Category: Uncategorized

 

                                                                          
                                                          "The ‘deaf’ within her stirred and listened.
                                                          The ‘dumb’ she cherished began to speak."
                                                                  – Wilson Harris, The Waiting Room

             The claim nobody sees our hand to mouth managing
           won't help the cause. Cameras in the head hoard
           everything | careful! what wind^concoctions the night
           cork plugs; your foreday dream device stays on
           recording.

           Broken on plantation field it has been memories
           since | shipped separate, home grown foot forward
           paths still hang on foreign reason to be paved; praise
           Jah, saved.

                                               *

           Down off our mountain players fall . no longer angels, 
           roadside pending. You should try the fish . from our forest
           creek hooks block the town^cast nets; trench crapaud
           return.

                   For truth accounts we’ve lost the fiction | else 
          how to hear heart pounding ? for innocence now fabric
          scraps, the sage broom masters. 
                                                             Same^old getting older 
          faster ledgers dial the blade . stem slice our mañanas,
          honesties gone slack.  

                                               *

                  So much dem fear for look face lift so much
          mean privates funnel pouch for themselves . you won't
          believe. 
                                                  Out of our bowels need
          unspooling faith to keep kicks the Bejesus; or plants
          like a smack on the head one hoof of a curse . Gwan
          so, far side apple, star!
                                                           – W.W.

           

             

             

     [ for Kenneth Ramchand  .  Professor Emeritus, University of The West Indies ]

 

 

          MASTER-MODEL

          Tumble-weeds inspired cart-wheels;
            drift-wood – boats and oars;
          spider-webs – fishing-nets and lace;
            and bird-prints in sand – words
          grooved on walls of rock by eyes and fingers
            of fire, children of the child of the Sun
          the father and mother of all models of Must

            – so parent not only of my cave-poem   
          but of the marker-carver-spinner Soul itself.
              All life is star-seed.
          Seeds become their source. Human fate,
             our next final fruit, is starhood.

          ……………………………………………………….

           (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

 

          
          Wheat face like on toilet seat force^waiting issues,
          think when last we checked our licensing of crude
          extraction ? suck raw moon essentials for goose throat
          beak^end titling  <  sweet time tekking.

          Card packed our own hearts squat^strain ache
          to leave, though once the lift^move start the chest
          sense through lines far^near breaking. 
                                                                    Tongues might
          licky quick fly at you . Whoa! back side No . who
          go cock^good morning hail ? boxers nighties turn
          over.

                    \ On our shoulders vise^pads slip  >  watch this! 
          march fly road gaming : up front the stilt man
          scanning crowd, mask over nose; eyes for girl
          child . snatch dis‘ppearing.

                                                Oh, nah so it go ? through  
          swallow hole no trace of theft | well, samaan tree
          hear faith unzipping . hive^mind shedding night
          hair fright lay^lay the wind; fire rude so.

          Ol' chillum piper's dream ~ stand aside, watch all  
          lock cutters / never in the history of cuff^toss
          loss / march into the sea . spine bruk!  
                                                                     Storm system
          sink dem, yeah man ! clap thunder^flash fi all yaad
          bred dem drain waste, yeah man.
                                                                  – W.W.

 

               

           

          VIEW FROM THE OTHER TOWER

         We looked up from our splintering pale faces  
             and saw a ruined two-towered castle
             in which we would hide from the lion we
             had never seen and from the tribe we could
         see approaching, dark and speared, to seize our pool.

         In that tower we huddled, our tribe, for days  
            until, all danger be damned, we pulled out
            our raw hamburger and fried it despite
            the giveaway smoke: who does not prefer
         being eaten to be being trapped or ignored?

         When the quiet brutes arrived, they drank and washed, 
             just like us civilized apes, except they
             seemed to fear neither lion nor castle
             nor our hiding in it: they were patient:
          sooner or later we would have to come out.

          …………………………………………………

         (from “The Gift Of Screws” by Brian Chan, 2008) 

 

 

         

                                               "From part of you that's neither flesh nor bone,
                                                in a sleep before your last and longest, I come
                                                to say what I say."
                                                 - George Lamming, In The Castle Of My Skin

 
      His books appeared in bookstores or on the public library shelf. Back in
      those days in Georgetown, Guyana readers purchased, borrowed and
      devoured any and every printed thing.

      Caribbean authors – in their prime then, residing in England and elsewhere
        –  had no way of knowing what readers back home thought about them,
      their work.

     About writers today, it might have crossed George Lamming’s mind that –
     as Bogart now @ Miguel Street might observe – Dem writer fellas have it
     easy now, eh. The almost instant stardom of the book launch; web
     platforms for “readings”; applause for the writers’ hyphenated links to
     the islands. No need to ask how many new faces eager for display have at
     least dipped toes in Lamming’s fiction.

     In The Castle of My Skin Castle (1953) was greeted with quieter
     astonishment. The novel still attracts the attention of scholars, though
     it’s reasonable to assume it might struggle to generate interest today.
     Reputations aren’t all durable and reading habits, like molecules or breast 
     display, are subject to change.

     His appearances on the UWI Mona campus in the 70s were occasions for
     passionate reminders about the after effects of colonial rule. Students 
     were advised to keep the “pen” active but be ready to reach for         
     “the sword” when resistance was required. Literary endeavours came        
      with responsibilities.

     He tied Caribbean development to unresolved plantation issues – social
     divisions and resentments, continuing core extraction. Readers and thinkers
     should stay alert – for opportunist empire builders, for new governors
     who confine and amateur performers who contort public attention. And
     the patch-eyed scribblers who simplify issues and hide signs of active
     skin typing.

                                                     *

     There were limits to this reader’s response to his fiction. In Georgetown –
     with time enough, and no television stations (until 1988) – readers
     consumed every line in Castle – its 300 + pages packed with people who
     suddenly “mattered”; their village lives minutely observed, their (what
     now feels like) over-extended conversations.

     The novels that followed – with alluring titles, Of Age and Innocence (1958),
     Season of Adventure (1960), Natives of My Person (1970) – sent many
     searching the shelves. The result was not always overwhelming. Books of
     probing, foundational value they remain, but readers could be forgiven for
     wandering away at this stage from Lamming’s fiction.

     Besides, there were other Caribbean writers – just as compelling, with
     mesmerizing or everyday like prose. Carew, Naipaul, Selvon, Harris. So many
     story-telling styles; the variety of frames for experiences past and present.
     And characters made more memorable; so sharply imagined, they could
     mark a generation for life. Donne in Palace. Mohun Biswas.

                                                     *

     To "revisit" Lamming’s fiction is not an easy proposition. In the 2001 reprint
     of Castle a Foreword and an Introduction occupy the first 50 pages as if
     acknowledging its classic old age.  

    The moving clarity of the opening lines still catch and wrap you, pulling
    you into the fermenting humanity of that colonial time as if it was just
    last week.

    “Rain, rain, rain…my mother put her head through the window to let the
     neighbour know that I was nine, and they flattered me with the consolation
     that my birthday had brought showers of blessing. The morning laden with
     cloud soon passed into noon, and the noon neutral and silent into the
     sodden grimness of an evening that waded through water.” 

     Gradually Lamming’s authorial devices (which intrigued readers back then)
     take control; the stage play set pieces, for instance, that interweave his
     ornate narrative flow. It is anyone’s guess how students, with Twitter
     accounts and grievous language deficits, might respond if asked to read
     Castle – from beginning to end – and be ready for the test. 

                                                     *

     Georgetown, Guyana, once a centre of literary expression and cultural
     capital, has sunk to a level of narrow philistinism. Mainly on its own –
     a barren place for literature and writing, it is feared; home to fate
     contractors and helpless native souls.

     Writers with George Lamming’s dedication to his work have for all         
     purposes moved away to platforms of deeper promise offshore; the way
     the narrator in Castle who ‘had seen the last of something’ says ‘farewell,
     farewell to the land’.

     It is left to the islands to sustain interest – to celebrate excellence, cultivate
     new readership, offer achievement rewards. And stage official closing
     ceremony – for Derek Walcott (St Lucia), Kamau Brathwaite and now George
     Lamming (Barbados); past illuminators for our Caribbean ways in the world.  

                                                                          – Wyck Williams
                             
                                                                                                                              

            

                       
                                       [ In mem.  George Lamming  .  1927 – 2022 ]

                ~                    ……………………………………………                           ~                                                                                                                                                      

 

          
             Only if Sunday Monday follows and your box
             bed springs – not hard grief^ridden like in Mali where
             grass roof elders trust the lizard’s scan^dart
             slow twitch . bead counting over digits.

             Even happy heifers wouldn’t sweat the difference – 
             milk for the village v. plaisir congelée, expiration
             fate.

                                              *
                                                             Elsewhere, first                     
             impressions still nick | the face remove from flesh
             cuts twilight coding : the perfume line, wiggly blue
             crab ink.   
                                                Virtually you could still send
             bitch nights off ‘n’ running, underwear reversible;
             else little left, reach for the phone.

                                              *

                                               Our tech gods promise level 
             heavening . with diode street lights refit the midnight
             sky – unless you’re in Chile where in the thousands
             stars beam back mate orbiters . given up for lost.

                                    / One click . now latitudes strip      
             make it quick^unbelievable | feminin shaved
             masculin, no index finger smear.
                                                                       Whoa! hold
             your ma-hu . there should be room for everyone.
             
                           / Okay! knife ‘n’ spread begetters, over
             there | done fasting ? for full beard, lacy lip 
             bliss napkins | oh, big plate of applause for four 
             post chompers, rarely out of order.
                                                                   – W.W.

            

                       

                          

             

                        

                 

             QAT

             *ONE of these cats Qat calls Singer, respecting    
              His Asiatic operatic complaints
              About what no vet has yet identified.

              Perhaps he misses an old home, or his balls, 
              Or he is your Wandering Jew still needing
              To wail the Lord’s song in his latest strange land,
            Driving Qat’s neighbours (and other cats) to grind their teeth.
              But Qat’s proud of her lourd loud sad catstrato
              Who still interrupts his arias to keep
              Purring watch over his Ladyship’s fucking.

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

        

 

 

                                                     
                                      "The conversation they had had (as between
                                       naked body and naked mind) still lingered
                                       in his head."
                                            – Wilson Harris, Companions Of The Day
                                                                    And Night

          
         Violetta! Oh my stars, you came . after his Gnu
         Goat like taking you for mountain; his no chest
         tightness sensing, There’s a contract dust bowl
         like between us | buy^sell phone vibration ! savoir
         due.

         First mate^betrayal skews; some cheek tattoos   
         flinch at remove | easier to make peace with ‘im
         like eggs boiled ~ quick link God’s face^fanning
         patience.

              Murmurers can't wait for news, for you 
         to wail | the throat guard lets in every widowy
         wish i could the stomach floor boards.

                                            *

              Over night falls deep . sleep hoodies hack 
         watch midriffs warming | the barfi bite yelps, Stop
         resisting! first blood.
                       Wages that low who wouldn’t beside
         oneself ? mud ankled catch^wrap blowy grain;
         away redress fate stitchings.

                                             *

        La Casa del Amor . how^why you cleaned no longer  
        matters; you’re here now | sway holding served,
        spoon ‘n’ silence . bovarys if you prefer.
                    \ These pages like twin glass doors slide   
        open^close | mid’passages to weigh, Alt keys could
        help; for version, pick any scale.

                          \ Wait wait – you just landed ! planet 
        polar bear like in distress . how if you tear again
        away could you be reached?

                                                             - W.W.

             

         

 

 

             MARA

            *SHE had never guessed that once her Sun-Dung had, 
             While on a roll, cashed in his chips, gone outside
             And taken a taxi to a shabby zone
           Of the city no respectable tourist wanted
             To be caught dead in (as not a few had been)
             But a zone including a certain address
             Bought off a hotel-valet making ends meet

             By renting out his sister, daughter or wife 
             Whom he promoted as his ‘cousin’ Guanyin,
             Good crean fliendry rady flom good famiry

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

 

 

            
            The whole world seemed right then a fat embarrassing failure.
         What good was the human game if few people understood
         one another, despite all our attempts at clarity?

                                                 *

         I thought and felt that Raimonde’s disappointment was complete,
         Disappointment not in me (for i’d always been only
         His paid adviser, one of many, appointed by law)
         But in any expectations he might still have retained
         Of being felt before he had to justify himself
         (And fail and fail, words being the necessary failure).

                                                *                                                                                                                      

            For a minute or two we sat in a silence outlined
         By the purring of the car-engine and interrupted
         By two or three sighs, a thudding grunt and a distinct snort
         From Raimonde’s head shaking from side to side in disbelief
         At the balls that had just rolled past an old counsellor’s lips.

                                                *

             Many lean on the crutch of melodramatic gestures
         In the face of the slightest disturbance to their balance
         Or, rather, to their sense of control over how things should
         Carry on within the limited light (it is always
         Limited light) of the way in which they have been before
         Seen.

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

    

 

 

          
          Like roads not taken / legend points, they cross               
          somewhere / it pays first to download a bush
          route foot print; wire it around the skull | futures
          like luggage lost need tree^mark time huts,
          nearby light streaming.

               * The son notes how . grand Pa^Ma act   
          least surprised each day unspools | come night
          the dog star walk, cat fur finger^fondling. 

          Control ! what hand toys mean to the boy, 
          screen^death delight unblinking | his wheel
          thumb^steer age leaves us . breadth to whisk
          broom the text shelf; French-style flip Nothing
          to be done flat bottom miracles.

               * Pre-Online models favored siestas, ties
          slack on blood or dye | startled ~ sea shore
          with rocks defending ~ they caught reflective will
          this island^world chain link spell end ? wrong
          way signs.
                           Sky not all clear couldn’t stop . jokes
          about the valley of the shadow : what are the odds
          chipping, yay.

                                                           - W.W.

         

           

               

         

 

 

            QAT

            Qat's sensation du louche continues, her sense
            That Madame’s talk is acting like a magnet
            Drawing up, from both their stomachs, iron-nuts

            Which have been fed to them as digestible
            But are really meant to be screwed onto bolts
            Replacing nails – for firmer crucifixions.
          Qat’s main mode of survival lies in asking questions,
            Bald safe questions about that you, about
            Those people before her at any moment,
            Dissolving her own history into theirs.

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

 

 

 

 

           

            What began as holiday splashing fed into
            suspicion . on the flight home he knew^had
            to decide when to squeeze the stuffing out of her;
            learn first how ! some island jockey loaf^sugar
            strong fanged . his^her turn^take vows.

                                Pray . Tell hands on throat before
            you pass to hell | gurgles struggled . up the beach
            the surf gasped ! what’s that glow in the sky.

                           New to world^weariness / duck eggs
            Done! the petit chateau^ocean pew / his Move On
            tally man fixed tail winds so flaps up ✈  Zion
            faux port Fire^burn! to ground. Bitch.

                                           *

                             What stronger back claim draws you   
            here ? unlocked step ladder ‘n’ wells, road
            limb shak^shaking.  
                                                 ) What patents kept
            off line, the sharper chip away ? light night
            draughts, separate^equal board play.                              

                         Yes, still of mind . river peace, plant 
            oils you once palmed | license^new crane saman
            yaad mind root . scoop^loot Granted.

                                           *

                           / Wait, who are you ? aghast, you ask. 
            And what on earth is your emergency.

                      / Wait, haven’t you heard ? snow falls 
           here now / no, not Lesbos, bless the stars / this
           here’s the shit, what nature deep intended;
           raise, don’t curse His hand.

                                                          – W.W.

 

 

         

           

 

                             
                 AT THE PEAK

                 For you to move, knowing,   
                 trusting that which moves you,
                 is the whole of human,
                 the ground of seeding light.

                 For me to love and yet 
                 to stray from the one loved,
                 while letting her guide me,
                 is a sprout of freedom.

                 For ones stride to echo 
                 Love’s clear eyebeam pointing
                 to the fruit of men’s moon
                 is the hymn of Heaven.

                                         - Brian Chan

 

 

 

             
         His voice trailed off:   words failed him (or he them)).   But then he said:
         – The thing was, when i could see her, i realized the bitch
         Wasn’t the tough bird she liked to make herself out to be –
         (Mia as dog and turkey?    biting and gobbling his soul?)
         – Twenny years older’n me, man, but she looked good…in the end…

                                                       *

        Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait –    i said    – you’re not telling me
        She got under your skin too –   and right away bit my tongue,
        Since i had never told Raimonde i’d ‘known’ his landlady,
        Professional propriety and all that pappycock.
       (After all my gossiping about their relationship,
        I can only say:   Beware your psycloghoist who writes
        Reports and other fiction, and ask for her his nom de plume.)

                                                        *

       – What you mean? –    Raimonde snapped, checking me out in his mirror,
       His pinched heavy-lidded eyes glinting like…a murderer’s.
       I blurted out   – Wait, you didn’t kill my Mia too, eh? –
       Raimonde turned around in his driver’s seat to glare at me:
       – Your Mia? – he snarled   – Too?  What the fuck!  

                                                        *

       He sighed loudly, then turned his head and stared out his windshield.
       A small girl, bouncing a huge green plastic exercise-ball
       Almost as high as herself, passed on the sidewalk near us.
       The hollow strangely metallic-sounding smack of the ball
       On the concrete seemed a mocking apt rhyme to Raimonde’s words.
       The girl peeped into the car, hugged her ball and ran away.

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

       

 

            
         The mission was mainly to mine emerald^like
         raptures, unknown in deserts, gorges green | danger, yes
         but who stops to worry ? high for adventure,
         consort to a million stars.

         Splits on the brain, hands^idle gun – terra   
         forma trade^face offs . like felling the tree leaf
         population; ice melt, owl fatigue.

         Those old days of ship riggings . out at sea
         dangling, shitty tasks. What kind of human risked
         the overboard pitch? we always wonder, chaired
         to gravitation watch.

                                                *

                                                    \ Up here sensors
         catch sperm whales blowing . smiles from across
         the room, meant for the stern.                           
                                                         \ Ship role issues
         not all course precise get sorted; cubicles for knot
         relief . sign in if there is need. Flight systems
         nation^tag free.

                                                 *

                                  Memo : must remote this impulse   
        to rewatch old explorations | orbit one two check
        time light blink ? the protein 2070 boost. Sorry,
        mountain bongos.

                                           / Agent Vajindra, here – moon
        listening station | this text no feed forward, please?
                             / Aren’t there shrouds to sew, strip
        urgency for masts down there ? millennial birth
        luck, happy endings.

                                                          – W.W.

         

         

           

 

             
          QAT
       

         So that you can feel your life has some purpose, 
           So that you can sleep without screaming through bombs bursting, 
           Sleep without needing to dream at all, and wake,
           If at all, ripe for one more field-day.  *BACK home,
           Qat was sometimes called Mère Thérèse sans la Croix.

           But she keeps an old rosary, just in case
           There might be more to Things than Service to Taste
           By Form and Performance – ideals of that class
        (Of aspirants never again to be slaves or serfs)

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