Last Reel by Mervyn Morris. Kingston: Ian Randle Publishers, 2024. ISBN: 978-976-8339-06-5. 45 pp. paperback.
In his most recent poetry collection, Last Reel, Mervyn Morris dedicates his “Movie Poem” to Jimmy Cliff. This suggests that the poet has borrowed the title from the acclaimed 1972 Jamaican movie, The Harder They Come, in which Cliff plays the lead role.
The reader familiar with Morris’ work knows that he is inclined to select his titles very deliberately in order to flesh out meaning. The title of this collection, therefore, peaks one’s curiosity. What is it, for the poet, that is being unwound or unravelled? What “threads” have been spun in order to create some kind of pattern or design? What is the final picture, and who are the characters (including villains or heroes), that emerge? Ultimately, why are we told that there are no more reels to follow?
It is evident that a major reel on which several of Morris’ poems turn is that of memory—the poet presenting us with one character or scenario after the other. This he often does in what one feels to be a mood of quiet or sombre reflection. Time is a persistent thread in these recollections, and one notes how the distance time affords allows for the poet’s shifts in perspective.
Two such poems come easily to mind: “Second Master” (4) and “Moving Up” (31). Binks, in “Second Master”, is a figure of fun for the small boys for whom the teacher’s physical characteristics are paramount:
we sprinkled powder on our heads,
stuffed pillows in our waistlines
and, scratching our behinds
said gruffly, Clean the board.
In later years, with time and distance, the adult persona is able to recognise and appreciate the qualities of this “unassuming paragon” that, as a small boy, he could not.
“Moving Up” is another example of memory and perspective. The persona remembers very vividly the hurt and confusion he felt at the rejection of his lover. Now, years later, he is “long past grieving” and is able to say, half-humorously, “Thanks again for everything/especially for leaving”.
Morris’ collection touches on the religious as well. Through one of his characters in the novel Of Age and Innocence, George Lamming advances the Hegelian view that the prayers of the aged are the prayers of their childhood. This comes to mind on reading Morris’ poems “Harvest Hymn” (28) and “At the Altar” (29). The poet’s use of the iambic meter with its consistent rhyme scheme is reminiscent of the verses many of us recited innocently and with simple faith in Sunday School.
One may judge whether this faith is undermined to any real degree by the skepticism evident in “Churchical” (30) and the subtle ambiguities of “Two Hundred Years” (27).
Morris, though, is not always reflecting on the past. He is on occasion very much engaged with the goings-on around him. It is here that his tone becomes critical and even caustic. He has, for example, a sharp rebuke for his Jamaican people abroad who thrive on bad news, passing it along “like a virulent social disease” (16). Additionally, he thinks it worth his while to engage with the conversations of fellow Jamaicans, albeit by radio or television. He is passionate in his advice to the talk-show host: “Keep on irritating / every samfie, every clown... Do not let the bastards grind you down” (17).
Similarly, Morris’ satirical intent is clear in “Yes, Minister” (--) by his adopting the title of the British comedy. It is no less so when he questions the wisdom of the politician whose pompassetting has only made a sexually suggestive situation worse.
A particularly significant aspect of Morris’ poetic style is his proclivity for presenting the reader with a dilemma in lines that are compact and sometimes enigmatic. Arguably, this style works effectively to reveal the poet’s feelings, not only about the brevity and fragility of life, but also its complexity and unpredictability.
One such example is “At Every Border” (26) that consists of only two short stanzas. Yet much is conveyed. The persona remains unidentified (Everyman?), and perhaps it is for this reason that we easily empathise:
He burrowed in the dark, a blind
adventurer. He surfaced. Wall behind.
Before him stood another, higher.
It is clear that the wall is a metaphor for hindrances and obstacles. Moreover, Morris’ uncharacteristically prolific use of punctuation reinforces the idea of the sudden and unexpected obstructions being confronted without respite.
The death of the young speaks to the brevity of life, and may seem as arbitrary as it is unexpected. In “A Drowning” (2), Morris manages the tensions beautifully through his use of contrasting images: “lively boys” and their “noisy talk” as opposed to adult minds that are “shivering, worried, weak”. In addition, a school’s stability is undermined by the extended sea metaphor he employs throughout the poem. The “splash”, “bubble”, “swells”, and “waves” are sinister reminders of the sea’s present reality and its power to disrupt and destroy. The finality of the words “Marriott is drowned” is potent in its conveyance of grief. Marriot is still just a young boy.
From free verse to haiku to iambic metre, the reader cannot help but be aware that loss is a recurring thread in Last Reel. How, after all, does one measure the gains of insight and wisdom against the loss of innocence, youth, relationships, love, hope, even the loss of life itself?
It is not surprising that Morris’ mind should be occupied by the question of mortality; the final loss, as the title of the book suggests. One also notes the season of life in which he now writes. While in the collection some young lives are cut short, one senses the poet’s greater affinity with the older characters who have lost life-long partners, as in “Funeral”, “Widow Poem”, and “His Widow Thinks”. Morris’ “End Notes” is conclusive.
It is with this awareness that we turn to the last lines of “Movie Poem”:
Hero cyan dead
till de last reel (33)
Is the poet pointing us to his future passing? While we cannot pinpoint the day or hour, as implied in the question “but how we know / is when?” (33), what we do know is that an end is inevitable. The last reel will run out. What is Morris’ stance, given this reality?
One may surmise from “Dodging Potholes” (45) that there is something of the hero in the poet’s refusal to focus on the holes in the ground (with the possible implications), and the fact that he has managed so far to dodge these potential dangers. Ultimately, however, Morris draws on his faith, choosing rather to look inward and upward:
I turn inside.
The flag is at half-mast,
but not for me.
I will lift up my eyes to the hills.