Raised near gully jostling with misfortune great
and small sucked all run home from him . left family
stake half named.
Yard bass string leash and line
the man, him couldn't upgrade or band : hard bolt
dough track > out board 'n' tack.
Sound bad self central, mi know : through all the wild
life confirmation was what him truly hurt for.
Some time him round come mount our mother
burst her stitchings : still, off our zinc no rain
hard drain . him back meant bite relief for lip
dry grass.
Age slips soon send red now
alerts him couldn't over stand : surge entry hose
trickling, check valve pointing under ground.
A kind denial set in so him weave with the weed <
For-Iver-Ras > when that wear off fresh churning
start make heavy to bear him heart .|. beat! pardon
your honour.
We beg him, Please, na
gwan so . cutlass blade hand grip him rave : Look!
so him own shack bred ungrateful.
Our father, on the avenue stare clear, yeh man!
not our warm blood signature him draw there though
all the same.
– W.W.
DEPOSITION TO THE PAROLE BOARD
Ladies, it's no use telling this
prisoner that the 'world out there'
is all that's possible or worth
talking about within your walls
of wisdom mortared by silence.
It's like asking him to talk stone
and iron and forget windows
and the shadows of clouds and wings
that his dreaming eyelids absorb
as much as they do sun and moon.
Don't come to visit him only
to tell him all is determined
in and by the desperate air
you choose to believe you have no
choice about, like peeing or birth.
This man chooses carefully his
crevice and moment to piss through,
makes sure he shocks the warder's eye.
He knows he chose his mother's womb
and knows his dreams already are.
He has surrendered time and so
needs no desert island to feel
free to move from this edge to that.
His cell's the smoke of his own breath.
His only real walls are your words.
(from "Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 