Days 11, 10 and 9

Arouca Presbyterian Church – Genesis Dust



My first pan was not made from an oil drum like the grown-ups’ pans were. We had practice pans made from tin; and painted gaudy red. I learned that year’s calypso on it before I had to be taught. I invented my own arrangement. I taught it to everyone. I played a single tenor. I was seven. I cannot remember any of the notes, but I remember my body swaying behind the pan when I played the hymns.

My hands were an intricate kata .

I remember that.

I remember the ripe adolescent sweat of the director’s daughter. I remember the baby powder on her neck. I invented my own arrangements of things; hymns, arias, calypsos, facts of my becoming.

My first pan made a silly descant of a noise, but I beat it into swing. I beat it into ghost. I beat it into a story I could believe.

Here’s the first chapter: once upon a time there was a boy. He was afraid of nothing. He believed himself invincible.

This was not remarkable in the way of boys, but when he opened his mouth; when he sang, everyone knew – his lungs were made of wolves.




Arouca Presbyterian Church – Psalm 2



The child was born out of wedlock

Naturally.

The child came from another land

Of course.

The child’s lungs were larger than

Wolves.

The child was afraid of everything

But love.

The child was afraid of nothing

But silence.

The child’s limbs would not walk

They ran.

The child gathered loves onto him

They came willingly.

The child sang and sang and sang

He played the drums with the whole

Of his body.

His hands learned the wand of flourish

He stamped his feet when he spoke

Everyone listened.

No one heard a thing.





Arouca Presbyterian Church – the first Psalm

The song rose first from the gut of the morning

all the way to the rafters of noon – song of praise;

song of protection, the congregants bugled the tiny

church aloft. Some said it was the only way the building

stayed steady, betrayed its crumbling plaster and termite

ridden beams. The reverends’ job was easy in the countenance

of such faith. Wade in the water of the peoples’ song. Offer

the prayers of the elders and the children. Preach the sum

of the village gossip and the nicknames of local legends.

Enough lived there in the valley out of which to make music

to God. All they’d need was a preacher with a dance in his

voice; a child without shame, to sing in Jesus’ name.