NOVEL MANDATE . FOR CLOSE OCCASION

 

          
        Cause . they stopped performing^it seems the oval
      / faith deep, stain top loading / won't allow^jump
        Start anymore wanting instead the glow . inside
        dream cleaning.   

                  ) Though who would bypass indoor plumbing,    
        take squat rump ? chances in forum with desert
        lynx,
scorpions; submit . sore among deceivers
        dysenteria
 drying.

        Cause . they’d rather cut^try she/her fresh 
        partner grips; meringue . the hip turn birdie birdie
        swing at shield^life pins.

                                                 * 

               ) As heaven ‘n’ earth deform, breath on top    
        breath pile | breach advisory : about tests, young
        blood
red for diced tomatoes . old pissers who won’t
        take stem for an answer.

                                                 *

        Cornered, cringing to receive hurt / Toyota hunt
        wheels churning dust / stumbling out the compound,
        baby in back wrap . who ran Which way? ran.

               ) Left behind the grass patch, sunset cows | night  
        time quiet like no place on earth . except perhaps
        once
 Dutch stabled Paramaribo.
                                                                   Though who
        sleeps like a baby anymore ? anywhere bread fruit
        heads tail fall | long poem short ‘way too much
        reality, man . can hardly bear.’ Popo! Popo!

                                                                  – W.W.

 

 

         

         

          
       MARA


      *BUT escaping back to White America
       Had not helped Mara escape
 from her nightmares
       About her Indian student with her chopped-up
     Lines echoing the other choppings-up she had seen
       Done to other people whose silenced voices
       She meant to lend some utterance by her verse.
       Its ‘content’ the city Doctor had ignored,

       Concentrating instead on the ineptness
       Of its chronicler, the wannabe author
       Who would later dedicate her first published
     Work (the grim autobiographical All About!
       About growing up in an East Coast village
       Where a girl walking to school daily passes
       A trench bearing overnight corpses floating)


        (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

 

                               

INDECENCY

 

         
         I had to get over the shock of his new pinched sharp eyes.
      He mentioned
right away that he’d had laser-surgery
      To repair his sight:  Most of it:   I still need reading specs.
         I couldn’t help wondering how he could have afforded
      The Technique or Procedure or just the Operation,
      But i didn’t have to ask:   I knew he’d tell me.

                                                      *

                                                                                It must 
      Have been with Mia’s help, tight-taloned eagle though she was.
     (When i was her Poor Boy, i used to tell her she’d faster
      Spread her legs than her fingers which she’d then spread to scratch my
      Eyes out to prove her point:   i was safer with her claws closed.

                                                     *

      So why, i now asked, had Raimonde left the old bird behind? 
      Or had he?     Perhaps they’d both emigrated to Loffdoff?
      This’ll come as a surprise to you    he said, slowing down
      The car beside a deserted playground,    but it was she
      Who told me to disappear after she had me fixed up.
      I don’t know    he mused, stopping the car dead    it was as if
      She couldn’t stand the sight of me now that i could see her
      Better    like, without glasses, i was this scary stranger,
      Can you believe?   She even gave me some dough to get lost!

                                                      *  

         Raimonde's words were so convincing, they sounded like a lie
      You’d tell your therapist, but there was no faulting his tone
      Of puzzlement, even hurt, over Mia Frears’ choice.
         Shaking my head in amazement, i asked   – And you took it?    
         Sure   he said quickly     why not?   Who wouldn’t?

      (from *fatima solagua arterra’s nudes* by Brian Chan, 2015)

 

 

CAUGHT UNPREPARED

                 

 
           Our window dress instinct placed bets on Sundays,   
           climbed over stare^steps to Office chair . bare
           foot field memory wiped | praying
 no rain down
           sodden the bicycle lanes, our grievances sun
           pinned sheet
s.

           The Hoatzin bird watched flood water marks on
           plantation stilts, mud clearing feats : palm thatch
           swap for galvanized . fixtures | landings, up looks
           
How paid servants steal ‘n’ hide . verandah
           articles.

           Coconut oil scalp scrubbed, port plank toil 
           rubbed; henna hands bandaged time ‘n’ again
           wounds, See'f I care . that grave won’t close. 
                
                                     Iguanas caught ! dissembling so 
           gold drudgers fire up Canton sausages | between town
           cars cattle amble, rope loose for the colony call
           back . Goodness me! new extraction flares.

                                             *

                                                     Tangled in mangrove
           littoral not for one moment could crab trustees
           
imagine beneath the ocean first aliens might
           
have^buried signals, property lines.

                                 Moot now . among the wells most          
           bored on the planet our wishing towers | don’t
           dock knock_ask . why we flail for this ? high
           ebb tide balloon sail.
                                                             - W.W.

 

           

         

 

               


            MARA + LESSING 


            Like father, like son is too easy to say, 
            But
 Lessing is Mara’s man who got away
            With thousands of her black-market U.S. bills
          Rolled tight and hidden in hollowed-out soles of his shoes
           (One way to get money out of Guyana;
            Another, to have crooks as your fucking-friends;
            Another, to become a politician).

            No, that scunt never did deposit any
            Of Mara’s cash to any of the umpteen
            Foreign bank-accounts she had opened up, one
          For every tourist-city she had ever passed through.

            (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

 

MULAHLIN’S ORGANIC TOMATO SQUEEZE

 

               
          Despite the bow leg balance, the way untouched
          from defrost to door swing she carried on it made
          sense
 to stand aside | her air, sweep past could let
          your hair ‘n’ shoulders down . Osewa Ni torso
          politesse.

          Encouraged by heritage to hold . the pedigree 
          in clutch her intense fibres did just that | item
          open close store concerning.
                                                                                      Then this 
        #same selfie arrived, asking to coincide | fitted 
          for thigh wrap entrée she/hers secured adding licks
          new to our custard apple evenings . finger span
          dip to deep.

                                                             / Love shed like precious 
          blood . cell change from island to island. Watch
          here now / from foreign who like fucking with us /
          fields cropped over valley all our lives mist, fern.      

                                             / Cyaan jus’ show up, night
          into sunrise stretch . strip bamboo shoot fi buss, 
          not flute^horn about | # fly leaf tag    diamond
          rough for hewing, belly fret . pirate ring.

                                                                       – W.W.

.             

       

           

 

           
           QAT + LESSING 

           No other do-gooder could reach the toenails
         Of Qat, that cool-looking but volatile volcano
           From Cameroon with whom Lessing lived for nine
           Whole months before she threw him out for pissing
           Her off
with his sacrée paresse sans valeur

           A pique-piss provoked by his complaints that he
           Was the last thing on Qat’s mind, even when ‘love’
           Was the thing they were supposed to be making.
         (Reader, some terms are just itching to be ironised.)
           
             (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)  

 

INDECENCY

           

         The show confirmed for me why i don't attend galleries
:         
        I always end up feeling like a prisoner-inspector
        With death-row inmates already hanging off the walls or,
        More à la mode, disembodied and rotting on the floor
        For me to actively step over and forget.

                                         *                                                                             

          I left before trying the Argentinan Malbec Bob
        Had recommended in atonement for his impatience
      – For which i couldn’t blame him:    Jill looked about to give in,
        Like a student at last convinced her young prof wanted more
        Than a sycophallic mistress and really cared for her.

                                             *

           But what did i know?   I was just a sic psychologust
        On vapid vacation, and they were mere other tourists,
        Strangers not just to me but, no doubt, to each other too

                                              *

          I walked out of the museum and into the night’s cool.
        There was a taxi idling outside and i simply asked
        The driver to give me a tour of the town by night-light.
        He nodded and switched on his meter and said – What’s up Doc?
             The voice was neither unfamiliar nor intimate
        And, in the dark of the box, it took me a few seconds
        To recognise the face above the hand held out to me:
        It was Raimonde Winterkiss without the black-framed glasses
        He always wore in the jail where i was his counsellor.

        (from *fatima solagua arterra’s nudes* by Brian Chan, 2015)

 

 

PACE THE GRIND, GRACE MAKER

                             
                              

                                               
                                                         “I fly like a fish in the air                        
                                                          and swim like a bird in the water
                                                         and gill stays gill and lung stays lung
                                                         and my fin and my wing help each other”
             
                                      -  Endless Moment World,  Martin Carter (1970)


            Line crossed . the winner smiles, bites the medal
         
after collapsing on track in some rounded state
         of discovery | the rest of us/them watch, brooding
         like once viking rowers . about whistling storms;
         who back home visits, teases out the last mat
         straw
.

         Sprints abreast of particulates in the stands fans 
         seem normal | this is how belief keeps pace . marathon
         lopes we’d drench any band of sweat with
         companions of blind bend testing.

         Short wave's best from stadium view . after
         the Win’s
 A Win turn for the anthem | Quick! before
         lean gleanings stark on the mark spike false
         start headlines.
                                                        And may the heavens
         lift us / should you stumble next time out, name
         domain ascending / hands on laps left . come day
         light green dash.

                                       *This invitation to vault, plein     
         temps consuming / this street transparency, heel
         snap pack / the bell ? who could refuse.

                                       Catch you next meet, deerchaser.
         Watch ‘n’ body check. Camel bird pecking home.
         Allez . yip yip.

                                                         – W.W.                                                                                                
                                           

 

           

             

               

             LESSING

             He has often thought he could give up the gift
            (Which ‘wise’ or ‘mature’ types see as just his last
             Addiction to losership with its fictions
           Of hope for dopes, its slow noose masked as a fast anchor)
             Even at peaks of his living up to it
             When the gift would speak through him as his alone
             And task him with not kiss/pissing it away

               (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

 

 

FLEA MARKET BITE LIST

 

         
                 If it's still on the shelf reaching hearts assume 
                 the crave that
strips and swims inside
                 the head will reject any faith swab pushing
                 gawks up the humbum.
                                        Why on earth idle ? the procedure,
                 stomach walled . sperm charge Millions asking.

                                              At sea the years suspend;  
                 at mind tiers job teeth grind, bed crumbs brush
                 aside | need^feed onset weighs which island road
                 stop still extends . plantation schaden^stalls.

                 Paths to crack the world codes unless you’re lizard 
                 creepy | wanton whenever you snap at branch
                 leaves not on the fly list.

                 So why is this man dressed in pajamas shouting?  
                 I’m standing right in front of him, holding
                 a coffee mug, ready to stir

                                                    *

                            / There, see’t ? on display bargains         
                 you need hunt no longer . basket the poker, flue
                 burn up the body furnace.

                     / Niche^mate fooled?  Mint your content, trade          
                 the pawns that thrift_hop tick . stuck long.
                        Lift, some cry far the fuck! from | hips
                 flashing solid Bol şans! scan.
                                                                    W.W.

                      

                       

                     

 

                

                MARA

                XM that Georgetown habit that in her is
              Rooted, having been seeded by her clever mother
                Who
 used to put a teaspoonful of the stuff
                In the breakfast ice-cream she gave to Mara
                Who could digest Mommy’s milk no other way.

               (That gyirl din born in Princess Street fuh nuttn!)
                Grown-up Mara will swear she is allergic
                To milk’s boringness.  There, then it was supposed
              To be good for ones bones and kept ones teeth from rotting,
                Not to mention ones Brains (and everyone knew
                Even gyirls in Guyana had at least six):
                Brains were key for doing tricks for getting

                Rich.  *MARA’s sardonic version of her past

                  (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan) 

 

 

 

TRINIDAD, EARLY 1940s . GANESH WRITES HIS FIRST BOOK

 

                           

              Before he completed the course for his reinvention from Pundit
              Ganesh Ramsumair to Ganesh Ramsumair M.B.E.; finally and famously
              G.R. Muir, Esq., M.B.E.
Ganesh (In V. S. Naipaul’s The Mystic
              Masseur) drifted from occupation to occupation. One of which was
              writing. There were
challenges along the way: for instance, Leela, 
              his childless wife and wavering supporter; the fits of rancour and
              reverence from family members; excited followers in his village        
             (Fuente Grove, “Nobody does ever come here.”) feeding off his
              diligence,
and impressed by his display of learning.

             Attached, selected highlights from the first phase toward Ganesh
             self-
ownership. That Ganesh. Trinidad,1940s.

                                                         ~

           * “Trinidad full of crazy people,” I said.   
             
“Say that if it make you happy,” my mother snapped back.

             “ A boy spat in disgust and said, Eh, eh, your foot don’t see sun
               at all at all!  Ganesh played no more football.

             “He remembered having to walk round the body of his father,
               remembered applying the last caste-marks to the old man’s
               forehead, and doing many more things until it seemed that ritual
               had replaced grief.”

                                                           ~

           * “People go want to buy that sort of book?”
              “Is exactly what Trinidad want, boy. Take all the Indians in the towns.
               They ain’t have any pundit or anything near them, you know. How
               they go know what to do, and what not to do, when and
not when.”                                                         
              “All right, Basdeo, boy. The day go come when I go send you a book
                to print.”
              “Sure, man.  Sure. You write it and I print it.”
               Ganesh didn’t think he liked Basdeo’s Hollywood manner, and he
               instantly regretted what he had said.”

              “But when Ganesh saw the cards go in blank and come out with his
                prose miraculously transformed into all the authority of type, he
                was struck with something like awe.”

                                                            ~ 

           * “Leela. I have a good mind to take off my belt and give you a good
               dose of blows before I even wash my hand or do anything else.”

              “He had always intended to read and write, of course, but one
               wonders whether he would have done so with the same assiduity if
               he had been a successful masseur or the father of a large family.”

              “When Leela asked, ‘Man, why you ain’t writing the book the
                American people begging you to write?’ Ganesh replied, ‘Leela,
               is talk like that does break up a man science of thought. You mean,
               you can’t see that I thinking, thinking about it all all the time.’”

                                                            ~

           * “This modern method of education. Everybody start thinking is the
               little piece of paper that matter. It ain’t that does make a man
               a B.A. Is how he does learn, how much he want to learn, and why
               he want to learn. Is these things that does make a man a B.A.
               I really can’t see how I isn’t a B.A.”

             “He rose at five, milked the cow in the semi-darkness, and cleaned
               out the cow-pen; bathed, did his puja, cooked, and ate; took
               the cow and calf out to a rusty little field; then, at nine, he was
               ready to work on the book.”

             “Like many Trinidadians Ganesh could write correct English but it
               embarrassed him to talk anything but dialect except on very formal
               occasions. So while, with the encouragement of Street and Smith,
               he perfected his prose to a Victorian weightiness he continued to talk
               Trinidadian, much against his will.”

                                                            ~

           * “Beharry and Suruj Mooma called that evening and as soon as Leela
               and Suruj Mooma saw each other they began crying.

             “He write the book,” Suruj Mooma wailed.
             “I know, I know,” Leela agreed, with a sharper wail, and Suruj Mooma
               embraced her.

             “A few hawkers in San Fernando agreed to display the book and Ganesh
               made many journeys to see how the sales were going. The news
               wasn’t encouraging, and he walked a good deal about San Fernando
               with the book in his shirt pocket so that anyone could see the title.”

             “Look, is experience I have in this business, you know,” Bissoon’s feet
               were draped again over the arm of his chair, and his toes were again
               playing with each other. “All my life, ever since I leave the grass-
               cutting gang, I in the book business. Now I could just look at a book
               and tell you how hard or how easy it is to sell.”

                                                                                     ~

           * “Many years after the event, Ganesh wrote in The Years of Guilt:
              "Everything happens for the best. If, for instance, my first volume
               had been a success, it is likely that I would have become a mere
               theologian, writing endless glosses on the Hindu scriptures. As it
               was I found my true path".”

             Book Revisited: “The Mystic Masseur”, V.S.  Naipaul, Vintage Books
                                       New York, 1957.

                                                                           - Wyck Williams

 

 

SKELETONS IN THE BACKPACK

              

                
          Waiting for word ‘n’ wind to change . the continuum
         / chest fears up, level 20s / cowrites morbidities.                                                                                            
               The down cast must weigh a ton but who minds
          back stories . blood thick, game able enough to get
          hers/yours off . past squeezy trigger specialists. 
                                                         
                      With no one yelling Stop! conduct
          a search for sand dispersed scorpions, perform
          ablutions | switch new pronouns trip on stage lip
          high end slit . regroom.

                               If there’s worry ghosts might show    
          at your banquet table . fair^foul wares, too craven!
          signal the cookers of virtue on charcoal | plot
         
fork ‘n’ knives clean . slice through.

                                                  *

          Masks draw lines . shots spook rights | Arrgh!
                                                                           In earth        
          warm suits pole stars drop by, offering cough
          cross nail protection . newspaper props.

                                                        Ahead forgers open 
          channels more than at any fault in memory / snatched
          orphans coin polishing some place / which for first
          worms should merit millipedal leap honors.

                                 To family, friends . tail baiting lovers         
          sworn to love that fasts, say little | metrics run on
          what Pact Sealed cells sent here hold.

                    Meantime the ocean saltier than it looks says
          It’s Okay . unsubscribe, walk | imagine your surprise.
                     
                                                                   - W.W.

 

             

           

 

               

           LESSING

          *PRETENTIOUS Georgetowners often called Lessing
          ‘Pretensive’, and he was a precious nuisance,
           Not least to himself, having already grown
         Fed up of hearing his own voice spewing rubbish –
           Which wasn’t garbage because it was all lies
           But because it was convictions become bored
           With themselves for their very self-addiction

             (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

 

COME TO THE WINDOW . FUTURES PASSING

 

 

                                        “During the Hindu festival of Yadnya Kasada,
                                        the Tenggerese people toss offerings – food,
                                       money, flowers, livestock – into the hazy crater
                                       of Mount Bromo.”

                                                                     – NYTimes . 11/2021


               Stones might go beserk but rainbow glass window  
               breakers should be arrested : conduct unbelonging.

               Some things you should see through yourself / Whose        
               body turns Not now! half moon beside me? / first off
               the face wipe crabgrass spider emissions.

               The Cloud hoards; cards charge on pristine table      
               linen; the net trawls / beach hosts sharpening stakes
               for the change of heart rate / as per cast off sink
               retry.

               Advisory (no date) : close home nursing at the border;
               the throats of wives ‘n’ children take if desert
               waves insist.
                                     Baggage to weigh souls tote attached
               like Qué Sera risk built bosoms, mount bearings

               set to Peak.

                  * All these ridiculous accessories | not your phone          
               screen, the window! Come to the window. Say you,
               nothing there blue new to see ? who needs to arm
               first immunize.
                                       You know what, I should go. Prairie       
               Indian scout, all done.
                                                                        – W.W.

               

                   

                 

                               [ In mem. Vicente Fernández . 1940 – 2021 ]

 

               A MIND DEFENDS ITS MAZE

               Well, rivers are not rain in basins 
                    in which babies can splash;
               nor are mountains hillocks and ant-mounds
                    which goats can jump over.
               Whales that can swallow boats do not sport
                    about in shallow streams.
               The swift hawk and graceful swan do not
                    nest in ponds and puddles.
               You will not find pure pearls by cracking
                   open mini-oysters

               ……………………………………………..

               (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)