FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN

                                                                
                                            "..who said it's possible to become these 
                                              things : stone, shelf, step, ravine, flooring.
                                            But not while keeping the heart…”  
                                                         - Mervyn Taylor,  Alma's Advice           

 

           Ship up North . in city basement holds till nights
           go cold | on television watch he’d drift, restore
           his cane path time stalls; a village murder over life
           stock stolen.
                                       Top soil > exhaust he learned
           why roof rust corrugates. What is wrong with you
           so?

           Son's borough home could not refuse him old
           sun asking if his raggedy head board shakes, yuh 
           dough still rolling ? fat spouse frumpy in nighty.

           Street flood waters racing in one morning almost 
           swamped his deck | camp ‘n’ base encroachers
           weather^skeltered under the kitchen stove, scrap
           biding. What is wrong with this so?       
                                            
                                           *

                                               / Days that strip islands follow 
           nights off shore in silhouette rapture. For tenant feet
           what freeze brands wait ahead ? thaw to scurry.

                                       Puri, parang! mek^haste to heat
           beat for wind shield chipping; wrap caiman plans
           to over^stay | one likkle tear . rare^seen display.  

                               South north cross help me! currents 
           route dog tired^floating stars. Linked so, you 
           coming or what?
                                                                                             – W.W.

 
              

           

             

                                                                  

               INFINITIVES

                    In the Fall and Winter, to stay 
               at home to fast and so enter
               the inner room which snakes cannot –
                    To point to a grey sky empty
               of the Sun and yet see there is
               the Light allowing us to see
               even as our own eyes cloud it –
                    To glimpse a flake of frost falling
               off a leafless branch that but seems
               a crystallised finalised bone
               of misty dawn’s still skeletons
               and to know no difference between
                    North and South Americas or
               hemispheres

              ……………………………………………………

          (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

                                                                                    

       

  
       A sense of the vanity of having to offer proof
       Of membership – of some club congratulating itself
       On its elevated philosophy with its slogans
       And tags in opposition to other clubs’ shibboleths –
       Has, since my childhood, clung to me like my own shadow, my
       Inescapable adversary, ally, faithful dog.
       What was the point?

          But now i sensed that the restaurateur, ‘Halabi’, was
       About to point me to the real behind-the-scrim purpose
       Of my trip to this town of tribes, churches, temples and mosques
       (Which i didn’t have to see to know that they existed).

                                              *

       This Galenza, he now said, be not, as you say, gone off 
       The face of this world   – Had i said that?  ‘Gone off’ sounded more
       Like a description of me or of the world’s face rotting
       And peeling off the skeleton-skull of eternity.

          Ignoring my slow open-mouthed savouring of his speech,
       Halabi said, Steward be gone to a Buddhist monkery
       –  Founded, i believe somewhere on Boulder, Colorado –
      My gasp of disbelief made him laugh, drily.    Yes, my friend,
      This I believe, because that young man himself told me so!
      I seeee, i said, not surprised, again, by someone’s blind faith.

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

 

 

 

         

       Wait watchful . eagles make you feel earth is where
       all belong | patria gongs send you up gum trees, or
       get you . running from dirt bike riders who open
       throttles of brute^joy at your head . crack ice
       cubes for your face.
                                       Him^hers, not ours! lives scarf
       loved in knead position . pair bonds we bake.

                           On stools that sphincters test, on river   
       banks first aliens nature touched . our planet mapsters
       don’t scan specs returning – used to the canopy On
       Off air. What is that ? ocean high cry.

                   The coronary blows out candles; light   
       years dangling off chest ceilings puff Sorry, can’t
       gap service every home . now you know.

                                            ^

       Glass^skin towers won’t receive the fog that lifts 
       souls off jump cliffs | space^discs circle . sheets
       of notes stream in catch^release.

                                    Fogs like crowds get dispersed
       eventually | still, every day brass stand^stiff anthems
       play Here be legend ! rows we plant lists why
       with warranty to spend lack conviction scampers.

                        Aw, Fuck! the fogger’s last breath given   
      Too brief! last peak known | to every long^stem
      browsing child the dandelion surprise.

                                                               – W.W.

       

       

                  THE RECEIVER

                  Awakened but still the indistinct 
            shadow of many transformations
                 (in God’s million realms, there is no one
            king, no only Son), incarnations
                 sometimes very much there, sometimes gone,
            whether he be nailed to, or under,
                 a tree, bound to Earth or unimpressed
            by her latest wonderful blunder

              ……………………………………

             (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

 

    
                     "That is the whole blasted trouble," he said. "Shop
                       keeper, lawyer, doctor, labourer, overseer – I don’t
                        look like any of them." 
                             - V. S. Naipaul, A House for Mr. Biswas (1961)

 

          Ah, Mohun, readers then would have done anything
          to help, despite how omens end. Alec spat out a cigarette
          that had burned down to his lips and gone dead.

                                                                    Not cause you
          these days nobody browsing book . ‘bout island
          fevers, fate | Is puss-puss here, trap waste there;
          night forbearing turn side ways ~ wait for the world
          to yield its sweetness.

          Say what you like ‘bout blood . base^borne / Mrs Tulsi,
          scooping up beans with a shovel of roti; burly Negroes;
          Shektar, his Presbyterian modern wife / or line^served.
                                                                                         Our
          Biswas . First of its Fame from cane stock lifting . great
          fighter.     

                                           ^   

          Took chance on learner^swings : sign painter, journalist,   
          home planning; reading Samuel Smiles, Marcus Aurelius
          Epictetus.
                                                                   Husband man
          handling all the work, his vein of fortune Blocked Not
          Found tried^open. Going to buy that gold brooch
          for you, girl!     
                                                                            He didn't
          have the Hindu delight in details of death; didn’t
          shiver, lonely In the snowy and the blowy | name called
          Leave this house, too.        

                             Ask now if^how times change | the plunder? 
          man, I tell you; like virus trust^divide does heat . core
          plates loose . ol’ age one Helluva thing.

                                                                         – W.W.

                                                                                      
       

        

              
                            [ In mem :  Mohun Biswas  .||.  To Zulaika A. ]

 

               THE HUNTER WHO DOES NOT EAT MEAT 

               But every time I go back home to spread out   
                  the bounty of my hunt before their fire,
                       only that few taste anything more
                       than the flattering flavour of their
                  own salty dessicated flaking flesh,
               and I must leave again to redeem the hunt,

               rather than remain behind to be obliged      
                  to witness the cindering of golden
                       feathers and the charring of white bones

                 ………………………………………………….

                (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan)

 

        
      Furthermore, what makes us believe that any God secure 
      In His/Her/Its power would want/need anyone’s belief?
      God the Father and God the Mother, i guess, would be glad
      To realise that their children were committing their own
      Creative divine screw-ups towards their self-awareness.

      God's watching Eye is the divinity within the self
      Too busy with the distractions of its own dense dreaming
      To recall that what is ‘below’ reflects what is ‘above’
      In an active membership in the family of God.
      God isn’t there or not there but here as much as we dare
      To become God.

                                                 *

                                                            i don't believe in belief’s
      Glass-temples whose clubbers tend to smash stones through others’ walls
      To prove their own, so keeping ‘us’ not-them and ‘them’ not-us.

      And God the Father and God the Mother must smile and shake
      Their heads in bemusement at such adolescent antics
      That are all as exhausting as owning a house you have
      To keep from falling down:   it demands daily maintenance
      That hardens into further numbing habits of blind faith.

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

 

 

           

        Camped out near river falls of gold, in grab bags
        climb attempts . since Noah, who’ll pair ‘n’ ark
        all in ? jaws open, dazed though not by the ocean
        coming rise | god growths in the bone; in public slack
        flesh flogging.

        At crash sites, not all glass shards swept up, they
        purchase ‘n’ place flowers | to win new lease hearts
        lower limbo^like under . sticks that poke at fate
        sand holdings.

        Cycling past long lines outside the Embassy, near 
        broke as forever^heads refuse to step away . toss
        feathered hats, the rumpus^rodeo stories; mud
        reptiles oil – Nothing’s door frame.

                                                ~

                                         In^out heaven’s vault breath
        savings not secure as Numbers weigh . for hopes
        that spend on prayers even the horse whose hoofs
        upturn the earth has betting limits.

                                  Fingers test with tips near end 
         sea humors, benign today ? lighthouse^missed
         chest full heavings.

                        Arrgh! every siren in the world warns
         of clouds with rocks in them | find your spot, get
         to penguin^like Alt warming – emperor of mode,
         souls in glacier mass wait.

                                                         – W.W.

             

 

         

                                                   

 

 

           THE MORALISER AND THE FATALIST MONK

           As a river cannot drown you on high ground
           nor a whirlwind raise dust out of a deep pool
           nor the best tools guarantee a fair craftsman;
           as you can punish lawbreakers but not force
           sainthood onto common wayward souls like mine
            – so cannot the true path make me stay on it.

            Yes, see, I follow it, and keep falling off.
            
            ………………………………………..

            (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

                   

 

                                           

                                                        
                                     "Or into a teardrop, sadness and unexpected
                                        joy running together, in the eye of a friend
                                         or a woman…"                                                     
                                       - Wilson Harris, Palace of The Peacock (1968)

        
             \ Harmony floats like particles through the ear;             
          the space Agency file^whispers, We might have a job
          for you which is all pilots on cruise need to hear;
          line to ground – grape to pound till the wine
          yelps Yes!

                   At some point circuits ask, How human is this?  
          this man^becoming sense it’s Okay! to strip make
          ripple limbs as sunset gets in the water.

          Drivers in the brain ignore wave marks. Could
          time stop short ? catch alley in play ways . slanted
          like old Paris streets of café, matinée; loft
          for drip dropping migrant pigeons. 

                                                            ^

                        \ So someone brakes, the corners wait; 
          girdings look over shoulders . and just like that
          unused perspirings pass Aie aie aie.

                                     Nerve snaps back, Can we go
          now? end plates face . head heart can’t determine
          Who’s away?
                                                               At the lights
          orange grants all one close call, Who verging
          that much cares ? paint scraping | later claiming
          Never felt this . desert storm like coming.

          No, don't shut down the heavens ! so genders
          trusting camel flow sway^hold . Oh ja swallow
          toll.
                                                     – W.W.

 

                 

           

 

 

 

           MORE

                                                               Yes: who would not            
           want to fall again into a dream so gorgeous?
           At least until your soul no longer needs to ‘fall’.
              and what was the name of that garden again?
                   and what fruit did you dream you weren’t supposed
                        to eat?  which god did you dream you failed?
                              which sin and whose guilt did you have
                                  to pay for?  which scales of love
                                       to untilt till whose conscience
                              was clear

            ……………………………………………….

               (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

 

 

 

          
                                                          There's nothing more absurd  
       than the idea of Death, for always we’re ‘breathing our last’;
       It’s always ‘the end of the world as we know it’, whether
       We know it or not, and it was at the world’s edge where i,
       Faith Chattergoon, was continuing to fool myself
       That i was dependent on nothing and no-one,
                                                                             like a lamp
       That blindly believes it’s its own source of light, forgetting
       That much must be burnt up towards the spreading of its rays
       And that many hands maintain its mantle and trim its wick.

                                                ^

       I could sense that i was a link in an infinite chain
       Of energy flowing through me and all other people,
       But, in order to move through and beyond their obsessions,
       I had had to behave as though mine were independent
       Of theirs and not watered by the one invisible spring
       Flowing down from the mountain of faith in Life, translating
       Itself into the ripples of streams lakes rivers falls and seas
       Of neverendingly dreaming breath on Earth

                                                ^

       Now pretend i’m jean-luc godot or bela tarr and say  
       Love and God are ‘only’ humankind’s greatest creations,
       Why do we keep ‘believing in’ Love, despite its record
       Of instability and crimes committed in its name,
       But doubt the validity of its redoubtable twin?

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

 

 

       
 

           First half spent pacing for sort^selection; should
           have stirred worlds by now but, yeah yeah, climate
           change.
                          With not many omelets left over crack
           performance angels hover . what’s expected of you?

           Can I keep my aurora on?  Of course, dark child.
           Floats of light night canceling won’t stop . so you grow
           up.
                               In havens where someone climbs tower   
           steps to ring the fortune bell they scan the clouds
           for Mary hails; dogs bark at estate fail scents, one
           behind the others.
                                                                           Aargh!
           You shouldn’t bank on stories like that. The colony
           ‘n’ chain of appetite rudders long | goodness
           shelters hookers who cache gems, while jewelers
           loupe^test our laughs ‘n’ poop . contractions.

                                               ^

                   \ Stomach swell^flat terms kept, sometimes 
           some thing burns on | dragon wind^down bum bum
           heavy, no tattoos to slay.
                                                           Still, the best laid 
          prayers win, nah true? | hand clasp rear lift, millions
          ghosted . Admin Climb unto me! ascending.
                                                                            Aargh!
          (silverware glass clink) not to worry; tomorrow more
          piss^show off rehearsals . balcony crow^neck listening,
          press ahead.

                                                                      – W.W.

       

             

          

           DESPAIR AS BOTH BRAZIER AND ITS FUEL
                                                   

           Yet the breadth of my perspective leaves me no
                              doubt:  the so-called classics
                              and moderns are flat notes,
           flowers that have not yet matured, or green fruits;
           politics, news of death, lies and pills all seem
                              only a lazy dream
           of gossipy fictions, anthills of valleyed
           men seen from peaks and stars – which, though distant, are
                             perfectly reachable.

               ………………………………………………………….

                   (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                
                                                                    
                                       "…the selfish fear of experiencing fear,
                                     the selfish love of the possession of love."
                                        – Wilson Harris, Heartland (1964)

               
           One flinch bare gets every bone false started; then 
           where are we ? thrown off track. Nothing happens
           if you freeze inside your clamour | hardly a night
           breath safe till dawn . fastings that harness the day.

                                                                     Plant happy
           who'll jig if their organic mate migrates ? bottom
           baiting can you handle shark teeth circles, value
           dates.

                      \ For awhile in the pool someone holds you 
           up until the fears that keep you listing shed; though
           for islands hoping to get noticed molecules will shake;
           ocean old cross^ties, groyne tested.

                                     Angles open the gaze pins shelfie
           Isabels who can’t help reaching . jars of sugar
           cane licks, papi^sticks; ecstatic baby formulas.

                                                ^

                         Nonstop sky disk start^closure, the stars 
           like residence bulbs | for souls in duct tears only
           floaters rainbow^worthy saved.                                        
                                                                    / Earth sewn 
           there’s still the space asteroid streak at play . before
           reduced to memory hits we veer away  < laptop
           lounge ware; your bags, wrinkles.     
       
                                               / Dive gongs . the neighbours
           loud, still at it >  there! right in the pocket, balls
           ablaze mein Gott in gory . nang walang pagaalin
           langan.
                                                            – W.W.

           

           

 

 

 

           OUR SONG OF BOTH SIDES
                                                                    
                                                                      
                                                                    Like a fox 
           wanting to cross a frozen river, you halt,
           yourself frozen, at its edge, and you listen
           for any sound of flowing water, before
           deciding whether you want to take the risk.
           The rushing stream you may hear is your own blood’s,
           and the quackgrass, cockatoo or lime you see
           are your own dreams of every blade, wing or branch
           that has ever been created by the stars
           of your eyes linking their light to that of suns
           of sleepwalking days and of high-flying sleep

           ………………………………………………

            (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)