On Dad's island, our meet your Grandpa trip, the village
bath ritual meant some down dip splashing; a shock to our
up reach chrome handling. Dad made me leave the camera
phone home. We'll walk and talk the trees the sea night creature
noise sun lime. Pan chippers like forest on road winding, catch
sweat beads off breast bounce gleaming, my wish list.
Grandpa's hand trembled pointing flood and land marks;
no patience with passwords, he prefers his walk man's inked
transactions. Comrades circuit short at corners, scratchy voice
like Dad's vinyls, their dry season. Crossing streets his fingers
on shoulders felt bone grippy. This mobile generation, profile
glaze on pocket screens ̶ who'll mind run save the nation?
Visiting from London Grandpa's old friend observed
from the verandah wickers: towns & villages here reassemble
tempers caste in Delhi and Nairobi; sunsets dive fast through skin
textures into same text estates; night shifts of snake beats suckle
wail. Manners bypass service like retired diplomats. No bell ring
run from rape into the sea. You can watch rigged ships
harvesting at gated harbours.
How's Samaroo doing, Grandpa's neighbor's son? came back
to play with his English girlfriend last Carnival. They heard
he'd smear Chinese dip sauce on her forehead, Sindoor
style, before they went to bed. Like he’s some Hindu
gangster, they clinked glass rims. Cool licks, my hit list.
Dad's island home seems spared crowd Square death tolling.
What difference did it make to you, Ma wondered. All that
we are is more or less returnable, he snapped. I told Grandpa
maybe I'll come back before his sun watch stops; richer
or poorer; faster, truth be told, up feeding blood
links, don't misunderstand me.
W.W.
TO THE EARTH OF INEVITABLE ASCENSION
I, your partial son, praise the whole of you
as I have praised some brother tree or man, and
hosts of sister grass-ears or bird-tongues, and
our one seed, your spouse, our father the Sun.
Now I admit and honour at last your
rich graveyard of compost and manure of birth,
and so encourage your slow pilgrimage
whose Mecca and Jerusalem will be
not only your own end of starhood but
also the willingness of men to allow
in themselves the seeds of stars, seeds that will
sprout and pulse in harmony with Light's breath.
So now I plant such rhyming seed in you
and sense the receptive ripples of your womb,
and trust such innocent incest shall prove
new husbandry of all our shining fate.
(from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 