THE FLAGMAN’S OCCURRENCE WAVE BAND

           < Situations and Revelations Of Passing Notice in Guyana >

 

          Locket #1
         
          This work getting seriously out of hand. People don't realize I am the sole and
         solitary porter employed at the Canal District 2 Mortuary. I can't do any better,
         otherwise I would seek to secure permanent employment elsewhere. I have a
         brother living in Trinidad. He write telling me how bodies piling up with all the
         killing over there.

         I here working twenty four hours per day. Receiving payment for just an eight
         hour period. Advantage is being taken of my situation.

         And seeing as how I living close by the mortuary parlour, contact is being made
         to me at any given time to provide service which includes (a) washing and
         cleaning of parlour (b) stitching and dressing deceased after postmortem
         examination (c) Pick up dead morning noon or night and deposit same dead in 
         freezer. (d) Operate emergency power in case of blackout (e) Remove body
         from freezer as per request of family midday or midnight.

         Sometimes is me they call upon to bathe and dress the dead for quick religious
         burial, but the money paid for performing "special tasks" goes straight in the
         biscuit tin of the parlour supervisor.

         Only the other day a dead fell out my hands which was under heavy strain to
         transport the body from one location to another. This is a clear indication that
         I alone cannot do the work with only two hands. More hands are needed and
         urgently for the dead to be properly taken care of.

         To add insult to injury the supervisor who drives the hearse is in the habit of
         going from abuse of privilege to abuse and cursing related to my job abilities.
         Bad enough I have to see and handle what temper or getting old does breed
         and do to people.

         This is clear indication of the action to come that is piling up. Advantage is being
         taken of my situation

         A. Sadhoo,
         Canal District, Guyana
                                                                 *
                                                     
                                                                                 

          Locket #2

          The Magistrate at the Canal District #2 Assize has his listening and sentencing
          ways. This is what I hear from the Clerk of Court Records (I am telling you in
          the strictest personal confidence. Your ears only.)

          Monday:    
          According to the prosecution, Defendant (name withheld) went to Lot 133
          where members of the Pentecostal Church situated at above address observed
          him during the service in a mango tree with a bag picking the fruit. An alarm
          was raised and the defendant was later arrested and charged. Quantity of
          mangoes found in bag: 32.

          Magistrate frowning: Praedial Larceny. Defendant given options (a) dedicate
          rest of his natural life to the Pentecostal faith or (b) 32 days in prison.
          Defendant chose Option (b).

          Tuesday:   
          Defendant in the court (bony fellow with scar across left cheek, name
          withheld).

          This lady open her shop doors but went to the back of her premises to do some
          washing. After fifteen minutes she hear a noise coming from the front of the
          shop. Came back to investigate only to find this fellow walking away with a
          bunch of bananas and a carton of cigarettes and cigarette lighters valued
          $2,000. Like he picking and choosing what he wanted that day with no intention
          to pay.

          Matter was reported to the police. Arrest was made. Defendant confessed to
          charges. Magistrate scowling : Simple Larceny: Defendant sentenced 50 days.

          Wednesday.
          Defendant claimed he picked the mangos from a loaded tree in the compound
          of the District Medical Office because no one else was picking them. Magistrate 
          glaring: Praedial Larceny: Defendant given 70 days.

          You see this country? People does grow like guava and turn hard, that is all
          I have to say.

          A. Sadhoo 
         Canal District, Guyana

 

 

VIJINIE EN PRINTEMPS

                                                                                     

                                                                                  for  L _ C _ & _ Z

 
            These days Vijinie and I have reached our city limits  ̶  which 
            way through district road rim crumbling partners duty lottery
            bound : harmonium sold. 
                                                      We haven't felt the Kaieteur
            rocks since our first river rapids . blade flash in Carib sync;
            strapless soundings past fall stairs to myth made treasure
            caves : worth more our weaving lives. 

            Dreary one grows at home page formatting  ̶  Holy gladioli!
            bursting pods!

                       The issue for us now: destination, destination

            A grand hotel links transit fare and parks in the dark suggest
            a squirrel furtivity; back seats we never felt inclined . the
inter
            screen
net face  ̶  her daughter's constant touch place, Vijinie
            
frets  ̶  fixed stare inset hand holding.

            Bird nest away on virgin island?
                                                     Sky grey surveillance might type
            set hawks side track our orbit path : seat choice discreet lips
            bite grip the other till Come in now! some desk watch sniffs
            and rails our mount rush Kilmanjaro. 

                   D'accord : plateau for out source leap clear found.

                                                                       Now comes the hard
            part : deep breath savings . moves that suit space simulations
            for our planet wide arms glide the life sole purposed soaring
            synth : Amalivaca!                                              
                        
                                              Flight control : you won't believe  ̶  
            how attendant
we are to loved ones safe on the ground.
                                                                                                 
                                                                                      – W.W.

 

 

                        

 

 

                                     
                          CALL

                          Now I must be content with the flesh
                          only of your voice through this plastic
                          hollow at my ear that tastes the salt
                          in your laugh and swallows the silence
                          gluing our words of resignation. 
 

                          But no complaint: never too much pain,                
                          always just enough; and we will keep
                         
magneting ourselves into words
                         
that amplify our avid missing
                          
of each other until we arrive

                          at that moment waiting to use us
                          as only one of its many rhymes
                         
by which it will prompt itself to be
                         
more itself, without apology,
                         
and uncover itself, without shame.

                          How else can it be? We are born of,      
                          and into, overlapping desire,
                         
and out of such mutual dreaming,
                         
this egg of disembodied yearning
                         
is one day bound to translate as flesh.

                     (from "Scratches On The Air" by Brian Chan)

  

JOHANNA SCHOUTEN-ELSENHOUT (1910 – 1992)

A MAN f’ SAR’ ATI                                      THE COMPASSIONATE ONE

   A dis’ n’ a braka dey                                  Is this the black day
di kis’ a nyunman-nen bunfreyda               that got nicknamed Good Friday
di brantmarki mi masra Yesu fesi              that branded my Lord Jesus’ face
pe sweti tron brudu                                  where sweat, turned into blood,
e lon lek’ watra e was’ doti puru                runs like water washing dirt away
f’ mi yeye nanga skin kon krin                   thereby cleansing my body and soul?
Nôn
o hey                                                 Heyday!
dis’ a trutru wan yoboprisiri.                     This is truly a great feast!
?Grontapu.                                               O, world
a dis’ n’ a moro big’ presenti                      is this the biggest present
di y’ ben abi f’ gi wan sar’atiwan                you could give a compassionate one
di sdon a tap’ penbangi lek’ spotpopki        who’d been at the torture bench
e brenki a mindri wi sondu maka               like an effigy made sport of;
di wer’ na en ede let’ togu                         one who shines amidst our thorn-like sins
pe krin konsensi n’ e geme ke.                   worn on his head as a fitting token
Sotru mi bun-ati masra Yesu                      where a clear conscience need not grieve?
kruktu-du trowe yu na bantama                 Truly, my dear Lord Jesus
pe kroysi donpu yu na ondrosey.                evil doings threw you in the morass
Sonduboku                                                where the cross depressed you downward.
no den surdati ma yu na krawasi                O, sinners
d’ e fadon lek’ agra a tap’ en skin.            not the soldiers, but you are the cat-o’-nine tails
Bita-ati                                                     that come down like bullets on his body.
a yu e tek’ wan nyun fayatiki                     O, vengeful ones
luk’ en a dungru ibri dey.                           it’s you who, with a fresh firebrand,
Konsensi f’ libi                                           every day look him in the dark.
opo greb’olo                                              O, life’s conscience
nanga mi masra Yesu                                 open my Lord Jesus’ grave
luku fa a kra
         &#0160
;                                                                 and see how the soul
e saka mek’ kosi bos’ en futu                     curtsies and kisses his feet
di ber’ pen                                                that bore his pains
a mindri grontapu doti                               on earth
f’ mi yeye nanga skin kon fri.                      to free my body and soul.

                                                              *

    EKSENPRE                                                VIRTUE

    Lobi dyari                                                 In love’s garden there’s no place for enmity
feyanti n’ e gro                                        nurtured in the soul to grow, nor for abuse.
kranpa or’ n’ ati
broko saka                                               Love does not take offense nor knows fear
n’ e psa drape                                          but walks right through nettle weeds
Lobi                                                        two-faced weeds
n’ e farsi ef’ frede                                    are not found blocking its path either.
a e waka
a mindri brantimaka                             Love knows no envy nor does it undermine amity
tufesi wwiri                                          like the termites that eat away from underneath.
no de f’ si a tap’ en pasi
Lobi                                                      Love has the power to grow in anyone’s heart
n’ e dyarusu nyan en kondreman            it does not insult nor does it beguile
lek’ uduloso a ondrosey                         
people whatever their color.
Lobi
a krakti f’ bow ini ibrisma ati                  Love has a clear conscience amid good and evil
a n’ e afrontu ef’ bedrigi                         in a well of holy water.
difrenti Kloru libisma
Lobi                                                      Truly, life must be tough for the Lord.
a wan krin ati
a mindri ogri nanga bun
ini wan peti fu seygiwatra
Fu tru
a libi faya
f’ wi masra Gado

Poems from ‘Awese’ copyright © by Johanna Schouten-Elsenhout Estate, Paramaribo, 1965
                                      Copyright this English translation ‘Awese: Light in This Everlasting Dark Moon’ © by

                                              D. France Olivieira, Paramaribo, Suriname, 2010

BAT WINGS FOR BREAKING BALLS

             

              So how does it feel, he pivoted, stretching possibility on your island;               
              how old did you say you were? Twenty six?  My . goodness!
              And still a taxi driver . taking this lens capturer of sun laid 
              yoke to the airport  ̶  see my shoulder parrot posts. [

              From the back seat who understands why axles drive on blood cut
              corners, and one pothole 'n' route hijacks your grid. Or why some
              evenings midriff Meena looks at you . view find taboo . look spins
              parasol lines from henna palms.
                                              Tree hollows signal roost at some flambeau
              road junction . Please Wait . fixed wing circle breakers, safe
              flight home. [   

              Some nights you sink, Yes, let the locust swarm the days
              remaining
: close! wild coast rites, blow! ashes; service for
              
shadow limbs in pain. Boxed straight you cross  ̶  no rise back
             
wind I used to know him bare face lime.]

                                                           *

             
I know I'd feel fear foul ~ futurus interruptus ~ cooped on a bloody
             cruise ship : captain crew sea sky port frame ~ hubris sharking white
            
cap flotage; enough to turn friend fiend. I mean, people would
             reach
to leech

             or fathom swapping mates room hasps unhinged ~ fat wives belly
             pushing hard men over board. Then there's your money well of little
             word
bond lift off shore so grope hands hoist your deck cheer rocks
            
away all for the rake 'n' fun of it ~ ghastly business!

             Wish you all the luck of the world, young man. All the luck
             of the world! What am I saying?
                                                                                EXIT : are we coast
             clear?
[ Atlantis . like white rum off the breath . making you scent
            
fast turn and waiver. Wheel tight I grip 'n' tack I don't . pretend
            
it's choice : sure, almost there.]
                                                                                       – W.W.

 

                          

  

                                                                                          
                                             
                                

                            ORSON'S OASIS

                          Is that my own words surprise me evidence
                             of Recognition's ubiquity,
                          or of a 'comprehensive understanding'
                             beneath a patent stupidity
                          that knows no star of speech but 'the universe
                             in a grain of sand' in the desert
                          of a blank page which the parched crab of my hand
                             gropes across towards some oasis
                          of meaning perhaps only one more mirage
                             desperate but no less essential
                          to breath than are rainclouds to dry tongues and wells?

                         
                          This sideways-slow but crystal-clutching-fast crab
                             has stuttered often words blind to pain
                          and joy, the very seeds of all utterance,
                             seeds whose flares and flames can melt the snow 
                          shrouding the only food the delving crab needs:
                             Truth's impersonal crystal of Earth's
                          carbon transformed to a lucent loneliness
                             that would now belong to a new Earth
                         
on which collective crystal-clouds, unsnowed, rain
                           
  that charity that erases all
                        
debts of cold hearts, false words and their cruel coin.

                               (from "Readiness" by Brian Chan)

                                     

JOHANNA SCHOUTEN-ELSENHOUT (1910 – 1992)

  

      
  FREDE                                                           FEAR

  Frede a takru bedrigi                                     Fear is an ugly deception
  fu doystri ini eygi ay                                      aimed at blurring your vision
  a mindri smoko                                              as if surrounded by smoke
  pe y' e si                                                        letting you see ghosts
  yorka e spuku deyten                                     spooking around in broad daylight.
  Frede a wan konsensfonfon                            Fear is a troubled conscience
  d' e skrek' a yeye                                           that starts your soul
  mek' a lon moro tigri fes' winti             letting it run faster than the jaguar under the wind. 
  Frede a yere soso krey a dungru                     Fear is to hear only cries in the dark
  pe y' e prata bere ddon ppaya a gron      where you, lying flat on your stomach on the mat on  
  e luk' fa libi e tron                                         the floor,
  mekunu a tap' pikadu                                     are watching how life adds
  Frede a wan libisma                                       insult to injury.
  sondro kra                                                     Fear is a heartless human being
  di n' e bribi a Gado                                        who doesn't believe in God.
  Frede na futumarki                                        Fear is the footprint
  f' wan wiswasiman                                         of a coward
  d' e lib' todo sref' bron foto                     who even allows the toads to burn down the town.
  Frede a wan yorka                                         Fear is a ghost
  d' e prey bakafutu banya                                that dances the bakafutu banya 
 
te a fadon                                                      until it falls
  ini en eygi greb'olo                                         into its own grave. 

                                                                * 

     SOROMARKI                                            THE SCAR

     Dis' a wan pen                                        This is one great hurt
     a skin-ati                                               the pain
     fu den bakatifi                                       from the wisdom teeth
     a ten f' den yungu yari                            when I was young  
     di dray baka gwe                                    that has gone forever.
     Dis' na tere                               
     f' den bita yuru                                       This is the end
     fu tanapu                                               of the bitter hours
     nanga mankrakti                                     to make a manly stand  
     f' swar' den garperki                                and swallow the gall pills
     a mindri den krepiston                            while standing in the wilderness of pebbles.
     Dis' a wan dek'ati
     f' tyar' a kroysi                                        This is a special courage
     mindri den sorgu pkin                              to shoulder the cross
     Dis' na soromarki                                     while raising children.      
     di sabi diri                                              
     lib' a bakagron                                        This is the scar
     d' e seyri ini mi kabesa                            that knowledge
     sabiso                                                     left behind in the field
     tron watr
ây swanpu tide                         is still sailing in my mind.
     Fu tru                                                    
     Ondrofeni-skoro                                      This is the scar
     a basi                                                      that wisdom
                                                          &#01
60;        turned into a swamp of tears today.

                                                                   Truly, experience is
                                                                   the best schoolmaster. 

                                   

                           Poems from 'Awese' copyright © by Johanna Schouten-Elsenhout Estate, Paramaribo, 1965
                                   Copyright this English translation 'Awese: Light in This Everlasting Dark Moon' © by

                                           D. France Olivieira, Paramaribo, Suriname, 2010

 

                                           

SERENE . NOT ALWAYS THERE

                                                                                 

                                                          "It was a feeling of need and perturbation and sadness she
                                                                could not account for  ̶  an acute spirit of meeting and
                                                                parting and of eternal distance that was still nearness."
              
                                                                     – Wilson Harris, "The Whole Armour"

 

              Beyond serve nerves of steel they claim could insulate space rafters,
             observe the player who brings to net no practice in fame holding.

                  "She tends to drift away, lose focus . doesn't want the win that
                   bad." Lean in : the deer hunter's third eye has opened runway
                   clear through sport page leaves . it heeds the conch alert. 

            Face towels gauge the sun's stake hold, that glare never in doubt
            in search of sag point. Moon shot bellows vapor risk. Galleries row
            packed look on cheer swizzle chat ( > one day lisp fade away).

            "But in the middle of a thought . sex . congregation? Call that good
            timing?" On any stage for the good of the flow churn units break,
            prayer bows pin east; chambers redress a breach head on its way.
                 Yo, who caught the future's wink? 

                                                        *

            Pointillion pixels screen the frameless face sometimes near
              tears. Grass clay take note as wrist snaps back ace makers,
                as hearts draw string speed muscle tight : Boy, chase that
            called out burner.(Even in good seats the old body frets.)


                                             On side switch light might amble in
            a miss fit toss time out : some star far set in motion world code
            centres scent implosion; just so the cause unknown bests shade
            index.
                            Not over
 ̶  valley riffs leaps above dance invocation
           
in the fault box  ̶  around in lead feet turn : optics refit, arms paid
            dear for the end swing whack. 

                              Ordinarily, tugging the tail of the tiger, we'd go: I need
            a moment : enter the pain shed . pride thigh wrap  
̶  there, now. 

                                                                                        – W.W.

 

 


                         

  

               

 

  

                                INFLUENTIAL EFFLUENCE

                                Yes, all must fade, but those who would not  ̶  except
                                as form-shifting stars with their effulgence not 
                                limited by labels of 'burn-out' or 'fall'  
                                        (which are masks of fear,
                                   failure and final loss),
                           
   stars whose new scrawls figure form's humbling fate but
                               on as many night-slates as there are eyes ripe
                               to become conscious sparks of undying Light  ̶  
                                        those who would not fade
                                   determine to relay  ̶  
                               to our still breathing world of both reluctant
                               and willing witnessing  ̶  their lives masked as knots
                               of nests of eggs to be untangled and hatched
                                      by brooding midwives 
                                  of births beyond the self,
                               births that restrain the self's egg to so release
                               its ripeness from its stubborn shell that would keep
                               failing, burnt-out, falling ideas of its form
                                       which, fading, must kneel
                                   to stars that pass to stay.

                                   (from "Readiness" by Brian Chan) 

   

 

 

JOHANNA SCHOUTEN-ELSENHOUT (1910 – 1992)

 

         "Awese is the name of the second ranking deity within the sky pantheon
          of the African Surinamese religion called Winti. This deity bestows
          healing powers and clairvoyant abilities to his devotees and mediums.
          Awese also refers to an abstract force that can best be translated as a
          conciliatory, healing and liberating power in human affairs."                                                       

                              – D. France Olivieira                                                                                     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

         AWESE                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

        !Kabra.                                                                           
       troki gi den afkodreyman
       a mindri n' akapudyari
       pe fodu e lolo
       nanga santi ini en ay
       lek papawinti
       a mindri n' aladey son
       Wiki den mi kabra
       ini a dofokanpu
       mindri a doti f' Sranan
       troki mek' kromanti
       sekete nang' a pingi fu mandron
       a mindri den awese
       prisi a gronmama                                               AWESE            
       opo frey mi nengrekopu mindri a watrapan                                       
       A ten e kot' a greb'olo                                       Ancestral Spirits, Kabra-ô!
                                                                               send out your call-song to the adherents
                                                                               in the open tenement-yard
                                                                               where the fodu snake writhes
                                                                               with sand in his eyes
                                                                               like the papawinti
                                                                               during the heat of the day.
                                                                               Shake them up, my kabra,
                                                                               those in the ritual huts
                &
#0160;                                                              right down here in Sranan.
                                                                               Sing-call and let the kromanti spirits
                                                                 dance the sekete at the beat of the great drum  
                                                                               among the awese.
                                                                               Pay homage to the earth goddess
                                                     and then fly off, my black essence, over the water pans.
                                                                              Time is already digging the grave's hole. 

                                                                      

                                                                   *

 

       

       PE MI TANAPU                                            WHERE I STAND

       Pe mi tanapu                                             Where I stand
       ini a futmarki f' mi winsi                             in the footprint of my wishes
       ef' ini wan swanpu f' bigimenbre                 or in a swamp of conceit
       d' e freyri mi a tap' wan tiri dungru pasi      courting me on a quiet dark road
       d' e fet' fu broko mi saka a gron                  that's trying to get me on my knees

       Pe mi tanapu                                             Where I stand
       ini wan bâsman kapweri f'mi dren               in the grip of the backwoods of my dream
       d' e sor' ensref' lek' wan bigi gowt'busi         presenting itself as eldorado
       fu basra mi ati nanga fur' winmarki             to tempt my heart full with assurances
       a mindri wan faya sabana                           in the middle of a hot savanna
       di brad' mofo sondro kaba                          with its mouth wide open without letup.

       Pe mi tanapu                                             Where I stand
       a tap' wan ston pilari f' makti                      on the pinnacle of power
       d' e dwingi mi fu weg' ati                            forcing me to weigh the pains
       fu dedeyuru di ankra e wakti mi                 of my approaching death hour awaiting me.
       Pe mi tanapu
       grontapu libi                                              Where I stand
       Pe mi tanapu                                             There's life for you!
                                                                        Where I stand.

                       

 

                                Poems from 'Awese' copyright © by Johanna Schouten-Elsenhout Estate, Paramaribo, 1965
                                      Copyright this English translation 'Awese: Light in This Everlasting Dark Moon' © by
                                              D. France Olivieira, Paramaribo, Suriname, 2010

                            

EVEREST PEAK : DIABLO HEAT

                

          Climbers past, not feathered for memoirs, relieved to be done,
          admit to weird post office dreams. They see savannah walkers
          carrying ballots like cement blocks in lines that wrap around
          Mt. Everest building . a freaking castle? on the mountain?
               "Si, señor!" . and pole flags victory clapping.


          They hear the grey skull scratch, Boy, up there not easy; chief stick  
          on teaming shaggy like sled dogs; while 'norita servers turn and toss
               hot plate complaint like wish bone out gorge windows.


          They brace as pledge cords snap  ̶  Ay dios mio! Where the fuck those
          people
going?  ̶  as tree limbs burst old empire banks put rusted cargo
               ships on notice : the salmon are leaping! man woman child
               steeping! steerage rules broke . writs sent out for repair.


              Plunge accounts like rum flow down : pre-dawn summit 
                  sightings  ̶  the palms of angels catching water
                       drips from cloud torn linings. 

                                                         *         

           Leagues past cigars and beards, our island shores : well, so it seems.
               Need lease? consider Petit Jamoon Bay . our Walcott sea sides
           noblesse drawn. You could by any home stretch of the imagination
               chest swell . I-ditate . bottom up the seasons bare.

               Full disclosure : we're capped in bottled thirst-slake drafts. Snow
               storms sweep blind . sift grain worlds resettling : just not here. 
           
               There you frost breaker dare you, plow the tomato red to green;
               our seed beds lay unburnished, sun rain night time mean. 
                                                                                             But your pick 
           axe hooked that all the while, Mr. Marley. The best of us Google 
               now : iTag, mercy on us \ . 

 
                                                                                       – W.W.

 


                 

 

    

 

                                   
                         ALPINE GHOSTS

                         Entire mountains can be erased 
                         by mere clouds

                                              loitering

                                                            on their
                              way out of being
                              their focus of none,
                         and, from reaching our next clear path
                         of Heaven, discouraging us 
                             with their slow grey threat
                             which our fading feet

                         nevertheless ignore to flesh out 

                         the echoes

                                        of the steps

                                                         of men
                         long dead, men long dead,
                         men long dead, long dead. 

                         (from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)

 

               

JOHANNA SCHOUTEN-ELSENHOUT (1910 – 1992)

 

                                                        
                                                  "A proud African-Surinamese rooted in the oral tradition of her culture

                                               she chose not to employ oral poetic techniques in her work, although
                                               she did utilize materials from that tradition for her poetic idioms,
                                               producing powerful poems in Sranan in a free style that sounded 
                                               conversational and fresh."
                                                                                       – D. France Oliviera

                                                                                                                                          

                                                                                                                                              

           KLORU


        No suk' a kloru f' yu buba
        mindri moysmoys' nesi
        suk' en ini den kruyara a opo-Sranan
        No suk' a kloru f' yu buba 
        a fes' wan drikant' grasloyki
        suk' en ini Parakriki
        mindri den kasaba pransun
        a mindri a son  f' y' ati
        No suk' a kloru f' yu buba
        a mindri alatafal
        suk' en a Stondansi mindri den bugrumaka
        a lobi f' yu eygi kondre 
        No suk' a kloru f' yu buba
        a mindri birbiri
        suk' en a Kosu mindri den bato
        No suk' a kloru f' yu buba
        a mindri den patata-bedi
        suk' en a brabakoto mindri SsÂbeni gongote 
        No suk' a kloru f' yu buba
        a dipi se mindri den sarki
        suk' en a mindri den nengrekondre pepresiri
        te doro gron f' y' ati 
        No suk' a kloru f' yu buba
        nanga leygi ay mindri kowru libi
        suk' en ini winti nanga alen mindri den aleysigron
        No suk' a kloru f' yu buba
        mindri den asema brudu
        suk' en ondro a pangi ef' sari f' yu mma
        No suk' a kloru f' yu buba
        lek' bigimenbre krabdagu
        a mindri akademi-sturu
        suk' en sondro f' afront' I yeye
        mindri Sranan udu bangi
        a mindri yu eygi kra            
                                                       THE COLOR OF YOUR SKIN        

                                                       Don't look for the color of your skin
                                                       in a mice nest
                                                       look for it in the canoes upriver
                                                       Don't look for the color of your skin
                                                       in front of a three-sided windowpane
                                                       look for it in a brook
                                                       amid the shoots in the cassava garden
                                                       in the sun of your heart 
                                                       Don't look for the color of your skin
                                                       in a rat trap
                     look for it at the Dancing Stones Falls amidst the bugrumaka palms 
                                                       in the love of your own country
                                                       Don't look for the color of your skin
                                                       in the underbrush
                                                       look for it in Kosu among the riverboats
                                                       Don't look for the color of your skin
                                                       in the potato patch
                     look for it on the smoking racks, at Sistah Abeni's gongote dance party 
                                                       Don't look for the color of your skin
                                                       in the deep among the sharks
                 &#01
60;                                     look for it among the seeds of the guinea pepper
                                                       down to the bottom of your heart
                                                       Don't look for the color of your skin 
                                                       with empty eyes in this cold life
                                                look for it in the wind and in the rain in the rice field
                                                       Don't look for the color of your skin
                                                       in the blood of the vampire
                                                       look for it under the wrapper cloth
                                                       if it's large enough to cover your mama
                                                       Don't look for the color of your skin
                                                       like the spoiled brat at the shrine
                                                       look for it without offending your yeye soul 
                                                       among the wooden benches
                                                       right in your very vital soul kra 

              
                        Poems from 'Awese' copyright © by Johanna Schouten-Elsenhout Estate, Paramaribo, 1965
                                      Copyright this English translation 'Awese: Light in This Everlasting Dark Moon' © by
                                              D. France Olivieira, Paramaribo, Suriname, 2010

                                                                                                                                                                         

  

NEW PROPOSALS TO NOT JUMP OFF THE JETTY

                 
                
           Cabinet will commission sentry line palings for the seawall
           so quick break! you wouldn't wave dive . go oil thiefing . perish
           and embarrass the thought. They hold you so dear. 

           Newspapers are working to not bad spell your name
           when headlines report you missing . while weeds, verily they say,
           engrave the stone.

           City Council will over pave the old Dutch canals . design
           bicycle lanes for youth access to specialties in vanity and vein  ̶   
           heir to estate royalty and drain.

           Chinese built pump platforms will enable lift lag balloons : retail
           bamboo flare up rods for won't fly rooms; test more with less.

           Cabinet will cordially invite British monarchy to consider retirement
           on a horse ranch : equestrian smiles from the Venezuela border. For so
          
God saves the gracious.

                                                                   < First, run checks 
           how all that works for you. And give thanks  ̶  if you go dead
           comrades won't
 thank you, yea though they walk.

                         Ships have deep space gone before > rest assured :
           dust to done nothing out there veers for mating. Stars like bullion
             mast the rig wind regardless. In crafting passage the leap clears 
               from a raft of temptations as the eagle at daybreak discovers.

                                                                                          – W.W.

 

                    

                  

 

 

   

                              
                            ADDICTION

                            I:  

                            A dash to the edge of a cliff  ̶  to brake,
                            his wings unopened, and to turn back,
                            sighing at having survived again
                            this game of attempts, of determined doubt.

                            II: 
  
                            All is habit, except the habit
                            of none. And what lean logical men can
                            say of that is the fattest habit yet.

     
                   (from "Scratches On The Air" by Brian Chan)