My first encounter with Mervyn Morris’s work occurred in October 1977, when I read the introduction he had written for Uncle Time by Dennis Scott, my former literature teacher at Jamaica College.1 Intrigued by Morris’s analysis of Scott’s poetry, I walked from my home in Mona Heights to the bookstore at the University of the West Indies and bought a copy of his 1973 The Pond.2 Drawn to the thematic complexity of his accessible verse, I grasped how Morris, alongside Scott and Tony McNeill, was shaping a distinctly Jamaican aesthetic that used minimalist diction and choice of local subjects to explore the alienation arising from colonialism and identifying with a Rastafarian ethos as a means of Black liberation. This proved an important discovery for me. Morris’s poetry gave me a method to interpret my experiences. It was instrumental in completing my first three collections of poems, and his vision guided me in composing several poems in my latest collection, Archipelagos.3
One of the first poems that captivated me was “Valley Prince for Don D.” Initially, I was taken aback by the idea of a praise poem for Don Drummond, since my adolescence was filled with rumors about Drummond’s descent into madness and the murder of his girlfriend. It was only later, through discussions with Michael Mowatt, the founder of Jah Love Musik, that I learned about Drummond’s significant role as a founding member of the Skatalites and how his jazz-influenced style was pivotal in the development of ska and reggae. The opening piece of The Pond shifted the way I saw Drummond—portraying this local, overlooked genius as the central figure.
“Valley Prince” probes the theme of isolation experienced by a Black jazz musician, employing evocative imagery, language, and structural elements to convey the complex interplay of personal and societal struggles. This poem captures the essence of the artist’s solitary journey, particularly in a Caribbean context, where the intersection of individual and cultural identity forms a complex backdrop. The poem opens with the lines “Me one, way out in the crowd, / I blow the sounds, the pain,” which establishes the theme of isolation. The phrase “Me one” underscores the solitary nature of the artist, set apart from the audience. This separation is not just physical but emotional and artistic, as the musician’s expression of “the sounds, the pain” suggests a depth of experience unshared and unrecognized by the crowd. This disconnect is further elaborated in the lines “but not a soul / would come inside my world / or tell me how it true” (Pond, 7). The artist’s world is depicted as intensely personal and inaccessible to others.
The metaphor of the trombone as a means of expressing the artist’s “mind” conveys the importance of art as a medium for personal and cultural expression.
I love a melancholy baby,
sweet, with fire in her belly;
and like a spite
the woman turn a whore.
Cool and smooth around the beat,
she wake the note inside me
and I blow me mind. (Pond, 7)
These lines depict the trombone as an extension of the artist’s inner self and a tool for articulating complex emotions and thoughts.
Additionally, the poem’s structure, characterized by idiosyncratic enjambment, reflects the artist’s jazz sensibility characterized by improvisation. This stream-of-consciousness style and erratic structure mirror the artist’s mental state (Drummond was diagnosed as schizophrenic) as a tumultuous and unstructured flow of ideas and emotions that defy conventional expression. This stylistic choice adds depth to the poem, allowing the reader to experience the disarray and intensity of the artist’s inner world.
“Nation language,” a term popularized by the Barbadian poet Kamau Brathwaite, is another critical element in the poem. It roots the poem in a specific cultural and linguistic context, emphasizing the Caribbean artist’s unique perspective and the challenges of communicating this experience to a broader audience. Nation language also grounds the poem in a specific cultural reality, lending authenticity and immediacy to the artist’s voice. This linguistic choice not only enhances the rhythmic quality of “Valley Prince” but also signifies the struggle of the Caribbean artist to articulate profound experiences in a way that resonates within their cultural framework. The lines “Ooonu gimme me back my trombone, man: / is time to blow my mind” gives voice to the artist’s demand for recognition and understanding within the cultural context (Pond, 7).
In “Lime Quay Rock,” from Exodus, and Other Poems—written during my first year in Miami, where the feelings of alienation and exile were palpable—I used Morris’s “Valley Prince” as a template for the portrait of an artist’s solitude.4 However, the situations of the solitude are different. Don Drummond was a Black artist who sought recognition from his fellow citizens in a predominantly Black country; “Lime Quay Rock” depicts a Black artist working in a country where he is defined as a minority. My speaker leans toward a quiet resignation to obscurity, diverging from Morris’s portrayal of a defiant artist wrestling with misunderstanding.
The imagery I employed in “Lime Quay Rock,” influenced by my experience of feeling disconnected in Miami, is deliberately evocative of themes of smallness and resignation. The opening lines, “Across the Bay, the full moon / limps home, its rim bent / like the sax under his arm,” were chosen to convey a sense of weariness and diminishment (Exodus, 7). The image of the limping moon, mirroring the musician’s diminished state with its bent rim, suggests a shared fragility and unimportance. This metaphor contrasts with the vibrant, energetic expressions of artistic defiance in “Valley Prince,” where the musician’s plea—“blow my mind”—symbolizes a robust assertion of self.
The influence of Morris’s speaker’s quiet acceptance of his peripheral status is further emphasized in my poem through symbols like the “splinters of light” from harbor boats and the “street light that forgets / his name.” These images, reflecting my feelings of being an outsider in Miami, evoke a sense of being overlooked or forgotten, a stark departure from the confrontational stance in Morris’s “Valley Prince.” In “Lime Quay Rock” the “squish squish of bicycle tires / and trudge of evening boats” adds to the artist’s portrayal as another unnoticed element in the bustling cityscape, emphasizing his insignificance (Exodus, 7).
Furthermore, compared to the dynamic relationship between the artist and his audience in “Valley Prince,” in “Lime Quay Rock” I capture the artist’s solitary experience in a more reflective and resigned manner. The following lines depict a persistent, unnoticed artistic endeavor, mirroring my feelings of isolation and unacknowledged existence in a new city:
And every night
he played here,
from his only constant,
he sounded his exile. (Exodus, 7)
Both poems, however, converge on the theme of artistic isolation. While “Valley Prince” probes this theme through a lens of resistance and a desire to be understood, “Lime Quay Rock” presents a more subdued acceptance of the artist’s fate. In my poem, the artist resigns himself to his role as an artist whose music is lost amid the noise of the city and the indifference of the audience, as illustrated here:
and women, unfaithful as smoke
swirling around his head,
voices not caring to listen
to a poet with a horn” (Exodus, 7)
“Lime Quay Rock” was my first homage to Morris’s depiction of artistic solitude in “Valley Prince,” albeit with a gentler, more introspective interpretation. My poem reflects the broader narrative of an artist’s isolation and my journey of feeling alienated and unseen in Miami.
While Morris’s “Valley Prince” and my “Lime Quay Rock” emphasize alienation, his “Rasta Reggae” navigates the collective memory of oppression toward spiritual liberation. The poem opens with lines that depict the horrors of the Middle Passage:
out of that pain
that bondage
heavy heavy sounds
our brothers’ weary march
our shackled trip (Pond, 18)
With their clear and forceful diction, these phrases evoke the oppressive reality of the enslaved Africans’ journey. “Heavy heavy sounds” and “our brothers’ weary march” reflect the physical burden and emotional and spiritual weight of this journey. The phrase “our shackled trip” conveys the brutality of the Middle Passage and highlights the historical significance of this tragedy, laying bare the roots of contemporary Black disenfranchisement and the collective memory of struggle within the African diaspora.
Morris’s use of anaphora in “Rasta Reggae,” particularly the repetition of “our,” establishes a connection between Morris’s speaker and their enslaved ancestors. This linguistic choice transforms their pain into a collective, inherited burden, fostering a sense of unity and solidarity across different eras. The allusion to “Let my people go” is a powerful call for liberation, resonating with the enduring Rastafari cry for freedom from oppression and reinforcing the theme of emancipation.
The poem’s narrative evolves from the physicality of enslavement to mental and spiritual liberation, symbolized by the line “a joyful horn takes off / to freedom time” (Pond, 18). This shift underscores the Rastafari belief in transcending the constraints of the present through music and consciousness, envisioning a future or a promised land of spiritual freedom. The poem enacts this journey from past and present oppressive realities to the aspirational realms of identity and redemption.
In “Bad Friday,” featured in my latest collection, Archipelagos, I expand on the theme of solidarity and mental liberation inherent in Rastafari identity, similar to what Morris portrays in “Rasta Reggae.” Both poems traverse the terrain of oppression and transcendence through the lens of Rastafari consciousness, yet “Bad Friday” offers a more direct, raw account of police brutality against Rastas in Jamaica, explicitly referencing the Coral Gardens event.
“Bad Friday” begins with a vivid recounting of violence: “Years after the beasts of Babylon / swooped down on Pinnacle and scatter / Rastafari” (Archipelagos, 36). This opening sets the tone, portraying Rastafari as victims of a systemic, brutal crackdown. The comparison to “beasts of Babylon” aligns with the Rastafari view of oppressive governmental forces, echoing sentiments in Morris’s “Rasta Reggae.”
The speaker in “Bad Friday” maintains a resilient spirit even in the face of brutality, as in lines like, “Rasta bwai, you a go dead today” (Archipelagos, 36). This defiance, even when faced with death threats, echoes the Rastafari ethos of liberation and overcoming oppression. The poem’s reference to Haile Selassie I and the collective redemption of Rastafari from persecution parallels the narrative of freedom found in “Rasta Reggae.”
“Bad Friday” also transitions from Standard English to Rastafari, deepening the connection with the besieged Rastafari community: “Babylon only need to see I beard— / evidence I would never bow to the image / of the massa” (Archipelagos, 36). This linguistic shift emphasizes solidarity with Rastafari identity and symbolizes resistance against colonial and oppressive systems.
Despite the poem’s depiction of violence, there is a transcendence in the lines “But even in darkness, I sight up / the glory of His Majesty and stay / as still as a spider waiting for I deliverance” (Archipelagos, 36). This imagery of spiritual awakening and steadfast faith under duress mirrors the themes in “Rasta Reggae,” where music and consciousness offer a path to freedom.
“Rasta Reggae” and “Bad Friday” use language to express kinship with a shared struggle and envision a time of liberation. While their settings and styles differ, the underlying message is unwavering resistance and spiritual fortitude. Through their portrayal of hardship and resilience, both poems access an inner world beyond physical confines, finding solace and deliverance in the spiritual realm, aligning with the Rastafari ethos of liberation.
Through my encounters with Morris’s work I have learned to appreciate his pioneering role in shaping a distinctly Jamaican aesthetic. Through precise diction and deliberate focus on the local context, Morris explores themes of isolation and alienation born from the legacy of slavery and colonialism in the Caribbean.
While my voice differs from Morris’s in tone and perspective at times—he is a poet who lives and works in Jamaica, and I am a Jamaican poet who lives in North America—our works converge on the portrayal of the solitary artist’s journey and the quest for identity and liberation. Poems like “Valley Prince” and “Rasta Reggae” encapsulate Morris’s authentic rendering of the Caribbean experience from the perspective of an artist who has lived and worked in Jamaica for most of his adult life. My “Lime Quay Rock” and “Bad Friday” view these subjects as an exiled Jamaican artist engaging with his homeland from afar.
Mervyn Morris’s insightful voice—as a poet and mentor—with its blend of historical conscience, spiritual exploration, and unflinching social commentary, has enriched my craft. From Exodus, and Other Poems to Archipelagos, one can see that his influence has been invaluable in nurturing my poetic outlook in the continuing conversation about the Caribbean’s past and present.
Geoffrey Philp, a recipient of a Silver Musgrave Medal from the Institute of Jamaica, is the author of Archipelagos (Peepal Tree, 2023), a book of poems about climate change that was longlisted for the 2023 Laurel Prize. Philp’s poem “A Prayer for My Children'' is featured on the Poetry Rail at the Betsy Hotel—an homage to twelve writers who have shaped Miami culture. His graphic novel for children, My Name Is Marcus (Blue Banyan, 2024), chronicles Marcus Garvey's life and will be published in September 2024.
[1] Mervyn Morris, introduction to Dennis Scott, Uncle Time (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1973), xvii–xxiii.
[2] Mervyn Morris, The Pond (London: New Beacon, 1973); hereafter cited in the text.
[3] Geoffrey Philp, Archipelagos (Leeds: Peepal Tree, 2023); hereafter cited in the text.
[4] Geoffrey Philp, Exodus, and Other Poems (St. Croix: Caribbean Writer, Caribbean Research Institute, University of the Virgin Islands, 1990); hereafter cited in the text.