NY SLIDE 8.1: FACULTY SWORDS

 

 

                   Faculty conferences were scheduled for the first Monday of the month. The
                   problem was few teachers remembered this. Few teachers even
bothered to
                   make some sort of diary entry about it. Not many could see past
Friday night as
                   they left the building for the start of the weekend. As
Lightbody explained,
                   when you get up the following Monday all your thoughts
funnel toward getting
                   your body out of the house into the cold car; then once
you get there, cranking
                   the mind into good working shape before you entered the
school.

                   "And then, at the end of the day," he pointed out, "with the kids outside the 
                   building, you sit there hoping and praying they
don't decide to get your car,
                   because they know we're all inside at the meeting."

                   There was usually a note from Bob Darling (A.P. Admin) over
the time clock 
                   reminding everyone of the faculty conference. A fly with
elephant ears on the 
                   wall over the time
clock could count a hundred muttered expressions of Fuck!
                   Fuck
!  ̶  gender of the teacher notwithstanding  ̶  when
the note was read. And
                   the receptionist in the main office was badgered all day
for outside lines so that
                   teachers could make calls rescheduling an
appointment, or arranging for a
                   pickup from 
kindergarten.

                         Bob Darling conducted proceedings. Teachers liked dealing with Bob Darling.
                   The rule of thumb was, See Bob first, before the matter got out of hand. Woe 
                   to anyone if the matter
did get out of hand and came to the attention of
                   Principal Wamp, who, when she
got up to speak at faculty meetings, flashing
                   her unbelievably perfect,
well-cared for teeth, raised a pall of suppressed 
                   hatred in the room.

                   Usually Principal Wamp opened with stern  remarks and reminders; then she
                   passed the
microphone over to Bob. He tried hard to accommodate everyone. 
                   "I know
you've all had a long day and you're tired and you want to get home."
                   Meetings
went quickly because Bob's manner was terse and precise, sticking to
                   the
agenda, moving things along.
           
                  
"Bob, what I want to know is, why must we have so many fire drills?" This was 
                   Hannah Jobity who made everyone uncomfortable with
her remarks. Once 
                   something was said that sounded contentious Hannah would
raise her hand and
                   keep it raised until Bob acknowledged her.

                        "Hannah, if we don't hold these fire drills we'd be in violation. They're
                   mandated by the
Board and the Fire department," Bob's response was genial.

                  "In violation? I'll tell you what's in violation: the filthy classrooms we have to
                   work in for a start.
The custodial staff is responsible for cleaning classrooms
                   once we leave the
building. It positively enrages me to have to return to a 
                   classroom that has
been half-cleaned, because there's some clause in their
                   contract that says
they're supposed to pick up garbage from the floors, not from
                   student desks, not
from the lockers. Soda cans left on the desk, they don't
                   remove. That's what's in violation. I feel personally violated every time I enter 
                   my
classroom."

                         Hannah Jobity spoke in a slow, aggrieved tone. She insisted on answers. Usually
                   Bob Darling allowed her time to restate the problem; then he
asked for a little
                   patience.

                        "But getting back to my point," she pressed on,"we've never had a serious fire
                   here, thank heavens. And what makes it
worse is, you still haven't solved the
                   problem of the fire alarm going off
every day of our lives. I mean, we've had
                   three false alarms this week. With
the fire trucks arriving and everything."

                        "Hannah, we're working with Security on that."

                        "Why can't you just switch the system off?"

                        "We can't do that. That would be a very serious violation," Bob said.

                        "The last time we had this meeting you told us you were close to capturing the
                    perpetrator. Evidently you haven't found him because
we're still having these
                    alarms going off."

                         And Bob Darling, who'd been counting the number of exchanges between them, 
                    now felt the point had been made and duly noted. He waited for
the grumbling
                    and the chatter to swell to unacceptable levels before shouting
in the micro-
                    phone that it was getting late, there were other items on the
agenda.

                         This apparent sidelining of contentious issues didn't always succeed for Hannah
                   Jobity had an ally in Mrs. Haliburton, always sensitive to
the ebb and flow of
                   controversy, and the marginalizing of minority opinion.

                         "I think Mrs. Jobity is making an important point we need to address," she'd say,
                   shouting from the back of the room above the
chatter. Which brought a hush to
                   the assembly since no one wanted to offend
Mrs. Haliburton (wearing a new
                   African-style hat) with muttered talk that
implied she had nothing of impor-
                   tance to say.

                        At the table where he sat Radix once overheard the following exchange:

                         – Have you noticed… when she gets up to speak, she's always doing
                      something menial with her hands…like peeling an orange?

                    - What d'you mean?

                    – Look, there in her hand. She's always peeling an orange when she starts 
                      talking at these meetings.

                    -  So.

                    – Well, it's kind of weird. I mean, is there something symbolic about an
                      orange? What, is she trying to make a statement or something? Every
                      meeting, I swear, she does this. I mean, she's already making a point with the
                      hat.

                    – I like the hat. It's a nice hat.

                    – Yeah, right! If it's so nice, why don't you buy one for your wife?

                    – Aw, c'mon Mary Jane! You need to lighten up.

                    -  I need to lighten up! Look who's talking.

                             (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)


POEMS FOR WHAT REMAINS PRIDE TIES THAT HOLD

 

                    
                Like fans of morning ocean breeze we stir to ferocious cock
               waking turns, monkey noise unheard of inside temple walls;
              
 grace hands smoothing the closed sheets.
                                                                                       Ankle bells
               main road transport heat, rumours of mad cow mad ras
               scowling the city.

               We cherish lines to pin garments wet for sun stroke, we 
               call the children inside. Prayers we chant but don't export
               trusting the cicadas to join in like khartals, keeping us
               safe from drum down areas in darkness.

               The sweat slash burn off cane paths made a wish
               for the order of dry good stores, land fixtures     
               with address;. No head pails spilling sorry come
               tomorrow; fresh hurt. 

                                                          Bright nephews fly off, cricket
               white countries, doctors for the frail health of front page
               news. You can redeem air mail miles saved 'cross generations.
                                                                                                 Wait  ̶  
               see our tooth bent Saddhu smiling? work done, cycling home?

               We buffer the web work of spiders in the Fate House  ̶  
               our hairies, their cabinet big filings for first bite; fence
               filigree like wire barbed to deny and fare well.      

                                                             Our front steps glow with deyas
               for shadows returning from fields of mud; our martyrs. Our
               grave yards breathe weed free, not like elsewhere bones broke
               tossed in corbeau holes, clods from sodden manner; the feral
               things they do, you know.

               How did estate huts trade up for orhni leisures? Our gods
               watch willing. What goes on inside us should not concern
               the teller. So flaring green the grass in villages left unsired;
               too old if we owned gold stalls we'd offer to the cows.
               Past longing, if you insist.
                                                                Count the pipal shoots
               arriving, bracelet arms inset to serve.
                                                                                – W.W.

                            

                   

  

 

 

                         
                  THE AUTOHARPIST AND
                  THE TRUMPETER

 
                  The price of pride is a certain
                  loneliness, and the lonely fear
                  of never being recognised                             
                  fuels vanity's loudest lamps.
                  Solitude, like community,
                  must be earned, each other's wages
                  of awareness  ̶  else sheer blindness
                  circling in its accustomed fear

                   ̶̶  fear no bird always at the centre
                  of the air's pressure can afford: no
                  matter how many pauses of perch
                  it may take, it must always remain
                  alert to the will of the wind and
                  the whims of its own wings' responses
                  within a humility that wears
                  no name's arrow or shield, yet declares
                  itself lonely vanity's victor. 

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

          

                     

NY SLIDE 8.0: LOCK AND LOVE

 

               Over dinner, pointing his fork for emphasis, Chrystel offered his opinions on every-
               thing  ̶  people and politics, exotic places ravaged by civil war, the Mayor of the
               city,
"your average American". His words gleamed with exciting good humor.

                
               For the most part, he told her, human existence was determined by men who sat 
               in conference rooms and board rooms; men who drank
fine Scotch, smoked hand-
               rolled cigars and wore boxer shorts. As for the rest
of the sweaty world one only
               need fear men who go long periods without sex, and
people who were afflicted
               with those two incurable diseases: the common flu and
human stupidity. He
               assured her that, with the decline of the Soviet
 Union, the making and spending
               of money were the twin engines that
would drive the pleasures of the guzzling
               world.

                 When he suggested she put her money to work in the stock market she withdrew
               her life savings  
̶  ignoring a nagging voice urging her to call her daddy first  ̶  and
               handed it over. Not once
did she fear he'd vanish for good from the earth. The
               investment proved sound;
it paid big dividends. She bought property in
               Westchester
with some of the profit. And when the moment arrived when he
               would sleep with
her, she responded like a virgin for whom trust was more 
               important than passion.

               In recent years she'd grown soft and round at the hips and legs. At social events
               where men sipped alcohol, spoke with harmless humor, then seemed to steer the
               conversation toward the possibility of sleeping with her, her body stiffened; she'd
               smile and move away.

               With Chrystel there were no preambling moments, no rough manly haste either to
               reach that summit. Each night after dinner she waited for signs, for desire like
               smoke alarms to go off in the living room.

               One night he took a sip of his coffee; his long fingers carefully rested the cup and
               saucer on the table; then he turned and looked at her. She smiled, a little
               uneasily. He got up, outstretched his arm, and said, "Come, let's go inside." Just
               like that. As if he were taking her on one of his trips overseas, their destination
               not yet clear.

               For weeks her bedroom had been in a state of readiness for just this moment. Still
               fully clothed he insisted on undressing her. He explored her soft round contours,
               until at last it seemed he approved and wanted every part of her, bulges and fat
               and bone. It was a ritual he would repeat each time they slept, full of sighs and
               vague mutterings; his hands restless and probing, over her breasts, between her
               thighs; his hands squeezing the globes of her buttocks, his lips on her navel.

               Throughout all this she kept her eyes closed, happy to surrender to his
               examination, happy to be found satisfactory.

               She wished they were young again, with all the time in the world to be reckless
               with their passion. Then she thought: thank goodness this is happening right now,
               our bodies still healthy and mature, good and strong, our intimacy an intelligent
               thing, thank goodness.

               "Are you okay?" he would ask, breathless beside her; and her quick response, "Yes,
               I'm fine", seem to calm his heaving chest. "What are you thinking of?" he'd ask,
               staring up at the ceiling; and she'd answer, "Nothing. It's good to have you here."

               She felt no need to talk about him to anyone. In a city of marriages made and
               unmade, a city of love and betrayal, alimony and anger, orders of protection from
               a stalking spouse, in a world so fractured and violent and ripe for television news,
               wasn't she better off this way, half-knowing who he was? Hadn't she come this far
               on her own, trusting her own instincts?

               One evening, late summer, before the start of the Fall term at John Wayne
               Cotter, she hinted that perhaps she could accompany him on one of his trips to
               Europe. She would, of course, pay her way, and not interfere. She could stroll
               around, visit museums, take mini excursions while he was off doing whatever he
               did. Chrystel listened patiently; he said he didn't think it was a good idea. His
               silence, the chilly way he stared up at the ceiling worried her.

               It was a mistake, she realized, to broach the idea while they were still in bed.
               Wrong time, wrong place.

               She had dared to suggest they redraw the lines that defined their relationship. He
               might interpret it as a craving in her for some new cloying alliance. What more
               need they ask of each other?  After all they were friends, they were lovers;  
               approaching middle age. Why not just leave things as they were?

                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001) 

 

 

Review Article: SWEET SWEET ANGST: OONYA KEMPADOO

 

  
                   In the opening pages of Oonya Kempadoo's new novel "All Decent Animals"  
                   (2013), the central character, "of mixed-race complexion", Ata, introduces
                   herself as "a nonbelonger. Unrooted in place and race and in
herself". We learn
                   little about her island roots, she's so eager to get going; but she tells readers
                   she has walked away from "her village cocoon of books and dreaming"; she is on 
                   the move, her new port of entry, Trinidad & Tobago.

                   She is a serious traveler, not exactly running away from desperate conditions on
                   her island home. Her aim is to give her life             _________________
                   fresh purpose as an artist. "Practice and  
                   apprenticeship" in some meaningful creative           ALL DECENT ANIMALS
                   enterprise will get her there.                                              by

                   In some ways her travel beginnings might                 OONYA KEMPADOO
                   remind readers of Saint Lucia's Derek Walcott's        Farrar,Straus Giroux
                   nonbelonging ("no nation but the imagination"),         New York, 260 pgs
                   and his later adoption of Trinidad as a place to        ____________________
                   invest working ambitions. Here and there, too,
   
                   Ata pins asterisks to V.S. Naipaul's Trinidad birth place, and leaves footnotes
                   (like precedents) to "The Loss of Eldorado: A Colonial History" (1969)

                   Precisely when the events in the novel unfold is uncertain, until near the end
                   when a single comment  ̶  "Did you hear they really going to hang  Dole
                   Chadee?"  ̶  offers a clue. Chadee, a reputed drug lord, was convicted of
                   murder and hanged in Port Of Spain in 1994.  Had Ata made her move, say, in
                   the new millennium times, with the carousel of literary events across the
                   islands (like the Bocas Lit Fest in Trinidad), and cultural extravaganzas like
                   Carifesta, she might have found a community of cherishing conversations and
                   sites.

                   Unlike, say, the migrants in author Sam Selvon's fiction of 1950s London, Ata
                   is no stranger to Trinidad, and will not feel alienated and lonely. "All Decent
                   Animals" is packed with familiar markers of contemporaneity: politicians
                   (Patrick Manning, Basdeo Panday),  kaiso performers (David Rudder, Mighty 
                   Sparrow ), notable achievers (Brian Lara).

                   The "arrival" of these famous names in modern West Indian fiction could give
                   pause for celebration among some
readers. Kempadoo might have missed out
                   including resident "writers". Perhaps they 
were too few or unaccomplished in
                   1994 to warrant inclusion.

                         There is, however, abundant island sentiment ("Trinidad sweet, boy"; 
                   "Singapore of the Caribbean, my ass"); and local commentary, from the
                    unavoidable airport taxi driver, Sam, who brims with taxi ride insight ("Every
                    day is the same nonsense, yuh know") and caveat ("Where you going  ̶̶  is up a
                    hill? because my car does cutout on steep hill"). Sam plays an important role
                    shuttling her between the economic and class dividedness she enters.

                    Kempadoo's Trinidad (Port Of Spain) is presented in lush recognizable strokes:
                    abundant oil, "fete after fete", fellas, city pretensions, the hills, the South,
                    Panorama. Though some scrutinizing agency is certain to complain that that
                    quiet elephant, their ethnic "presence", standing apart in the room, is barely 
                    acknowledged amidst all that happens in the novel.

                   Ata arrives as carnival preparations are in full swing. Determined to reject
                   "alien European attempts to draw out the talent in her hands", she walks 
                   "straight into Camp Swampy", a carnival costume center. Years later (we leap
                   forward in one sentence) she will move on to a drawing board in "Roses
                   Advertising" art room. She will spend the rest of her "apprenticeship" there.

                   Living on the outskirts, in the non-carnival part of the town, is Fraser Goodman,
                   a "returnee" from England, an architect "from good middle class Trinidad stock".
                   He throws parties that provide the milieu for the mingling of expats, profess-
                   ionals of diverse race, persons of local stature; and for liaisons and insider
                   chat; that is, until he falls victim to the Aids virus.

                         It is at one of Fraser's parties that Ata discovers a love interest. The relation- 
                   ship starts with suspicion, then cautious flirtation on Ata's part, but in
                   audacious quick time the romance blooms; then sails off  ̶  on a "fake honey- 
                   moon" trip to St Lucia, staying at once luxurious hotel overlooking the sea; and
                   a trip to the south of France, the landscape of Pierre's childhood days. Fast,
                   swinging times for our island girl.

                   Pierre, the boyfriend-lover, had been sent from HQ in Geneva as a UNDP
                   representative, his mandate (when he's not romancing Ata) to meet with local
                   representatives, review draft reports, like a paper submitted to him on
                   Trinidad's  "Millennium Development Goals".

                   His observations on the local reps (they're fond of "conferences" and the
                   refreshments served after) are just short
 of UN charitable; but Ata provides an
                   emotional link to the island. We learn of 
the strength of "their love, [their]
                   compatibility in bed, in taste, humor and intellect" .

                   It gets to a point where Ata reports feeling ostracized by her disapproving
                   "Afrocentric friends"; and Pierre, as spiritual guide, starts thinking maybe Ata,
                   "his surprising love", could do a lot better, engage brighter suns, by rejecting
                   the "prancy, peacock island" of Trinidad, and making a career move (with him,
                   since his contract is up for renewal) to the art capitals in Europe.

 

                                      ≈  ≈                                          ≈  ≈       

                   Though not evidently "conflicted", Ata soon loses sight of her original purpose.
                   The novel zips along with nervous excitement, perhaps to reflect her off line
                   speculations, as well as the hectic Carnival season. Then Fraser, the Aids
                   victim, relapses and is on near-death bed watch; and Ata finds herself "spinning
                   from one thing to the next". Readers are pulled along by hurried, often sketchy
                   segments that cut back and forth in an effort to capture the disarray of
                   intentions.

                   Trinidad's vibrant carnival scenes, the beauty of island landscape, are 
                   rendered in images of appropriate colour and exuberance. The    
                   characters in this her third novel seem more grown-up and unsettled,
                   with a lot more on their minds (Kempadoo is less interested in
                   "complexity").   

                   Sexual arrangements are shown with a decent restraint,           Kemp1 001
                   maybe not enough to please the sacred hearts of island 
                   readers. Very much present, though, are Kempadoo's  
                   snapped silhouettes of underclass shameless grips, as when,  
                   for instance, Ata stumbles on a copulating couple near a  
                   pan yard: "the woman's head, bowed, bumps on the
                   cutter man's shoulders as he pounds into her."  

                   Eventually, as her "apprenticeship" in labour and island
                   love moves around, readers might start wondering: what's
                   to become of the "unrooted, nonbelonging" Ata? Has she 
                   lost the focus of her creative pursuit?

                        Towards the end of the novel she wakes up one day to discover blood on her
                   leg. She's been seduced, bitten. She assumes it's the work of an island spirit,
                   maybe a Lagahoo ("he does bite woman leg and suck blood"). Several pages on
                   she makes this startling disclosure to Sam, the taxi driver: she has started
                   writing  ̶  "it's almost as if he [the Lagahoo] is in me."

                   So for anxious readers it seems settled: Ata has been smitten: "this is what she
                   was meant to do with her hands  ̶  write".               

                   Some readers might be jolted by this divine-like intercession straight out of the
                   vampire warehouse. Others, familiar with local folklore, might sigh and pause 
                   to consider: after all the flirtations, the tamboo-bamboo of mind and body,
                   our girl, Ata, seems on the verge of going home to her village beginnings; or 
                   rather, staying home  ̶  with her "books", but dropping the "cocoon" and the
                   "dreaming".

                   Was it worth the effort, you might ask, following her around, listening to her
                   heart's pan beats, finally to confirm her creative repurposing?

                   Oonya Kempadoo's first novel, "Buxton Spice" (1998), won (almost smothering)
                   praise and admiration for its innovative use of island Creole idiom; it's close to
                   the style and cadences of emigrant author Sam Selvon, but more free-spirited,
                   with fresh pulse. Then there's the flow of energized scenes that bore witness to
                   youthful desire and curiosity.

                   "All Decent Animals", very much an intimate book for the islands, starts off
                   captivatingly (in the sentences there's an urgency to succeed) but the novel
                   gives up on the big frame, the last lap finish, and settles for a latticework of
                   mini-scenes, switching situations fretfully; with spikes of intervening calamity
                   (murder in the the taxi driver's family, the intractable Aids issue of Ata's friend;
                   Ata's lover, Pierre, who surprisingly goes missing, prompting a police investi- 
                   gation).

                   It's as if the author had in mind asking readers to assemble the bits and pieces
                   into a meaningful "literary" pattern - the characters stepping out of one
                   dimension - but then decided abruptly to leave things as they were, the tableau
                   fading out in heart-tested inconclusiveness.

                   All said and done, at the heart of the storylines  ̶  the unfurling of personal
                   freedom, the belonging/"migration" theme  ̶  lies Kempadoo's concern with the
                   fulfillment of ambitions at home, not "abroad"; an inquiry played out on a
                   canvas of inter-island adventure, romance and misfortune; in keeping, perhaps,
                   with the new millennium passage of "Caricom" citizens, moving freely from
                   island to island in search of fresh start opportunities, or a safe haven for
                   retirement.

                   The question for devoted Kempadoo followers: will Ata, her newest creation,
                   follow the V.S. Naipaul post-Empire trajectory and eventually beat a path to
                   Europe; or will she make the islands her permanent home, without bitterness
                   and regret; sharing good writer fellowship with, say, Trinidad's senior author 
                   and dragon-player, Earl Lovelace (who doesn't get mentioned here)?

                   It all depends on how serious and penetrating the bite on Ata's leg was, that
                   tell-tale mark of emancipation left by her mysterious jumbie-muse.

                   In the meantime, the author's loving and much-loved cast of rooted island
                   characters can only stand by, beguiled and sweating; so ready to chip again in
                   her band.

                                                                                                – Wyck Williams

DROOPING PANTS KNOW WHAT YOU DO

  

                        In days whipped by if you didn't raise your hand to get
                      noticed Salut! you wound up halo weaning, a lynx
                      eyed old fart knee bent in prayer stall; the back rub
                      beamer for girls twirling @dresses.           
                                                                                  Or a diamond
                      leg trapped in tennis shoes longevity; hard as ghetto
                      to burn  ̶  Achtung

                      Pop guns build Museotheques, disks cased in gold.
                      There's always an Error message, but white bone fear
                      of hip funk servers could freeze connections, skin scratch
                      infections that embed and repeat after you.

                      Youth limbs  ̶  nothing better to do, belt free to waste good
                      pay days  ̶  are best advised
: here, conjure this  ̶  scrub in,
                      your street hood's cramping; trunk grooves cut down 'ill
                      howl to heaven smell of bitter root  ̶  one shot.

                                        Flight capsules stand by  ̶  crowd wave lock
                      in count down  ̶  blue screens eclipse red moons. Cell sure
                      mobile glow beats no place to go. And site this: sun tan
                      schedules await the newest Royal embryo.

                                                                                       Maybe if
                      we slipped something in their food? a gatekeeper  
                      
posts. 
                               This all on boarding  ̶  rivers like Jordan  ̶̶  

                      who cares where bends shape falls whose faith fools
                      love. Oh snap! Arc de Rainbow. In step all good?
                     
Nein.
                                                                                 – W.W.

         

                                  

  

  

 

                   
                   THE INSOUCIANT CONSIDERATE PRINCE

                           
               
                     Why should one, heeding the call of Things
                         To Be Done,
                     descend out of the realm of the Sun
                     where all knots and walls have already sprouted wings? 
                                    
    
                          Things can wait, in the sweatshop below
                             in the den
                         of Duty, that servant with a bone
                         at his teeth as he sucks at his master's marrow.

                       Only after one has broken fast
                           with the Lord
                        of unhurried Light, should one reward
                   the demons of Do with ones attention at last.

                      It is their hunger feeds their demands
                         but they're just
                       clouds, under our Star, waiting to burst
                  when our rays trigger their rain to a million hands.

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

  
         
                
                   

 

NY SLIDE 7.9: THE LOVER

 

 

                  The neighbors saw him come and go but asked no questions. He was something
                  of a mystery to Theresa Wamp even though she'd been seeing him for three
                  years. That mystery, the many gaps in his profile, was part of the attraction,
                  part of the  trust they invested in each other.

                  This much she knew. He was a European, born in England, raised in France; the
                  son of a career
diplomat who had served in several parts of the world. His home
                  was now New York city, though his job in international finance
kept him
                  traveling around the world.

                  They met quite by accident in a Manhattan hotel where Theresa Wamp was 
                  attending a conference, and he was checking in. The second time their paths 
                  crossed he raised his hands in mock defense and swore he was not following
                  her; adding as he moved away, "Though I must admit you are an extraordinarily
                  attractive woman."

                   Extraordinarily attractive. That same morning she had looked at her body in
                   the mirror, and
had concluded that she was, well, anything but "extraordinarily
                   attractive". And then this man, carelessly tossing a match, starting a fire in the
                   most obscure place inside her; this complete stranger, Chrystel Lefevre.

                  Once he realized how far away from Manhattan she lived he insisted on driving
                  out to visit her. Evenings spent in restaurants and apartments in the city were 
                  fine if you considered Manhattan
the cultural capital of the world which in his
                  opinion it was not. He wanted to get out of the city. He welcomed the change in
                  his routines of airport limousines and taxis and, heaven forbid, the subway.

                        He would phone from his apartment, saying he was on his way. Two hours later
                  he was at her door.

                  The first evening the doorbell rang and she opened the door, she knew  ̶ 
                  because panic and excitement were so sumptuously on her side  ̶  that before
                  long she would surrender to him.
He did not move toward her. He stood there,
                  assured and elegant in a black coat,  a bottle of wine in one hand; saying that
                  for a moment he thought he'd rung the wrong doorbell. She wanted to extend
                  that moment before asking him in, just standing there awhile longer, arms
                  folded, smiling, receiving him.

                  He wasn't an extraordinarily handsome man; he was slender, long-limbed and he
                  carried himself with innate dignity; and he had that fretful air of wanting to
                  banish, at least for awhile, his other world back in Manhattan. She felt he
                  meant it when he told her how much he valued getting away to the Chez
                  Therese
enchantment of her home.

                  As the weekend visits went by, he seemed to delight in quiet evenings of wine
                  and conversation. He praised her cooking, her table setting, her living room
                  arrangement.  She had expected some delving into each other's histories, and
                  she started one evening with a cheery anecdote about her college days. He 
                  cut her short and deftly changed the subject.

                  Evenings of mystery and enchantment. In some old-fashioned, maidenly way she
                  wanted to be enchanted.

                  Almost before she realized what was happening he transformed her life; starting
                  with the gifts he brought her, odd things he'd picked up as he passed through
                  Tokyo or Paris; olive oil from Italy, a piece of sculpture, engravings, perfumes. 
                  She rearranged her rooms, finding places to accommodate most everything,
                  even the Sicilian beret which she wore just once. He liked to
surprise her with a
                  phone call from some foreign capital at an hour when she was sleeping, and he
                  was having breakfast.

                  Little things like that kept them connected. And when he sat in her living room,
                  dinner almost ready, his legs crossed, the index finger of his right hand thought-
                  fully scratching his temples, there was an aura of assurance and power about
                  Chrystel, a completeness that made Therese less afraid of life, less anxious
                  about the world.

                                  (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)


SURINAME FORESHADOWS, TOIL WORDS

 

 

          Málá ke moti es rákhi jhalke,                          Like threaded pearls on a string the ash
        buni jes.                                                        gleams droplets.

        Yád ke guthe khát bát men ched kareke hoi,     In order to string the memories
        bát ke bartáw ke bháw kareke hai.                   words needed piercing
                                                                               weighing the worth of their usage.

                                                                      ≈  ≈ 

          Je sánp máre khát khud apne láthi banal
          apne burhápá men je apne-áp ke láthi bánais,
          oke láthi páwe men ká láthi khoje ke pari?

          Je lálac men phasie sát samundar pár
          jái garal,
          besat giral jaise bijli se katal dar phekái ke.

          Káhan badhuá kahán chutuwá major,
          kasur ke ná bát rahá.

          Mehnat men moh aur moh men mehnat,
          ekke dusar men ghuse dunu ke jiye ke sáth rahá.
                       
                                                                  He who to kill a snake became himself
                                                                  a stick,
                                                                  he who in his old age turned himself
                                                                  into a stick,
                                                                  why would he to find a stick look for a stick?
                                                                   
                                                                  He who in the grip of the lure crossed
                                                                  the seven seas,
                                                                  then squalled 
                                                                  crashed like a branch struck by lightning.
                                                           
                                                                  Slave labor, free labor  ̶  what's the difference?   
                                                                  guilt is not the issue here.

                                                                  Transfixed by toil, toiling in wonder,
                                                                  toil and wonder could continue
                                                                  to exist hand in glove.

                                                         (from "Poems" © by Jit Narain, Paramaribo 2003)

                                                                        [translated from Sarnámi by D. France Olivieira/W.W.]

VIEWS FROM ATOP MOUNTING

 

 

              I

                  In matters of island property, like carving the mountain
                 view, there are palpitating issues, you could say  ̶  downed
                 tree lives and dress rehearsing wives not withstanding.
                
                Your chance for happiness
? so far the data's inconclusive.

                 After the Everest summit shiver  ̶  alone at the top, peasant
                 ant hills below  ̶  you get used to uncommon breath,
                 cloud loitering, sunrise room service. You could count
                 the air arrival miles you racked up and there's ample time
                 to declutter the sledge hauled bags of hunger years.

                 New technology approaching the villas gets turned back
                 by villagers with machetes who can spot grass snaking
                 pump lines stretched away. Their gods must be appeased. They
                 want jobs  ̶  like Security Sensor? for blocking intruders
                 on our Heritage grounds?  Keeper of the seals.

                 On print outs your body throws up shell casings and numbers
                 to baffle any beach reader of sea leaves. Goodness knows,
                 the organs try but can't up lift much more "as per". Lung
                 pipes get sucked blood crimping your face glow and unless 
                 there's a tennis court so little is required of the heart. 
                 Guts you have.

 

                   II

                       
                 For credit checks, Sunday morning's best. Womb worn

                 women in church shinery get to step the verge. There's ripe
                 fruit and reason to smile.
                                                                Pray for no rain storm  ̶  all
                 that top water racket tearing down like indicators of unruly
                 market shares.

                 Best advice: build a Jericho wall. Some sweat marked taxi
                 men get it in their heads to organise the tourist drive by: 
                 Who lives there, mobiles snap? 
                                                                   In time you learn to trust
                 only the deference of grass to lawn presidents, the terrier
                 teeth of smiling coconut peelers.

                 Out on the terrace, at sunset, you could chill with a stone
                 ground law maker; pour Scotch movie gangster style 

                 as flowered village girls come up to the iron
                 gate  ̶̶  Dog alert!  ̶  belle eyes ringing, Need a handy 
                 lady, guava sweet beak

                                                               Dragon fly blades slash
                 any hope of sighting sky cranes on coast lines over seas.
                 One day the gaze will show you the door. Ledgers bow.
                      Yes, I should go now.               Cliché cliché.
                       
                                                                                                       – W.W.

              

 

 

 

                         A STRAY

                                            wisp of cloud
                                                                     drifted
                    up from behind a mountain, crumbled
                    and dissolved. Was I the only witness
                    of its determined self-erasing course?
                    The mountain sighs: Of course not;
                    nor was it an omen of only your
                    death: ask that crow in flight
                    and he will tell you: We are all
                    drifting in and out of being:
                    ask that mountain ever reaching
                    for the nudity by which it keeps redefining its focus
                    of nakedness, while we, bird and cloud
                    and man, by contrast of our faster fading,
                    lend it an illusion of fixity, feed
                    its dream of timeless solidness whose value
                    as eternal witness of our cloudiness we invent.

                 (from "The Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)

 

 

 

NY SLIDE 7.8: FLOWER CHILD

 

                  Anyone who stepped into the office of Principal Theresa Wamp  ̶  and being
                  ordinary mortals, teachers had no reason to step in unless
summoned  ̶  might be
                  struck by what seemed an
extraordinary otherworldly place; like a retreat from
                  the chaos in other parts
of the building.

                    "Have you ever looked in there?" Mahmood Sharif once asked Radix. "I'm thinking
                  of organizing a field trip to her office
for my students. We're discussing tenant
                  farming. Just one quick look, that's
all, would help them understand the two
                  separate worlds: the privileged class
and common labor".

                    Just one quick look would bring to the eye, first, the shiny display of school 
                 trophies; then the burgundy drapes, the beige carpet; and if
you shut the door, 
                 the soft silence, the feeling of being comfortably
ensconced.

                  Adjoining her office was the conference room: more burgundy drapes, a 
                  varnished table, a coffee cart and a coffee maker  ̶ 
everything required to 
                  coddle the decision makers at John Wayne Cotter.
On her polished desk were
                  framed pictures of her father, and of Theresa Wamp's
properties, a home on
                  Long island and in Westchester
(the opinion, even among her harshest critics, 
                  was that they were "quite
lovely" homes).

                 Then the flowers. Theresa Wamp loved flowers. If you wanted to thank her, or
                  for any reason show your appreciation, a bouquet of flowers brought to her face 
                  a full moon of delight. There were flower decals on the windows of her car, on
                  the lapels of her jackets, on notes she sent to the administrative
staff.

                      Once, as she addressed the incoming freshman class, she felt impelled (at the 
                  end of remarks about the need for respect, the importance of
discipline and 
                  "good tone" in the building) to suggest the following,
spoken in all seriousness: 
                   Wouldn't it be nice if every family of every child sitting in this auditorium 
                   took the trouble to do a little planting of flowers, around their homes in the 
                   Bronx. It would do so much to lift the spirit of the borough, which has been so 
                   unfairly stigmatized  ̶̶  as an orphan borough, a borough beset  with crime, 
                   ugly poverty, ugly rundown buildings
.

                        Imagine: looking down from apartment buildings and seeing not the desert of
                    weeds and dry brick, but flowers; bright, defiantly beautiful
flowers. Wherever
                    there was bush, empty lots, unsightly weeds, let everyone
pitch in and plant
                    flowers. What transformation! People would see results right
away. They'd feel
                    better about
themselves.

                    There was rumor and speculation about her single, unwed status. Theresa
                    Wamp did in fact have a lover. The only person in the building
who knew
                    about him was Mrs. Haliburton, who kept this nugget of information
like a key 
                    in the folds of her bosom. (It thrilled Mrs. Haliburton to think she
was privy to 
                    information which many in the building  ̶  in
particular her white colleagues  ̶   
                    would give an arm and a leg to possess; and
use to their advantage.)
             
                    For her part Principal Wamp handled the problem in a clever way, keeping her
                    guard up, always smiling, maintaining a professional tone even
in casual 
                    conversation. After all, gossip and speculation was the price she had to
pay for
                    being a woman in a position of authority. It was a tough choice, in a
tough
                    Bronx neighborhood.

                       She put in long, hard hours. She left the building late afternoons in her Buick 
                   Regal. Once she'd passed through the toll gate at the
Throgs Neck bridge that
                   part of her that made decisions and kept the lid on
things would empty its bin;
                   she'd feel instantly relaxed; she switched on the
car radio.

                      The home on Long Island she considered a place of refuge; she could take off her
                   shoes, pour herself a
drink and begin to unwind. She lived for the weekends,
                   which was when her lover came to
visit. He spent an evening dining with her;
                   sometimes he slept over, leaving
early the following morning. Not much shared
                   time as these things go, but then
she'd schooled herself not to ask too much of
                   him. Besides, one evening, carefully
and graciously arranged, could release an
                   eternity of delights.

                   Who was her lover?

                   Whenever she visited her father in Natick, Massachusetts he put the same
                   question to
her. "So who is this man you've been seeing all these years? How
                   much longer
will you keep seeing him?" Theresa Wamp would say only that he
                   was a wonderful man, wonderful to be with.
"But if he's so wonderful, what's
                   stopping you from marrying him?"
Because, she crooned, she didn't want to get
                   married. Marriage would imperil
what they now enjoyed. "Imperil? What are you
                   talking about? Am I never to be visited by my daughter and my
grandchildren on
                   Thanksgiving?" And Theresa Wamp would kiss him fondly on
the forehead and 
                   point out with a heaving heart that the prospect of a visit "with
grandchildren" 
                   for Thanksgiving dinner was, well, with each passing
year, not sustainable.

                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

SURINAM FORESHADOWS, TWO UNTITLED

 

        Jángar dihe dhaste gaile                         You drove yourself but went down  
        ghatate jái bhahrái parle                        under, becoming less and less until you stuck.
        bhárti matti tu, Sarnámi dharte pe,        Clod from India, soil of Surinam
        ekdamme se phab gaile.                         you blended in completely.
        

         Phat ke matti banal darár                      The soil broke into gullies
         bharke bahal ánsu ujhláil                       filled with streams of shedding tears.
         tabbe se thak hai, thak hai                     Since then it's quiet, quite right…
         Sarnám.                                                 is Surinam.   

         Sámne se gujre phut-phut ke bicár,        But close up fragmenting thoughts
         soc men ná phabe, jaise kuch lage…      still wriggle in the soul; something
                                                                      bars the way.     

        
I des men behál, banaile to thikán,         In this land without "how are you?"     
         kahán tohar nám, kahán tohár nisán       you made yourself at home; but

                                                                       where's your name, where's your character?

 

                                             
                                                                               ≈  ≈ 

 

         Tutal itihás ke ek dhákna ká uri!                   
         Tohár muh ke murti ham katne baná sakilá,                           
         bital bát batáwe khát         
         okar jibh to ná dolá sakilá!                            
                                                                            
        
Citá men bacal rákhi ke, hawá ná lage ki i ur jái, 
         bákas men bacal khujjá ke háth ná lage 
         ki i benisán ho jái.
         Sáns men yád talphalá hai, jar káhen i já hai?   
         Itihás sok ke siyáhi men
         kalam socke hos men doláwe hai.         

         Sok ke git se itihás kahán purá hoi.

                                                        How can a clipped-wing broken history                        
                                                        fly on just one wing?                                                

                                                        From your face I can create many faces;
                                                        I cannot loosen your tongue
                                                        to speak of the past.

                                                        Let not the wind scatter ash from the pyre.
                                                        Let not the hand touch the corpse in the grave
                                                        so that it loses all meaning.                                        
                                                        In breathing memories run short of breath;
                                                        why don't they go away?
                                                        
                                                        Deliberately history is dipping the pen
                                                        in the ink of sorrow.
                                                                  
                                                        As if the song of sorrow
                                                        can make history whole again.

                                                                           (from "Poems" © by Jit Narain, Paramaribo 2003)

                                                                                                    [translated from Sarnámi by D. France Olivieira/W.W.]