The Good

Here is a poem I’d like to share; it’s Ja poetry which I received on Blue Mountain, Jamaica, from a young Rastafarian in 1985.

The good are vulnerable

As any bird in flight,

they do not think of safety,

Are blind to possible extinction

And when most vulnerable

are most themselves.


The good are real as the sun,

Are best perceived through clouds of casual corruption

That cannot kill the luminous sufficiency

That shines on city, sea, and wilderness,

Fastidiously revealing

One man to another

Who yet will not accept

Responsibilities of light.


The good incline to praise,

To have the knack of seeing that

The best is no destroyed.

Although forever threatened,

The good go naked in all weathers,

And by their snakedness rebuke

The small protective sanities

That hide men from themselves.


The good are difficult to see

Though open, rare, destructible,

Always, they retain a kind of youth,

The vulnerable grace

Of any bird in flight

Content to be itself,

Accomplished master and potential victim,

Accepting what the earth or sky intends

I think that I have one or two

Among my friends.



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