They came to the city park – the heat that windless day,
browning up the grass! – to hear the grandmaster sing
kaisos up from the islands. Was heritage week. Round
the bandstand home hungers blazing, sun spot powdered
body pasts chafing, people shaking hip in half
a moon of devotion.
"But why he sitting down to sing?" "He getting old, you know."
"And where he party clothes?" "He getting on, you know."
"And why words dropping out from that song? I getting old,
I remember every word from that song."
When he wobbled or he fluffed, the horn crew grinding stopped
to pick him up, didn't miss a beat, thank God
for lay lay, lay lay, aie aie, aie aie
and pim pim, pim pim, bambamyuhbumbum.
Booming the master of ceremonies asked over and over,
Areyuhready? And once:
Any driver who park their car inside the park
better move their car outside the park
rightaway is a NYCity violation Are you ready?
Off at the tree shaded south end this road torqued woman,
her life close by in swollen plastic bags, slept through
like yorkie on rug; till the anchor line. How you jammin'
so. She jump up, rub she eyes, look 'round,
then start one wining bad beside she self.
Scattered on the fringe los verdes ramas, unlucky to be hired
that day, pulled down dream hiding baseball caps
and watched. The sound system pounded
their haze, with treats seasoned for fiestas, and tricks
like wrapped hot burritos for the route-crossing soccer ball.
Inside the high fenced basketball court the rim rattled
& rang from misses; black sweat gleaming torsos huddled
feinted, twisted through reverbs & scrimmage, raked
back, then, with drummers' wrist, swished for the rain withholding sky.
– W.W.
THE CANADIAN OCTOBER TREE
in this lobby knows
no season but a standardised summer
to oblige with greenish branches. Only
a few leaves puzzled
by the tree's seed-memory of autumn
have drained their colour. A few others, less
unsure (more faithful)
have already leapt
down into their new status of rug-stain.
But the tree, a mother by now resigned
to her solitude
of an eternity in soil without
depth, stands well-clad still, saving nature's face,
if not her full fire.
(from "Gift of Screws" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 