Category: Uncategorized

             
            What are you up to?    – she snapped, stroking her belly, as if
         To underline the inaptness of my uppityness
            Ignoring her touch-me-not righteousness, I asked now if
         She was not Stew’s partner Radica – or was it Mona?
            At once she shed her heated mask and put on a cool smile
         Whose insincerity was so awe-inspiring, i knew
         I was already half-dissolved by the careless acid
         Of confident beauty only shrewd pregnant mothers leak.

             It's the opportunistic intelligence of certain 
         Women which drew me to them like a bee to the nectar
         Of shy flowers (for, yes, it is the shyest of soul-plants
         That sprout their essence-seeds into the rarest person-blooms),
         Else like a fly to an open wound over which honey
         Has been poured to both seal off the gash and speed its healing:
         The fly for his part can't divide the blood from the honey

                                                  ^

                                             But Mona was so lovely-looking, 
         Not only was i ‘smitten’, but it seemed ungracious not
         To fall with her apple, sorry, that’s the best i can do:
         I can speak love but can’t write it, can’t prove it in writing.

         I about-turned and followed Radica back to the art 
        And tried to see the pictures through her sentimental gaze
        (The most sharp-witted people can adore the blandest shite)
        But i was more concerned about her pregnancy-arcked back
        Which had to hurt from all that bearing of watery weight.
        Waddling with feet spread wide, and sliding around akimbo,
        She seemed at once a seasoned sailor and a frail sailboat
        Adrift beyond a hint of harbour on a windless day
        – Though i might have before thought her more a storm-proof liner
        Had Stew then proven her sardine-can-opener iceberg?

            (from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)

 

 

         
      
            One rain event lasting half a day can wash
            away that village of beginnings | only rodents ignore
            the treachery of ground^shift toppled trees . trunk
            pointers exposed, undressable.

            One island plan : fish loaf^like feed them globe 
            destiny ‘n’ fear; + trust in the ocean’s vast receivership,
            currents rigged to snag . bag pack^flight testers.

                     \ Old dog you ! at your age shag^grooming
            lambs . handling charge back handed.                   

            Paddy drying servers wait . worlds apart, menu 
            cards for thinkers at linen tables leaving tips
            for passage ways they really liked : those stainless
            rice bowl bearers; cherry pick dessert.

                                                ^

            Top obstinate, fail camouflage; bed come ‘n’ go
            fedupness | them^us inside chest barrels churn
            tumor causing . clusters nest or nation.

                   \ Alright, alright . we'll sort this planet next
            time surface checking.
                                   We have other stops to make, pings
            from natures forming . friends you hope to see
            again . Earth warning; work. 
                                                                            – W.W.

.
         

             

           

 

              CRABWAYS

             Straightforward in action and speech, you reject
                   my crablike approach of analogies
                                             as a cartload of jade fragments
                               that cannot be considered real gems.

             But not even yer literalist redneck
                   is as direct as he thinks:  even he
                                        has metaphor-dogs barking through
                              his tight-lipped pretensions:  the complaints

             of the Blues of wailing singers and guitars.
                   In Rocky’s Blues Bar in Red Deer one night,
                                        a drunk boy bothered to tell me
                             ‘This place is a cage of crocodiles.’

             ………………………
                                            ………………………………

                   (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

                                      

 

              
                     Stop by our harbour . ocean respite made simpler                      
              than ports in Mexico, you’ll marvel, cringe | a ghost
              might tap the shoulder, Looking to purchase ? phone
              minutes over day dream.

                                    / In cell charge bathrooms the big
              mystery won’t trickle. Dhanmarie kept a henna
              hedge round her sister till this man swept in her
              yard . landscaping; tattoo shouldering.

                       / At unRead quarters help^believe hands stamp
              sacrifice coupons | numbers tulips shoes in routing
              order . who instead wouldn’t catch^snap lobsters
              mating in the mud? 

                                                  *

              Pins stick . as millenniums pass pirate birds 
              north south fathoming . the cast^about of couples
              getting off on 24hr text platforms.

                              / Timbre fallen, virus speckled spines
              long^haul cross pipe lines . false front force
              ripe dominions.   

                        / Deserts would trade any wind not to post
              aerials now; pant index heats the waggle
              dance de résistance | our beau, J. Crow?  oh,
              you know . feather preening, in no hurry.

                                                                          – W.W.

 

                     

           

             

 

 

              I SAY

              Neither nations nor books need hark back to Moses
              or the reign of Isabella or James the First.
              Nor need all pills be prescribed by Hippocrates;
              if mine resonate with your distemper, take them!
              You choose what is your good from a vast spread of goods.
              To settle for one recipe or expertise
              as gold is like being proud that you eat the same
              porridge every day because it is the one food
              your poor toothless grandmother could afford or chew;
              or like being a caged bird taught to squawk one joke.
              Joker myself, chameleon, husbandman, I stick
              my tongue out, and so trap bugs, taste fruit and spread seeds.

                       (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

     
         
          My eyes shifted and glazed over the pictures’ healthiness
          Like that of items in a short Safeway ‘Organics’ aisle:
          They were well packaged with labels describing their content
          And directions for easy use:   fashionably low-fat,
          Tastefully unsweetened and full of ‘natural’ flavours
          i.e. they were yet one more series of Canuck landscapes,
          One of which every home should have to extend its sofa(s)
          Whose culture of ease the pictures’ manufacturer must
          Have worked damned hard to feed and raise like a national flag.

             But this second walk through the mausoleum proved to be
          Not fruitless:   on the way out, i bumped into the round fruit
          Of the belly of a woman on her way in, and sensed
          Right way that she was Astronomo-Kanamono,
          Stewart Galenza’s necessary nuisance, his nemesis,
          His hubris’s comeuppance, his humbling no-reason-why
          Deliverance from the infantilism of his lusts
          And the utter unutterably crass kitsch of his art.

                                             *

          Yet, lazily, i almost let the moment’s fruit-bowl pass       
          But, instead, grasped her arm as though she or i were going
          To fall, and she gave me a look of slightly amused scorn
          As i apologised more than once for my clumsiness
          Before introducing myself and asking if, by chance,
          She knew of Stewart or Stew Galenza, another artist.

             I was brusque, but my question at an art-museum seemed, 
          To me, not out of place.    So the woman’s reaction was
          A shock:   she wrenched my arm free of the clasp of my fingers
          And pushed me off, while at the same time adjusting her hair,
          Her eyes two coals, one cold, one still a glowing ember
          (A split common to every mask i’ve failed to see behind).

            (from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)

 

 

                                                                        
                                               “…the scales of musical light began
                                                      to darken and in their place grew dark
                                                       humps and fins”
                                                           -  Wilson Harris, Heartland (1964)

               
            Already here . value^stops at consumer loading 
            docks soon resizing + Avenues where If you see people!     
              Yes, wonder how our bed stalls trade . Mondays
            knocking couldn’t come faster.

            Sometimes in motion round the world cravings
            wash ashore in bubble wrap | we started using
            sunshades since the find^remove flame currency
            + Gwan da side swipes.

            iPlumb Depts. offer crevice sluice tools; they staple
            honorary chips on foreshore heads, pave back
            work habit strain . the ankle part of our future
            mending still.

                                                 ^    

                   \ Old cane^banana feelers tried . fearing
            for each other; field power cuts wouldn’t
            allow stretch bonding | most nights they prayed
            love over life would spill grow even.

                           \ Watch how events flash . now through 
            memory drive account; pregnancy uncouples,
            forest first feet pause sensing | this shuffles everyone,
            sources everything.

                                                         – W.W.

  

               

           

             

 

               THE RECEIVER

                He is the end of the longest road
                    to what he is ready to receive.
               No Buddha, nor any Christ, no God
                    except as through all of us IT breathes.
               But to what degree of consciousness
                     of the spiritus within the spine?
               Till what possesses us we possess,
                     not Love’s realm, only theirs | ours | yours | mine.

                ……………………
                                                       ……………………

               (from “Readiness”, by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

 

                                                "Here. On earth…epitaph to lost radiances
                                                  lost fables, lost cities..."
                                                         - Wilson Harris, Companions of The Day
                                                                          And Night (1975)

               Like ocean liners they cruise thoughts turn; children
               love touching the grand trunk curl; we had to import
               them after the fireworks dealer packed up – ground
               rule summits not worth night lighting; + grain toss
               who yard pecking care?

               Stepping off the Curiosity . labour recognizes
               seam lace ties | principals of proportion
               shake our golden^apple tree . Time up! unhook
               that native content.

               Virgo for spirit^ketch . you should think twice
               before trying anything godspeedy here | the bateau
               ride maybe . over our diamond falls; steaming
               mists epiphany^like below . rocks of compassion.

               Bees buzzing over caste our elephants ignore 
               contrails, the entrails from continents of origin;
               they learn about room visibility, how to grow old
               together standing.

                                              \ Sons ‘n’ daughters parent
               text perfecting, hind sightless though it seems,
               can’t wait for Earth renewal day | sun up
               sans wedding garlands, mud bath by the river
               calves at spray play . Ah, Heaven.

                                                                      – W.W.

 

             

             

   

 

               PATIENCE

               There is no blooming text you cannot 
                  outgrow.  So last Summer’s flowering
               masterpiece seems this Fall’s uttered rot
                  or, at best, dry leaves for composting
               throughout Winter-months that heed no seed.
                  But don’t throw out those pages yet.  Wait:
               no book’s so bad that it doesn’t need
                  time to slide into its fairest fate
               of being, clearer than before, seen
               for, not what you thought it should have been
                  but, what its essence was and still is:
                  balanced like Earth-tree imbalances.

               ……………………………………
                                       ………………………                                                                                                                                
                (from “Readiness”, by Brian Chan, 2013)           

                         

 

          
       But how out of character for Mona too, to follow
       Stew to Loffdoff:  that might have involved her shedding her rôle
       As an ambitious and respectable career-woman.
       Hadn’t that been her one ambition – to have a career,
       In anything?

                         Advertising just happened to be her
       New country’s promise of promises, of getting away
       From the boring loud repression of her birth-family:
       Her Italian-Argentinan mother, Lebanese-
       Japanese-Brazilian father, two older sisters and
       A younger brother whom she had failed to teach the tango.

                                                                 *

          Gauging, through Halabi’s jokes, that Radica had remained 
       In town after Stew winged off to his Colorado rock
      (In whose contemplation-shadow i believe he still breathes),
       But that he, Halabi, didn’t know her (latest) address
      (Though he believed she had become ‘involve with some other
       Crazy artist’) – i returned the next day (which was to be
       My last in that sad but ‘thriving’ little-kitty city)
       To the art-show at the museum-gallery, hoping
       To run into Radica there;   perhaps she was now linked
       To the artist whose works were on display.

          There were only two or three viewers in the gallery
       At 1-ish in the afternoon (of a routine workday,
       After all, having to work’s the best alibi for not
       Attending to anything but your corner of the Club
       Of hallowed Hard Work;   hardworking artists, beware:  unwork!)

         (from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)

  

 

               
  

          Near our river banks crab legs stay tucked, knowing                     
          at any moment meat cravings could erupt | catchers
          take nice back naps in hammocks, not worried
          about the sneaky caiman snap dash . hunt for bone
          authentication.

          Meantime new platforms tying birth to ends off
          load crane claws . that tear down old aqueducts
          known to standpipe wives | the plug squirt leave
          dome pots for emptying they spare.

                No excuse to idle . fear nightmares might         
          regroup the days we last felt taken – sun controls
          lip limits Omigod! washing no name fabric
          brands again | that Where are we? faux readiness.

                                                 +   

          Cream cheese on toast, chew^savour . How?  essential 
          these up front steps from flood ‘n’ vermin | get away
          with shade slits . blood droplets in the air.           

          Still all too sub sub ? like on plantation nights; our 
          House crapauds grin ~ Go! road build panorama,
          trade deals on display ~ Qatari camel humps
          fat bouncing Aie aie aie.

                Soon helicopter blades will swish Piss off! 
          time to show our island moves . mean business;
          like rain making . on planet Mars like . seed
          crystal pumps in motion | for souls at sea
          haven holds 3-2-1 gasp lasting.

                                                       – 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 toward some oasis
             of meaning perhaps only one more mirage
                desperate but no less essential
             to breath than are rainclouds to dry tongues and wells?

             …………………………………………..

              (from “Readiness”, by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

 

                       

           
        Especially if stock folds short . for long it can't
        remain devalued | after the first Behold! bare
        wanting whispers whip around about tire rotation.
                                                                   See why even
        bell ringers consider rope extensions ? at 9.99 no
        swing miss.                                         

        For all the rotten luck The best I could! why curse
        the Maker?  If it’s any consolation look at the baby . all
        forgiven once those eyes look back.

                                             *

           "Two years fighting the City Council to keep the stray  
               animals he provided a sanctuary for, Ahmad remembered
               traversing the streets at ‘ungodly hours’ picking up animals
               in his van; feeding those he could not accommodate… He
               would also remove and bury the remains of carcasses left
               on the highway…  After he was hijacked and his vehicle
               stolen, he stopped his practice.”  
                                                                   ~ Trinidad Guardian, 2001   
          Check for updates, roam fresh charges.

                                             *  

          Done . with Miguel St. poor sighs ‘n’ style . valleys
          wider so What happening here?   Bhachu car knocking
          people left^right under; Leela, Laura leavening down –  
          at the lowest tide they’d fake delight, bend at fires
          sea deep.

          Days . when troubled head repair hands knew
          what cloths wrapped well | not far from yard child
          mothers vacuum . cycles shadow promise room
          full ease; perfect wonder what it is, you understand.

                                                            – W.W.

           

             

         

 

            YOUR THING-SILENCE

            And the least scrawny things about you
            your Chinee calves, but they weren’t half as big
            as your brother’s bigger than your father’s.
            Maybe your father wasn’t his father.
            Your father’s nose was big too, not as straight
            as your mother’s, and she was far ‘fairer’
            than her Chinee man brown like tea without
            enough milk: he didn’t ‘draw good’:  born so!

            The Buddha had thirty-odd large tattoos
            and eighty minor marks: he was different.
            But everyone in your world had been made
            the same oddity, each a different shape

             ……………………………………

            (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

       
    
           I said:  – Didn't you say he was off to become a monk
           Or something?   Halabi puffed:  -That stopped him not from getting
           The lady swelled with child!    I could hardly believe my ears
          (Though they’re more reliable than my other body-parts).
            Stew?    The Condommaster?   (That’s what he often called himself
            During group-therapy sessions for Reluctant Lovers.)

           - So he just dumped her?  Here?    I was surprised at my own scorn.
            Halabi chuckled:  – Why not?  She should board jet-plane with him
            And maybe, who know, captain give them crash-divorce up there?
            Halabi’s too fast laughter now at his own bad-tasting joke
            Only increased my disappointment in Stew’s behaviour.

                                                        *

            – Then you mean Stew and this girl were – are still – married?  i said.
            Aware that the server standing behind the cash-counter
            Was watching us.    Halabi smiled smugly:  – We really not
            Should call her girl, no, she lookèd more like older sister,
            Except for ripen belly and hugs and kisses frequent
            Before and after and during applicating paint
            Which she help Stew preparate.   Sometimes i say her:  Mona,
            You not need for to take break?  Sit down!  Relax for goodsake!

             Halabi was shaking his head at the ways of the young.
             I became aware that my dropped jaw wouldn’t let me speak:
             No, not the Mona, not la Radica whom Stew had loved
             To excoriate in his gripes to me about her style.
             Just how had they managed to bridge the gap between two rungs
             Of that snobbish ladder no-one likes to admit exists?

               (from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)