FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN

 

                           “…difficult to tell where the veined grassroot    
                             of one’s life commenced and the rocking
                               cliff of illusion ended.”
                                    – Wilson Harris, Heartland (1964)  

          Nude for truth . we can't find keys to harbours
          safe + the passwords for your computer | your wife
          hired a lawyer . that loose block in the basement
          wall?  prayers track stuffed sin.

               Planet population beeps . guess where numbers
          falling?  Wake to work from home . outside skin
          tent in muddah millions | someone came forward
          about lambing meets you said meant nothing.

          Moments of silence mark nations missing stand up
          comedy; + nutrient-rich dinners that look like poop
          on the plate | Oh, the Admin room for intermittent
          Couples Only . enter Take nah.

                                               ^                                                

               Birds in glow worm pursuit crash into Tech
          towers; with pork rind bait fish^hook men cast
          passage lines.
                                                                / Our Davina
          Liksamber running for President . likes science
          social reads.
                                                      Look out the window
          navels point show grafters hostin’ shake hand
          licks . ask no question exam passing.
                                                                 \ Swing miss 
          deceived, pitch désolé . reset the play, duck worn.

                                                            – W.W.

 

 

           
                                       [ In mem : Rooplall Monar . 1945 – 2024 ]

 

            YUH RAP SO (0.7)

            All intelligence, first + last, will obey
            That perverse gene informing all of Nature
            From cloud to seed: the buried seed splits, eager
            To sprout + keeps shooting up + branching through
            The gnarls of its demanding mind as it moves
            Towards both the cloud + the Sun their source still
            Haunting the course of the seed’s intractable
            Urge to burst beyond its skin so as to stay
            True to its pulse that cannot unlearn its law

               (from “Raponani” by Brian Chan, 2023)

 

 

              
           Well being in ocean clutch . coast side shamans hedge
           the shore so . watch them monster truck wheel rolling
           raptures ‘cross our lot | back dam alert : Upgrade!
           our cutting edge will print you . world game head.

                               / Thank God for pain relievers, Grandma
           sighed | off show fair daughters traded, bosoms
           rising at demand . stomach hybrid proof.

                      / As things got worse we held tongue loss
           vest close | + chair campers on heritage grounds
           jook jiggling what’s left in us of those days.
                                                                Grandpa smiles
           when we strip ‘n’ dip into his dried ol’ grain.

                                               *

           First monologue?  from Shakespeare in the class
           room | cells they wouldn’t leave home without help
           followers walk on water; pronoun star turn,
           Heaven knows.

           Signs of waning send the rumpus room lizard
           into scurry | See‘t?  low moon ‘im cyaan ‘oist
           his nobody perfect handle trying . only one
           Time left? around.                
                                                    \ Since particles pass
           tagless through the air . heart pure our space
           launch^sure . bam bam bebe shakey wakey
           weave . raison to build believe. 

                                                               – W.W.

 

 

            

        

 

           YUH RAP SO (0.6)

          Judd was one of those humanoids who, after
          Just a few experimental decades of
          One more brief sojourn on Earth, assume they know
          Other fallen humanoids better than they
          Care to remember themselves – as living gods:

          For so Judd recalled his self; so how come not
          His comrades their selves?  He sensed Freda knew her
          God-sense in her bones, by the way they would stir,
          As of their own volition beside her will
          To sit or stand or lean up against a wall
          Or stretch or be stretched or curl up in his bed

            (from “Raponani” by Brian Chan, 2023)

            

 

            
           Habitat:  no longer the convent, white, near
           Their seawall complete with statues of Mary
          (With + without her Son on or off the Cross)
           Beside a stone-mammoth’s pagan proboscis
           Curled upwards to serve as a dribbling fountain
           Near the path from the white front-door to the chains
           That ensured the high-black-iron front-gate stayed
           Locked to keep in guard-dogs + keep out all strays
           So that the holy Sisters could go about
           Their day’s duties + their evening-prayers with not
           Too much anxiety over their safety:

        + Habitat:   now a clearing in the country,    
           Or what town-mouse Dilys used to call the bush
           Even though calendar-photos would give much
           Vivid witness of is wide open spaces,
           The Bush’s twin-fiction spawned by villagers
           Trapped in cities homesick for lost horizons
           Of innocent Noble Savage abandon:
           That the savages here in their ordered space
           Were still called bucks – huntable, although their spears
           Pointed to their being genuine hunters –
           Didn’t much concern the otherwise fair nun

        (from “Raponani”, a verse novel by Brian Chan, 2023)

 

 

                                

            We used to bend over vegetable rows, cow custom
            software ankle deep we ‘treprenured our own growth
            curd | Estate cane course done . thrift bag knot
            like grinders run.

                                     \ Toil wages bare foot sore we like
            the sound of ‘cut the check’; habitats with numbers
           (names brand the soil) + (new) our caribou hosting
            range.           

            The gap > caught behind win^starving Try some
            thing any thing ! belly fat overwatching . pump
            well years to come.

                                            *

            Bear as ocean cross boards creak . sway separate
            side from side | as mañanas grind on wait chair
            curvatures, heart strain holders forge night
            sums that hum like truth.

                                                   /  For islanders high
            Howyuhdo?  trust in futures cost; belonging lines
            outdated fingers spider^like reroute.
            
                                              / Arrgh! coming t’reel
            by you ovadeh, Vijinie . mermaid of iStream, how
            yuh spooling ? what work part time you mean.

                                                                     – W.W.

 

                      

              

              

               

                 YUH RAP SO (0.4)

                ………………………….
                                                       ………………………
                       
                Women's genes, Ladd once instructed Thomasson,
                Leaned towards settling down in city-cultures
                As hotbeds for a matriarchal future
                Whose pyramids would be built by nice-guy slaves
                For whom today’s pussy-whipped bourgeois male gives
                Up his masculinity as ripe manure –
                A notion so paranoid, the priest would swear,
                Only a matricide or patricide could
                Concoct it

                 (from “Raponani” by Brian Chan, 2023)

 

                                                           
                                                     "She said, as though to herself, ‘If it wasn’t
                                                     for the children…’” 
                                            – V.S. Naipaul, A House for Mr Biswas (1961)

 

             Men whose words pillow play combat, intestines never
           felt earth shudders in combat, wave^point to home
           school flagpole dancers . import joint cartilage
           for peace.

                                                     / On Princess Day ! good
           news for kiss ‘n’ swell crapaud, score keepers ask
           How is the man today ? three sons, four daughters
           bead coin counting . sweat ‘n’ net to goal.

                   I hate comparisons with oil, the actor said,
          cinema ’65 visiting Georgetown . the roadways safe
          for bicycles | potholes back filled with plantain
          chip^like dried blood.

                                               *

                   So I went with this other man ~ canefield bed
          room Okay, where? ~ kindest soul I ever met
          horse holding | how so return ? those conch lip
          service calls.       
                                                                / All our blow
         flame lovers losing breath have fled . match
         sticks scratching elsewhere.

                                                           Think of a place
         ~ no feathers flute Go Pluck Yourself ~ avenue
         contractions toss | henna tattoo^like en garde
         to mothers How you could do that? say nothing.    

                                                             – W.W.                  

         

       

      

          YUH RAP SO (0.3)

          + Did Thomasson know he was fooling himself
          With a colonistic knowing more about
          The natives than they wanted to know about
          Themselves?  Was that how he had flattered his flock
          In cobwebby New Amsterdam?  where he’d tricked
          One woman out of his confessional and
          Into bed with him, ignoring her husband
          (& children) + their respected livelihood
          As importers + retailers of dry goods:
          Not a few of their starched sheets did their priest stain
          Before he asked to be transferred to Georgetown

              (from “Raponani” by Brian Chan, 2023)

 

 

 

            
           If only she wasn't only his Sister
           & was older enough to be his mother,
           She might stagger his hubris by slapping his
           Face – as she often slapped her own – to shock its
           Sleepwalking awake + away from fooling
           Itself it could keep breathing without heeding:

         +That blindly young she had never been allowed             
           To be, ancient guilt built into her birth, pride
           Of personhood pruned of its buds long before
           They could begin to dream that they should flower:
           You might complain that we’re trying to explain
           Our Woeman Catholic South American
           Young religious pigeon:    no, but we do say
           That the pigeon was extraordinary
           In her winged gift for entertaining versions
           Of herself with their inconvenient curses
           Of doubt, wasps ever about to swoop + sting:

       (from “Raponani” . a verse novel by Brian Chan, 2023)

 

 

 

              
          Our islanders pick ‘n’ shovel through mind ‘n’ field,
          from Admin clicks tekking licks like liquor; stray
          cow @ Graze don’t trust bend elbow | dollar yuh
          want, shallow yuh get.

          Curators of plantation pain . who could out^vent? 
          Smarter to hide heart savings . totems dug out of mud
          they’ll follow fingers whippy wind testing.

                 \ Stars in the distance guide our forest     
          breathers clear . bodies tack on bus or boat stack
          the weight of history shifting; like palmate leaf
          rollers > draw, float together . tilt, sink together.

                                             *

                      \  Reachers time their tables, at heaven’s 
          port for epaulette line plumbing | in basement
          bed down moon inbox . yet to set for cloud
          solicitation.

          Below the hills @ Arrivante dogs bark; recreation
          shots, sling right | last commode to mind The fuck
          you looking at? our business only.
                                                                            / A car 
          horn that plays La Cucaracha?  I don’t think so.
          A flight of whisky ? what branches stronger moor
          our wings.                                           
                                                                     / Sea legs
          secure, up next tower glass laddering | fluff
          the memory pillow . rumble, get some sleep.

                                                                  – W.W.

 

         

             

 

                SUN WIND

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

                We go back, the wind and I, and she’ll still
                use my ears as doorways into my head
                where she clears away any cobwebs and
                leaves behind her echoes to haunt me: she likes me:

                once in the grass she was about to cross
                paths with me when she changed her mind and rushed
                towards me and kissed me like no woman
                ever has, like a big friendly dog or a child. 

                There’s also ‘solar wind’ – which reminds me
                what I’ve been waiting for has arrived
                on my shoulder perched like a bird there blown
                by the wind whom, through these thoughts of her, I become.

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

          

 

–

     
                       "how should tasting touching hearing seeing 
                         breathing any-lifted from the no
                          of all nothing-human merely being
                           doubt unimaginable You?”
                           - e.e. Cummings, i thank You God for most
                                                     this amazing (1950)

 

          Ringtone Body in the Rubble signal not found; night
          hamsters don’t wait around for green jump lights | who
          would cap their fossil funneling ? go^find our Kaieteur
          source.

          Practice, practice serve or lies . soon you’re good 
          so double^cheek peckers clutch ! natural born actress
          you . draggable scent Arrrh!

          To step in mortal sludge, trek back to living room  
          floors – there see’t ? how evolution took off coal
          hot tail versions cooling.
                                                         / Species elsewhere
          could be flummoxed by our skull . eyeball size Small
          only, Sorry; the hoodie caves, veil membership.

                                                     +

                      / Chests blind side trusting shrug as hairy 
          text thumbs the brain snow screen . shovelers 
          slush blathering…
                                                  …in the name of heaven
          our tarp city hosts time redlining air | wails like
          that won’t flicker beams of Satellite baboonery.

                                             Planet relocate? You can’t
         be serious, earth worm steuups ! so end conceiving.
         Styles tried on, returned . dome face unmoved . Dios
         mio! could be our last rehearsing year.

                                                                    – W.W.

 

         

         

 

              ONE MORE

              Love's chance, denied, its reading postponed
              so that we might keep hugging our pain,
              keeps returning in as many dream-
              scapes as we need to finally be-
              come its power, claim its glory ours.

              From whisper to pinch to slap to kick, 
              from kick to knife to bombs to earthquake,
              it keeps speaking in tongues of our masques:
              Wake up wake up, your sun is dying
              to be recognised as your own hearts

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

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

     

 

            
            +IT wasn't just because she had looked around
            Clear-eyed at every blood-bound thing + could find
            Nothing that moved her any more back to faith
            In the Force behind men’s masks – except the breath
            Now + then of a not malefic presence
            Transgressing the burial of its pretense
            Of being full-blooded though not quite human,
            Hard to know whether as man or as woman,
            Ghosts the mere climate-clouds of that hard-nosed zone
            Of Earth haunted by nothing else – unless pain,
            Voiceless, was its principal tenanting wraith:

            No, it was a pressure harder to live with
            That made Sister Dilys confide to Robb Ladd,
            Her teenage colleague whose tight-trousered gonads
            Could well prove more than mere mocking of her veil,
            – Robb, boy, I’m losing my faith, pray for my soul –
            Regretting her words even before she could
            Stop spluttering them like drops from a thin cloud:
            

       (from “Raponani” . a verse novel by Brian Chan, 2023)

 

 

           
        Pray for the boweling to stop before you pitch tent
        on the mountain; recap its moves | you could end
        with damp temples, worried the climate bitch might
        Gresso Retro switch so . plantation watchers saddle
        up again.

           \ Touts with degrees of belonging play captain,
        steer our Walcott page views out to sea | vieux
        pirates board.
                        You’re all set, Hon. Minister | could some
        one gloss^check the chirrups off ‘n’ on his lips?

                  \ To vanish like in feral snatch ! village errand
        print warm so searchers launch . like under rocks
        on Mars microbe^probing.
                                                       New year . halves
        stay gone . frogs sending code | peepl hav no iday.

                                                *

            \  Uncovered dare you head past the sing^song
        At the trough, at the trough elder beards bless
        ‘n’ shoot comfort feed.

                 \ Tide extractors lure our crab handlers  
        into back leg twists, shell heap tabling For you
        the sea snaps history >  brick join, platelets lay.  

        Rubble nights we fear could stretch on long, longer        
        than herd heart^rings round the world.
                                                                                  Coffin costs
        breaking like emergency glass . while like wedding
        gears to mesh, poised to pay cursors blink.

                                                                     - W.W.

                     

         

         

 

            HEART

                              …So I enter one more
            winter the same way a boy used to turn
            a street-corner at night and find himself
            walking towards dogs with flames in their eyes
            and all he had between being savaged
            and reaching home were his last wick of fire
            held lightly between two knuckles, his eyes
            of sharp fear, his feet bluffing a path through
            the dogs’ pause of grudging recognition
            of a brother who had dared to survive
            one more day of being stoned by children,
            and his dark voice that could out growl them all.

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