips of egyptian 

goddess,

holding poets, scribes and lost souls

in your bosom, 

filling their minds